‘That’s it, then,’ said Kyle. ‘We probably won’t be talking again until it’s all finished. So good luck!’
‘Good luck,’ Roberts answered, letting Kyle’s face fade in his mind as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
Most of Monday found Harry Keogh trying without success to break the magnetic attraction of his son’s psyche. There was no way. The child fought him, clung to both Harry and the waking world alike with an incredible tenacity, would not go to sleep. Brenda Keogh marked the baby’s fever, thought to call a doctor, then changed her mind; but she determined that if the baby stayed as bad tempered through the night, and if in the morning his temperature was still on the high side, then she’d get advice.
She couldn’t know that Harry Jnr’s fever resulted from the mental contest he waged with his father, a fight the infant was winning hands down. But Harry Snr knew it well enough. The baby’s will — and his strength — both were enormous! The child’s mind was a black hole whose gravity must surely pull Harry in entirely. And Harry had discovered something: that indeed a mind without a body can grow weary, and just like flesh be worn down. So that when he could no longer fight he gave in and retreated into himself, glad that for now his vain striving and struggling were over.
Like a game fish on the end of a line, he allowed himself to be reeled in, close to the boat. But he knew he must fight again when he sensed the gaff poised to strike. Incorporeal, it would be Harry’s last chance to retain an individual identity. That was why he would fight, for the continuation of his existence, but he couldn’t help wondering: what did all of this mean to his son? Why did Harry jnr want him? Was it simply the terrific greed of any healthy infant, or was it something else entirely?
As for the baby himself: he recognised his father’s partial surrender, accepted the fact that for now the fight was over. And he had no means by which to tell this fantastic adult that it wasn’t a fight at all, not really, but simply a desperate desire to know, to learn. Father and son, two minds in one small, fragile — defenceless? — body, both of them took the welcome opportunity to sleep.
And at 5.00 P.M. when Brenda Keogh looked in on her baby son, she was pleased to note that he lay still and at peace in his cot, and that his temperature was down again .
About 4.30 P.M. that same Monday afternoon, in lonesti:
Irma Dobresti had just answered a telephone call from Bucharest. The telephone conversation had grown sufficiently heated to cause the rest of the party to listen in. Krakovitch’s face had fallen, telling Kyle and Quint that something was amiss. When Irma was through and after she’d hurled the phone down, Krakovitch spoke up.
‘Despite the fact that all of this should have been cleared, now there is a problems from the Lands Ministry. Some idiot is questioning our authority. You are remembering, this Romania — not Russia! The land we want to burn is common land and has belonged to the people since time — how do you say? — immemorial. If it was just some farmer’s property we could buy him off, but —, He shrugged helplessly.
‘This is correct,’ Irma spoke up. ‘Men from the Ministry, from Ploiesti, will be coming here to talk to us later tonight. I don’t knowing how this leaked out, but this is officially their area and under their, er, jurisdiction? Yes. It could be big problems. Questions and answers. Not everyone believe in vampires!’
‘But aren’t you from the Ministry?’ Kyle was alarmed. ‘I mean, we have to get the job done!’
They had driven out early that morning to the spot where almost two decades ago Ilya Bodescu’s body had been recovered from a tangle of undergrowth and densely grown firs on a steep south-facing slope of the cruciform hills. And when they had climbed higher, then they’d come across Thibor’s mausoleum. There, where lichen-covered slabs had leaned like menhirs under the motionless trees, all three psychics — Kyle, Quint and Krakovitch alike — had felt the still extant menace of the place. They had left quickly.