Artful: A Novel (26 page)

EIGHTEEN

I
N
W
HICH
A
LL IS
M
ADE AS
R
IGHT AS
C
OULD
P
OSSIBLY
B
E
, C
ONSIDERING THE
C
IRCUMSTANCES

B
ram Van Helsing sat in his cell and kept running the recent events through his mind, trying to determine what he might have done differently to have matters turn out in such a way that he could continue to contribute positively to things, and unfortunately for him, nothing was coming readily to his mind.

The Artful’s plan had always been borderline insane anyway, but the truth was that Bram had not been able to come up with anything better. So he hardly felt in a position to be critical of Dodger.

He walked the perimeter of his cage for what seemed the hundredth time, running his hands across the bars as he passed.

Then he heard something. It was distant, from down the hallway, but it was very distinctive: It was barking. Not only was it barking, but it was extremely familiar to him.

“Father?” he called as loudly as he could, which as it happened was not loudly at all, for it had been some hours since he had had anything to drink, and his throat was hoarse.
“Father?”
he tried again.

“Abraham?” His father’s familiar voice floated down the corridor toward him.

“Here! I’m here!”

Moments later Isaac Van Helsing was in front of him, holding the leash of his dog firmly. His father gasped upon seeing his son, as if not trusting himself to be filled with joy until he actually
beheld
the lad with his own eyes. “You’re here! You’re here!”

Bram nodded. “And you are, too.”

A police officer was accompanying Isaac Van Helsing, and the doctor turned to the officer and said, “This is my son. Release him immediately.”

“We ain’t releasin’ anyone until Mr. Fang says so,” the police officer replied brusquely.

“Mr. Fang is a villain of the highest order,” said Isaac.

“Mr. Fang is a police magistrate and I will thank you to watch your tone and words.” The threat was implicit: If Isaac didn’t take care of what he said, he might wind up sharing the cell with
his son
.

Isaac was trembling with barely suppressed rage, but he managed to rein it in. Instead, he kept his response to a curt nod and then said, “I wish to speak with my son. I hope that will not serve as a hardship to you.”

The officer actually appeared to be considering it, and then he simply nodded. He strode away down the corridor, leaving the Van Helsings to themselves.

“How did you find me?” Bram said immediately.

His father was rummaging in his pocket. “I never stopped looking for you. I have been checking at various police stations ever since you disappeared. To be blunt, I was checking to see if your body turned up. Honestly, I did not expect that you would be able to escape your captors.”

“It wasn’t a hardship,” said Bram. “It’s been rather exciting as it so happens. What are you doing?”

His father produced a slender metal rod from within his right coat pocket. “Getting you out. Stand back.”

Bram did as he was instructed. The elder Van Helsing slid the metal into the lock and made several quick turns. Almost immediately, the lock snapped open and Isaac pulled wide the jail door. Bram could not suppress his surprise. He knew his
father
was a gifted lock pick, but even for him, this was fast work.

Quickly joining his father, Bram looked at him expectantly. “Now what?”

“Now we leave.”

Isaac Van Helsing started walking. Bram fell into step next to him. The dog’s head swiveled back and forth as if it were taking in all their surroundings and appraising them from a strategic point of view.

Moments later, they encountered the police officer who had escorted Isaac to the cell. He was heading right toward them, and his jaw dropped when he saw that Bram had been freed from his cell.

It should be noted that London policemen did not carry firearms of any sort. Had they done so, matters might have turned out quite differently. Instead, they carried whistles and sticks, and the policeman’s stick was now in his hand. That did not deter Isaac in the slightest. He strode forward quickly, catching the police officer’s wrist before he could wield his club in any sort of offensive fashion. One quick twist from Isaac, and the police officer dropped the club from his numb hand. Isaac then slammed his elbow around, catching the police officer in the side of the head. The officer gasped as he went down, and Isaac drove a fast kick upward that caught him square in the face. The police officer fell backward onto the floor.

Isaac stepped right over him, Bram following—neither really having broken stride. A few instants later, they ran into another policeman, and Isaac immediately pointed behind himself and said, in a perfect imitation of a British accent, “Your man appears to have had some sort of attack and passed out. You may want to attend to him.”

“Yes sir! Thank you, sir!” said the police officer immediately. He didn’t have the faintest idea who Isaac was, but his attitude and certainty appeared to mark him as some sort of senior officer. So instead of attempting to arrest Isaac Van Helsing, the police
officer
tossed off a fast salute and ran to help his fallen fellow.

The Van Helsings then walked straight out of the precinct. Whenever anyone happened to step into their path, a fast bark of their dog would clear the obstruction from their way. Moments later, they were in the street and departing the area as fast as they could.

The sun was just coming up over the horizon. Immediately, Bram said, “Father, we have to do something! Princess
Alexandrina
Victoria has been made into a vampyre by Mr. Fang!”

Isaac turned and looked at his son, his eyes wide. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. We have no choice.”

There was a coach waiting for them. Isaac ushered his son into the cab’s interior, then the dog, and then the man himself. Within a few minutes, the cab was rushing forward.

Bram sat back in his seat, letting out a deep breath. His mind had felt so scattered while he was being held in a cell. Now, though, he was reunited with his father, and he had apprised him of the immediate situation. There was no doubt in his mind that his father would know exactly what to do.

For the first time in what seemed ages, Bram actually was able to relax. He had not seemingly slept in days, but now, finally, his exhaustion would not be denied, and Bram sank into slumber.

“Bram.”

He awakened all at once rather than slowly. It was how he always awoke; one never knew if a vampyre was about to attack, and he had simply developed the habit of waking up immediately just in case the situation called for it.

He was confused, however, for the carriage had stopped moving, and his father and the dog were already out. “Finally, you awaken,” said Isaac. “I couldn’t rouse you when we stopped briefly at the inn to gather our belongings. How nice to know you have finally rejoined the land of the living.”

“The inn . . .?” Bram didn’t understand at first. Was there something that his father had left in their personal belongings that would enable them to deal with the challenge that was before them? He wondered what it could possibly be.

Then he saw where they were, and he stared in confusion. They were at the docks, and a large boat was situated there.
People
were boarding it, cheerful tourists or determined travelers. He heard a variety of accents as people spoke animatedly.

The sun was now high in the sky. The noon hour had to be approaching.

“Father, what is this? Where are we going—?”

“Home. We take this vessel to Spain and connect there to—”

“But I don’t understand!” said Bram, his voice rising. For the first time in a long time, he was actually starting to sound his age. “Father, we have to help Drina! And Dodger! I haven’t even told you about him!”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does!”

“No, it does not,” Isaac Van Helsing said firmly. “You are telling me that Mr. Fang has taken over the royal family. If that is the case, then we have no choice save to flee the country as quickly as possible. This is much too big for a pair of vampyre hunters, Abraham. Mr. Fang is now much too powerful. I would be an utterly reckless father if I subjected you to the amount of danger that we would be faced with, and in the end it would not matter. We have already lost. The country is lost. Frankly, we should be grateful that it is not our country.”

“But . . . but we cannot just leave matters as they are . . . .”

“Yes, we can,” said Isaac Van Helsing. “And you will come with me now, and we will never speak of this again.”

“But Father—!”

Isaac silenced him by raising a single finger. “This is not easy for me, Abraham. By departing this country, I am allowing
Mr. Fang
and his cohorts to win. It goes against the fiber of my being. If that is what I have to do in order to guarantee your health, however, then that is what I am going to do.”

“I still think you are wrong.”

“You are welcome to your opinion, as long as you are wise enough to keep it to yourself.”

They disembarked from the carriage. Bram seemed disinclined to pick up his bag, and his father had no interest in prolonging matters. So he picked up Bram’s bag and started toward the ship, the dog trotting obediently behind.

Bram had never felt more frustrated, more alone. He looked around the docks, trying to decide whether perhaps he should just run off and seek to aid the Artful. Even as the thought crossed his mind, however, he knew it was futile. He had no idea where the Dodger was, or what he was up to, or even if he was still in London.

But he knew what he had to do.

Before the hansom cab that he had vacated had pulled away, he quickly approached it and banged on the door. “Excuse me,” he called. The driver looked down at him questioningly. “Do you know the way to Baker Street?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Take me there, please.”

He clambered into the cab before the driver could say anything else. The driver shrugged and snapped the reins.

By the time Isaac Van Helsing turned around, he was astounded to see that his son was gone.

The Artful Dodger and Charley Bates sat in the Tower of
London
and wondered if they were ever going to see the light of day.

The cell itself was rather spare: a square room that didn’t seem to be more than ten feet wide in any direction. A chamber pot sat uninvitingly in a corner, and straw was strewn on the floor, presumably in case the chamber pot wasn’t sufficient to accommodate the needs of the person in the cell. A small window with three bars was situated in the wall above them.

The Artful was not remotely convinced that he would be entitled to any sort of trial, no matter how the laws of
England
were written. Due process under the law was more of a privilege for those that could afford it, and Dodger knew that he was not amongst that privileged few. There was every chance that he could remain locked up in the Tower for the rest of his life. He had, after all, murdered a man, in full view of the royal family, after illegally breaking into Buckingham Palace. Trespass and murder. It would not matter to any judge in the world that he had gained entrance to the palace because he was desperate to save Princess
Alexandrina
Victoria. Nor would it matter that the man he had slain had clearly not been a human being, at least insofar as anyone could determine by what had transpired with his body. No, what mattered was that the dead man had been a personal guest of the royal family, and you simply could not break into the home of the royals and slay someone with whom they were speaking.

“Don’t’ cha worry,” Charley Bates spoke up. “We’ll get out of here right enough.”

“You might get out of here,” said Dodger. “After all, your
major
crime was holding the guards back. So you might see daylight in ten, maybe twenty years. Me . . . either I’m going to die here or die out there. Latter, most like.” He nodded toward the small window in the wall. “They’re prob’ly buildin’ a noose to dangle me from right now.”

“Oh, I doubt that. They already have plenty of nooses, so they don’t have to build no . . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked apologetically at Dodger. “Sorry. Weren’t thinkin’ none.”

“Don’t’ cha worry, Charley. I think more than enough for the both of us.”

The Artful had lost track of how long they remained within the cell. No food was brought to them, and his stomach was fairly howling at him for sustenance, but he was hardly in a position to accommodate it. All he knew was that there was daylight out. Then he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching the door in steady rhythm. It wasn’t just that someone was approaching; the sound seemed to be marching. For some reason, Dodger found this to be vaguely disconcerting.