F Paul Wilson - Novel 10

by Midnight Mass (v2. 1)

Why? Why had God allowed this to happen to her, to His Church, to His world?

  Better question: Why had she allowed these awful events to change her so? She had been a Sister of Mercy.

 

  She had taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, had vowed to devote her life to teaching and doing the Lord's work. But now there was no money, no one worth losing her virginity to, no Mother Superior or Church to be obedient to, and no students left to teach.

  All she had left was the Lord's work.

 

  Maybe Bernadette's voice was right. Maybe she would go to hell for what she was doing. But somebody had to make those rotten cowboys pay.

  COWBOYS . . .

  "Shit! Goddam shit!"

  Stan's raging voice and the sudden braking of the car yanked Al from the edge of a doze. A few beers, nice warm sunlight... he'd been on his way to catching a Z or two. He opened his eyes.

  To, what the fu—"

  Then he saw him. Or, rather, it. Dead ahead. Dead ahead. A body, hanging by its feet from a utility pole.

  "Oh, shit," Kenny said from beside him. "Another one."

  Jackie turned off the music. The sudden silence was creepy.

  Al squinted at the body. "Who is it?"

  "I dunno," Stan said. Then he looked back at Al from under the wide brim of his cowboy hat. "Whyn't you go see."

  Al swallowed. He'd turned out to be the best climber, so he'd wound up the second-story man of the team. But he didn't want to make this climb.

  "What's the use?" Al said. "Whoever he is, he's dead."

  "See if he's one of us," Stan said.

  "Ain't it always one of us?"

  "Then see which one of us it is, okay?"

  Stan had been pissing Al off today with his hot-shit 'tude. He was posse leader, yeah, but give it a rest now and then, okay? But this time he was right: somebody had to go see who'd got unlucky last night.

  Al hopped over the door and headed for the pole. What a pain in the ass. The rope around the dead guy's feet was looped over the first climbing spike. He shimmied up to it and got creosote all over himself in the process. The stuff was a bitch to get off. And besides, it made his skin itch. On the way up he'd kept the pole between himself and the body. Now it was time to look. He swallowed. He'd seen one of these strung-up guys up close before and—

  He spotted the earring, a blood-splattered silvery crescent moon dangling on a fine chain from the brown-crusted earlobe, an exact replica of the one dangling from Al's left ear, only this one was dangling the wrong way.

  "Yep," he said, loud so's the car could hear it. "It's one of us."

  "Damn!" Stan's voice. "Anyone we know?"

  Stan and the rest jumped out of the car and stared up at him.

  Al squinted at the face but with the gag stuck in its mouth, and the head so encrusted with clotted blood and crawling with buzzing, feeding flies darting in and out of the gaping wound in the throat, he couldn't make out no features.

  "Can't tell."

  "Well, cut him down then."

  This was the part Al hated most of all. It seemed almost like a sin. Not that he'd ever been religious or nothing, but someday, if he didn't watch his ass, this could be him.

  He pulled his K-Bar from its scabbard and sawed at the rope above the knot on the climbing spike. It frayed, jerked a couple of times, then parted. He closed his eyes as the body tumbled downward. He hummed Metallica's "Sandman" to blot out the sound it made when it hit the pavement. He especially hated the sick, wet plop of the head if it landed first. Which this one did.

  "Looks like Benny Gonzales," Jackie said.

  Kenny was nodding. "Yep. No doubt about it. That's Benny. Shit."

  They dragged his body over to the curb and drove on, but the party mood was gone.

  "I'd love to catch the bastards who're doin this shit," Stan said as he drove. "They've gotta be close by around here somewhere."

  "They could be anywhere," Al said. "They found Benny back there, killed him there—you saw that puddle of blood under him—and left him. Then they cut out."

  "They're huntin us like we're huntin them," Jackie said.

  "But I wanna be the one to catch 'em," Kenny said.

  Jackie sneered. "Yeah? And what would you do if you did?"

  Kenny said nothing, and Al knew that was the answer. Nothing. He'd bring them in and turn them over. The bloodsuckers didn't like you screwing with their cattle.

  But something had to be done. Lots of the cattle they roped in called Al and company traitors and collaborators and worse. Lately it looked like some of them had gone beyond name-calling and graduated to throat-slitting.

  Benny Gonzales was the fifth one in a month.

  Seemed the guys behind this wanted to make it look like the vampires themselves was doing the killings, but it didn't wash. Too messy. These bodies had blood all over them, and a puddle beneath them. When the bloodsuckers slit somebody's throat, they didn't let a drop of it go to waste. They licked the platter clean, so to speak.

  "We gotta start being real careful," Stan was saying. "Gotta keep our eyes open."

  "And look for what?" Kenny said.

  "For a bunch of guys who hang out together—a bunch of guys who ain't cowboys."

  Jackie started singing that Willie Nelson song "Mama, Don't Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys," and it set Stan off.

  "Knock it off, goddamn it! This ain't funny! One of us could be next! Now keep your fucking eyes open!"

  Al studied the houses drifting by as they cruised into Point Pleasant Beach. Cars sat quietly along the curbs of the empty streets and the houses appeared deserted, their empty, blind windows staring back at him. But every so often they'd pass a yard that looked cared for, and those houses would be defiantly studded with crosses and festooned with garlands of garlic. And every so often you could swear you saw somebody peeking out from behind a window or through a screen door.

  "You know, Stan," Al said. "I'll bet those cowboy killers are hiding in one of them houses with all the garlic and crosses."

  "Maybe, Stan said. "But I kinda doubt it. Those folks tend to stay in after sundown. Whoever's behind this is working at night."

  That made sense to Al. The folks in those houses hardly ever came out. They were loners. Dangerous loners. Armed loners. The vampires couldn't get in because of all the garlic and crosses, and the cowboys who'd tried to get in, or even take off some of the crosses, usually got shot up. The vampires had said to leave them be for now. Sooner or later they'd run out of food and have to come out. Then they'd get them.

  Smart, those bloodsuckers. Al guessed they figured they had plenty of time to out wait the loners. All the time in the world.

  They was cruising Ocean Avenue by the boardwalk area now, barely a block from the Atlantic. What a difference. Last year, on a nice spring day like this, you'd see all sorts of people, locals and day-trippers, hanging out. Now it was deserted. The sun was high and warm but it was like winter had never ended.

  They was gliding past the empty, frozen rides when Al caught a flash of color moving between a couple of the boardwalk stands.

  "Pull over," he said, tapping Stan's shoulder. "I think I just saw something."

  The tires screeched as Stan made a sharp turn into Jenkinson's parking lot.

  "What kinda something?"

  "Something blond. With tits, I think."

  Kenny let out a cowboy whoop and tossed his Heineken empty high. It smashed on the asphalt in a glittery green explosion.

  "Shut the fuck up!" Stan said. "You tryin to queer this little round-up or what?"

  "Hey, no, man," Kenny said. "I was just—"

  "Just keep quiet and listen. You and Jackie head down two blocks and work your way back up on the boards."

  "I don't wanna go
with him," Jackie said, jutting her chin at Kenny.

  "He needs someone with more experience along. Me and AM go up here and work our way down. Get goin and don't blow this. I don't wanna be bringin Gregor no old lady again tonight."

  Jackie didn't look happy but she went. As she and Kenny trotted back to the Risden's Beach bath houses, Stan squared his ten-gallon hat on his head and pointed toward the miniature golf course at the other end of the parking lot. Al took the lead and Stan followed.

  Arnold Avenue ended here in a turretlike police station, still boarded up from the winter, but its big warning sign was still up, informing anyone who passed that alcoholic beverages and dogs and motorbikes and various other goodies were prohibited in the beach and boardwalk area by order of the mayor and city council of Point Pleasant Beach.

  Al smiled. The beach and the boardwalk and the sign were still here, but the mayor and the city council were long gone.

  Pretty damn depressing up on the boards. The big glass windows of Jenkinson's arcade was smashed and it was all dark inside. The lifeless video games stared back with dead eyes. All the concession stands was boarded up, the paralyzed rides just rusting and peeling, and it was quiet. No barkers shouting, no kids laughing, no squealing babes in bikinis running in and out of the surf. Just the monotonous pounding of the waves against the deserted beach.

  And the birds. The seagulls was doing what they'd always done. Probably the only thing they missed was the garbage the crowds used to leave behind.

  Al and Stan headed south, checking all the nooks and crannies as they moved. The only other humans they saw was Kenny and Jackie coming up the other way from the South Beach Arcade.

  "Any luck?" Stan called.

  "Nada," Jackie said.

  "Ay-yo, Al!" Kenny said. "How many Heinies you have anyway? You seein things now? What was it—a blond seagull?"

  But Al knew he'd seen something moving up here, and it hadn't been no goddamn seagull. But where . . .

  "Jackie," Stan said. "Take Kenny under the boards and see if anyone's hidin down there."

  Kenny put on this big shit-eating grin. " Aaaaay, under the boardwalk with Jackieeee. Cooool."

  Stan ignored him and spoke to Jackie. "If it's a girl like Al thinks he saw, see if you can talk her out. I ain't up for no foot race, know what I'm sayin?"

  Jackie nodded. "Gotcha." She turned to Kenny and snapped her fingers, like she was talking to a dog. "C'mon, boy. We're goin for a walk."

  "Ooooh. Under the boardwalk with—"

  "Don't"—she jabbed a finger within an inch of his nose—"even think about it!"

  Kenny, his tongue hanging out like a dog, followed her down the wooden steps to the sand. That Kenny. What a pisser.

  "Let's go back to Jenk's," Stan said. "She might be hidin inside."

  They'd turned and were heading back up the boards when Al took one last look back .. . and saw something moving. Something small and red, rolling across the boards toward the beach from between one of the concession stands.

  A ball.

  He tapped Stan on the shoulder, put a finger to his lips, and pointed. Stan's eyes widened. He glanced toward the beach, probably looking to signal Jackie and Kenny, but they were out of sight. So the two of them crept toward the spot where the ball had rolled from.

  As they got closer, Al realized why they'd missed this spot on the first pass. It was really two concession stands—a frozen yogurt place and a saltwater taffy shop—with boards nailed up over the space between to make them look like a single building.

  Stan tapped Al on the shoulder and pointed to the roof of the nearer concession stand. Al nodded. He knew what he wanted: the second-story man had to do his thing again.

  Al got to the top of the chain link fence behind the concession stands and from there it was easy to haul himself up to the roof. His sneakers made barely a sound as he crept across the tar of the canted roof to the far side.

  The girl must have heard him coming, because she was already looking up when he peeked over the edge. She had one of them cross tattoos on her forehead.

  That ain't gonna help you against me, honey.

  Al felt a surge of satisfaction when he saw her blond ponytail and long thick bangs. Nice.

  He felt something else when he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks from her pleading eyes, and her hands raised, palms together, as if praying to him. She wanted him to see nothin—she was begging Al to see nothing.

  For an instant he was tempted. The fear in those frightened blue eyes reached deep inside and touched something there, disturbed a part of him so long unused he'd forgotten it belonged to him.

  And then he saw she had a little boy with her, maybe seven years old, dark haired but with eyes as blue as hers, with a tattoo on his forehead. She was pleading for the kid as much as herself. Maybe more than herself. And with good reason. The vampires loved little kids. Al didn't get it. Kids were smaller, had less blood than adults. Maybe their blood was purer, sweeter. Someday, when he was undead himself, he'd know.

  But even with the kid there, Al might have done something stupid, might have called down to Stan that there was nothing here but some old torn cat who'd probably taken a swat at that ball and rolled it out. But when he saw that she was knocked up—very knocked up, as in start-boiling-the-water knocked up—he knew he had to turn her in.

  As much as the bloodsuckers loved kids, they went crazy for babies. Infants were like the primo delicacy among the vampires. Al once had seen a couple of them fighting over a newborn.

  That had been a sight.

  He sighed and said, "Too bad, honey, but you're packin too many points." He turned and called down toward the boardwalk. "Bingo, Stan. We struck it rich."

  She screamed and the little boy began to cry.

  Al shook his head as he watched her cower and hold the kid tight against her. Sorry babe. It ain't always a pleasant job, but a cowboy's gotta do what a cowboy's gotta do.

  And besides, all these brownie points were gonna bring him that much closer to some stud time at the nearest cattle farm.

  LACEY . . .

  Lacey Flannery heard them coming before she saw them. Coming her way. They weren't talking, which was a bad sign. Could mean they were on the hunt. She had a faint hope that maybe they were wanderers like her, but she wasn't about to lay any money on it.

  She'd motorboated down from the Sandy Hook area last night. The water tended to be pretty safe, even at night. The suckers stayed off it. She'd abandoned the boat at first light on the inlet jetty and sacked out here under the boardwalk. She'd been awake for about half an hour now. She'd packed up her stuff and had been ready to move out when she heard footsteps on the boards above. A bunch of feet—could have been four, six, maybe eight people. So she'd stayed put, figuring they'd move on.

  But instead they were coming to her.

  Lacy squatted with her back against a double piling and wondered what to do. Her sleeping bag and duffel were stacked before her on the sand. Better play it safe. She dipped into her bag of tricks, briefly considered her .38, but decided against it. She didn't have many bullets and didn't know what kind of trouble the noise of a shot would bring down on her. She chose her nunchucks instead. Two twelve-inch steel rods connected by a three-inch chain.

  Yeah. That'll do.

  She slipped out of her black leather jacket and her bare arms goose-bumped in the breeze off the water. The tight black tank top she wore beneath wasn't much for warmth but at least it wouldn't get in her way. She looked down and noticed her nipples poking at the thin fabric. She hadn't worn a bra in three years and didn't miss it now. She rubbed her nipples to make them stick out even more. Hey, girl—use all your weapons. Then she stuck the nunchucks inside the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back. The chain was cold between her cheeks. Thong panties didn't cover much.

  Her mouth felt a little dry, her palms a little moist. Let's hope they're friendly, she thought. If not, then let's hope there's no more than two of them
.

  She rose and peeked around the piling.

  Shit. One was a woman. She was going to be harder to distract. And worse, they were wearing cowboy earrings. The good news was there were only two of them.

  Lacey stepped out and faced them. "How's it going?"

  The stopped dead, staring.

  "Ooooh, Jackie," said the dumb-looking guy with the bad skin and the red Mohican as his eyes fixed on Lacey's chest. "This ain't Al's blonde, but she'll do. Oh, baby, will she do."

  "Shut up, Kenny."

  The skinny, pierced-up, white-trash blonde gave her an up and down; she seemed more interested in checking to see if Lacey's hands were empty. She looked thirty-five but was probably thirty. Not at all Lacey's type.

  She fixed Lacey with her squinty brown eyes. "What're you doin down here?"

  "Catching some Z's," Lacey said. "How about you two?"

  "Lookin for loooove," Kenny said, grinning. "In all the wrong places." He stepped closer. "Hey, ain't you somethin. Look at those muscles, Jackie. And she got tats too."

  Lacey looked down at her upper arms and the black Celtic knots that encircled each just between the sleek, well-cut bulges of her biceps and deltoids. She'd spent a lot of time on those muscles.

  "Want to see them wiggle like snakes?"

  She began contracting and relaxing the muscles, making them dance under the Celtic knots which in turn undulated like, well, snakes.

  "Tits and tats and ripped to boot," he said, easing another step closer. "I think I'm in love. Think we can have her join the posse, Jacks?"

  "No way. Besides, that ain't for us to decide."

  "They look so hard," he said. "You mind if I give one a little squeeze?"

  Lacey smiled. "You're talking about my muscles but you're staring at my nips."

  He laughed. "Oh, I do like this one, Jackie." He looked at her. "We gotta—"

  That was when Lacey kicked him. She knew how to kick, had taken classes in it, and she lashed out her foot as hard as she could, putting a lot of her lower body behind it. She landed a good one, right square in his balls. He made a breathy noise, something like "Hommf!" as he went knock-kneed and dropped to the sand. Jackie stared at him stupidly, as if trying to figure out what had just happened, while Lacey grabbed for her nunchucks. She had a grip on one end and was snapping the other in a sidearm arc when Jackie looked back at her. Her mouth was opening, starting to shout, when the steel bar caught her across the left side of her head. She tumbled to her right and hit the sand, still conscious but just barely, holding her head and groaning. Blood seeped between her fingers.