Chapter Thirty

 

 

"This is dreadful," Mildred whispered to J.B. when they were about halfway through the tour. "Saddest thing I ever saw anyplace anytime."

 

It had very quickly become obvious that Graceland was an awful long way past its sell-by date. The place was filthy and neglected, with stains on carpets, and several of the florid displays of clothing and mementos had deteriorated to such an extent they were actually rotting.

 

But their guideMaybelline Blackwellseemed totally oblivious to the ghostly charnel house that she showed them. Her commentary could have been written for her back in the predark days when Graceland was one of the most popular tourist attractions in the country, with hundreds of thousands of eager visitors thronging its rooms and gardens, soaking in the almost religious atmosphere of awe and respect.

 

"This was one of the King's favorite stage outfits, with the eagle decoration, the whole covered with precious and semiprecious jewels."

 

"Glass and paste," Doc muttered, peering at the faded frayed material and the discolored stones.

 

"The golden piano that you see ahead of you, past the beautiful bust of Elvis by a famed sculptor, was gilded for Elvis by Priscilla in 1968 as a gift on their first wedding anniversary. The instrument is a valuable 1928 Kimball concert grand."

 

"Triple-ugly," was Jak's comment. "And got worm in legs."

 

"This is one of eleven teevee sets throughout Graceland, most of them gifts from the King's recording company, RCA Victor. In his latter days Elvis would sometimes have them all on, tuned to different channelsa habit he learned from President Johnsonwhile he moved around eating some of his favorite snack food."

 

They moved on to a room that was decorated in a kind of kitsch Polynesian style. The guide saw the expressions of amazement on their faces and took it for admiration.

 

"I see how impressed you are with Elvis's favorite room in the entire Graceland complex. The Jungle Room. Isn't it really just something?"

 

Krysty answered for them all. "Yeah, Maybelline, it's really just something."

 

"It was in this very room that Elvis recorded his best-selling album in 1976, entitled From Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, Tennessee . Copies of some of his records can still be obtained on vinyl, cassette or cee-dee at the Elvis souvenir stand across the way." She hesitated. "Though I'm not that certain it's open today. We don't get quite as many folks as we used to and" The sentence trailed away like rainwater down a choked gutter.

 

The countess made her boredom obvious in the first ten minutes, always the first to leave a particular suite or room, eager to get on with the tour.

 

"Through this window you can glimpse Elvis's famous pink Cadillac. It is the 1955 Fleetwood Series Sixty that he bought for his beloved mother. Sadly the elements of weather have done some harm to the automobile."

 

"Can we visit the grave?" Mildred asked, wanting to get out of the choking atmosphere of the haunted mausoleum.

 

"I'm afraid not," Maybelline stated with well-rehearsed mock regret. "There has been a sorrowful increase in interference with the memorials, and we have had to limit access to nil access."

 

As they moved through the surprisingly small twenty-three rooms and eight bathrooms, Maybelline continued to flood them with facts and figures about Graceland four hundred and sixty acres, built by Dr. Thomas Moore in 1939, bought, including nearly fourteen acres of surrounding land, for 102,500. Five times that had been spent on improvements in the first six months, the security wall of pink fieldstone costing 62,500 alone.

 

The Trophy Room included row upon row of Elvis's golden disks, more than one hundred and sixty of them, though there were gaps in the collection and several of the records were badly tarnished, with peeling labels.

 

"Sadly some damp has intruded here, and also callous thieves have made off with souvenirs from the collection," Maybelline complained.

 

Room after room, tired and sad, barely redolent of the hot house atmosphere of Graceland when its owner was in residence. Somehow the sorry spirit of Elvis haunted it, with the aura of physical and moral decay.

 

They finally reached the end of the tour.

 

Mildred had become more and more miserable, whispering her sorrow to J.B. as they trailed along. "It's pitiful. This isn't the memorial that Elvis Presley should have. A spider-veiled, mice-nibbled, worm-gnawed tomb that's rotting in on itself. Someone should do something. He really was the King, John. I feel like I should do something about it."

 

Once they were all out in the grounds, Maybelline was all rosy cheeks and bonhomie, trilling away in her little-girl voice. "Apart from the Meditation Garden, which is denied access, you may visit the grounds of Graceland. We hope you have enjoyed your visit here and will come back and see us again real soon. Tell your friends. Thank you very much."

 

Ryan muttered his thanks, and the others also nodded and mumbled. But all of them felt downcast at the sorry, run-down spectacle that Graceland had fallen to.

 

He looked around, suddenly noticing that Mildred was missing. "Anyone seen Mildred?"

 

J.B. had been standing polishing his spectacles and he started at the question, though Ryan knew him well enough to know that the Armorer was faking surprise.

 

"Millie?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Oh, she thought she might have left something behind and she just went back to get it."

 

"What?" Ryan pressed.

 

"What? How do you mean, bro?"

 

"What did she leave behind?"

 

Maybelline had finally tumbled that something had gone wrong and was hopping agitatedly from foot to foot. "Have we lost a member of our party? Oh, dear me!"

 

"I don't know what she thought she might have forgot," J.B. snapped. "Didn't tell me. Ask her yourself when she Here she comes."

 

Mildred emerged from a side door a little farther up the gardens of Graceland, stopping in her tracks when she saw everyone staring at her.

 

"Where have you been?" Maybelline asked. "I just hope you haven't been pilfering. Oh, dear, we get so much of that these days. Now we have no security. From what I hear of the olden days" Again her sentence trailed off into silence.

 

"Don't worry," Mildred said. "I didn't take anything from this place. Nothing I'd want to take." She turned to the others. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Can we go now?"

 

The countess had been tapping the toe of her foot restlessly on the stone flags of the garden path, arms folded, constantly checking the time on a platinum Rolex wristwatch. "I'm ready," she said.

 

Doc had been leaning on his swordstick, looking across the boulevard at the blighted, ugly stores. "I confess that this is a miserable place," he said. "And I" He stopped suddenly, an expression of surprise crossing his face, his right hand touching himself low on the side of his stomach.

 

"What is it, Doc?" Jak asked. "All right?"

 

"Not very all right, as it happens, dear lad. A rather nasty stabbing pain in my belly. Quite ferocious, as if I'd swallowed a fox."

 

Mildred had been staring back at the house with an odd intensity, but Doc's voice brought her around. "You've gone real pale," she said.

 

"I am not at my best." He bit his lip, swaying to one side, steadied by Jak. "Perhaps if we might return to the house and I could lie down. Indigestion would be my most likely diagnosis. I think."

 

Mildred didn't say anything for a moment, studying him carefully. "Too low for indigestion," she said. "Stabbing, did you say?"

 

"Like a knife of fire, my dear Doctor. Indeed, I would be grateful if I could lie down in the back of the wag, or I fear that I might pass out. My hearing has gone rather fuzzy, and the world seems to be moving away from me."

 

"Get him in the wag," Mildred said to the guards. "Quickly."

 

She turned to the countess, who had showed very little interest in the small drama. "Can we move now?"

 

"Of course. Ryan. You'll drive with me again." It was a statement, not a question.

 

"No. I go with Doc. Sorry, Countess."

 

She nodded, her face like a mask hewn from living marble, showing no trace of emotion. "Very well. I understand, Ryan. Believe me, I do. Straub, I wish to talk to you. Come with me."

 

"Of course, Countess, delighted, delighted." He bowed and scraped in a parody of servility. "I am honored, honored."

 

She stalked off and one of the armed sec men opened the doors of the Mercedes. She got in, barely waiting for Straub before gunning the engine and roaring away in a cloud of smoking rubber.

 

"Thank you and goodbye, dear lady," Krysty said, touching Ryan on the arm.

 

Doc was moaning, sagging at the knees, supported by Jak on one side and by a guard on the other. Mildred was ushering them toward the rear of the nearest wag, telling them to lay him down, watching him safely installed. Then she walked back to Ryan and the others.

 

"I'll go with him," she said.

 

"Any idea what it is? Not having a heart attack, is he?" Ryan asked.

 

She shook her head. "Think not. I have an idea, but I'll need to examine him properly as soon as we're back at the ville. Then I'll know. Might be less than good news."

 

Mildred kept looking rather distractedly back at Graceland, as though she expected something to have happened. But she finally moved to the wag and climbed in.

 

"See you there," J.B. called.

 

"Sure, John." She made a decision. "John?"

 

"Yeah. What is it, Millie?"

 

"What's the maximum delay on an incendiary grenade?"

 

The Armorer's jaw sagged. "Dark night! What made you ask that? Maximum's twenty minutes on the ones that they had in the big house. But why do ? What have you?"

 

The wag pulled away in an eruption of stinking exhaust smoke, taking Mildred, Doc and Jak with it.

 

Ryan guessed. "Twenty minutes. I reckon we better get out. My guess is we got about five minutes."

 

Krysty wasn't with it. "I don't get it. Has Mildred set off a burner in Graceland?"

 

J.B. nodded, unable to conceal a smile of pride. "Isn't she something? Said how much she hated what had happened to Elvis's home. Shameful. Wasn't worthy. Well, I guess she's gone and done something about it."

 

Ryan beckoned the chief of the sec men. "Need to get going back to the ville."

 

"Sure. Everyone aboard."

 

They were on the move away from Graceland in a couple of minutes, though one of the engines proved stubborn in starting, giving Ryan, Krysty and the Armorer a few nervous seconds before they were off and rolling.

 

The three friends sat together near the tailgate, looking behind them as the wag lumbered eastward.

 

J.B. had been checking his wrist chron. "I make that past the twenty minutes maximum now, if that's what she set it for. Depends where she hid it, but we should be seeing some sign in the next minute or so. When they go, those babies really go."

 

 

 

ALREADY THREE OR FOUR miles ahead, down the highway toward the ville, Countess Katya was talking with a cold ferocity to Straub, who nodded with increasing enthusiasm, then began to giggle, a hideous, bubbling noise, like boiling molasses.

 

"Yes, I can," he said. "Of course, most exalted one. Yes, of course."

 

"There," J.B. said, pointing behind them. The road had dipped, and a bunch of tattered palm trees were between them and Graceland. But they all saw the sudden flash of flame, rising fifty or sixty feet into the air, followed by a pillar of smoke, erupting much higher, until the southerly breeze started to tear its top apart.

 

They were more than a mile away, but all three of them felt the warm blast caress their faces from the explosion.

 

"That just one gren?" Krysty asked.

 

J.B. shook his head. "Don't know. But Millie must've placed it near the heating. Oil or gas, whatever. Whole place has gone. Did what she wanted."