Joe didn't have to ask who that might be. He wondered suddenly if the painting, disguised somehow, could be cargo on this very plane. He wasn't about to try to find out.
"There is one more point, Joseph, on which I wished to speak to you. I mean the young man, Pat O'Grandison, who has disappeared."
"Oh. You're not through hunting yet."
"I detect a certain disapproval." Then in a sort of parenthetical action Thorn leaned forward in his seat and slowly reached past Joe toward Judy. With one finger he very gently touched the burn on her cheek, and her puffy lip. She was sleeping deeply, and did not stir. Thorn sat back. "Actually this particular hunt is one that I should think you might want me to conduct. The youth has not wronged me; I am not seeking revenge."
"Sorry. What, then?"
"He is . . . a runaway. In years, not a child any longer. But not a responsible adult. In fact he is intermittently mad."
"As I understand it, he's been like that most of his life. So are a hundred thousand others running around loose. So what's—"
"Joseph, you do not understand. Remember how the body of the man Gliddon was found."
Joe had heard about that. The state police had said it looked like Gliddon had been half eaten by some animal. "Oh. I thought that was . . . not that I would have blamed you, after . . ."
"Oh, I would have killed him, certainly. But his blood would have been carrion to me. Not to that boy though. That boy is nosferatu, now; or rather in a grotesque halfway state that may persist indefinitely. And he is out there somewhere, hitchhiking. If I were greatly concerned for the welfare of the breathing populace of this great nation, I would be anxious that he be found; I would concern myself about him. Of course, as you say, there are thousands of others—"
"What?"
"Oh, not insane vampires, not all of them, but just as dangerous sometimes. To themselves, if not . . ." Thorn's voice trailed off.
Joe stared into the pale face, and could see torture there.
"As she was," Thorn went on at last, whispering. "For centuries, it would appear. Since the day, perhaps, when she saw me fall to traitors' swords and thought that I was dead. Wandering the earth. Seeking to have a home again, and human contact . . . in, as I say, some kind of halfway state. Able to eat the food of breathing humans, to face the sun without distress, to find a kind of sleep anywhere on earth. But able to find real rest nowhere at all. They are mad, and they are outcasts from both worlds, and I do not know how many of them there are who wander the earth tonight. Too much happens to them in their breathing lives, and madness supervenes. Too much happened to me, but I was—very strong. Yes, very strong."
Impulsively Joe put a hand on the arm of the man, the human being, who rode in the seat beside him.
Thorn looked at him. "It was she, though." He paused. "I am almost sure."