CHAPTER 37
Joseph’s van pulled up in front of the office at 6:45. By that time, Danny and Claire had already arrived. They watched with Allan through the storefront window as Stephen and Josalyn piled out of the sliding side door, while Joseph came around to the passenger side and helped an unfamiliar old man onto the sidewalk.
“Who’s that?” Claire wondered aloud, her eyebrows arching.
“A man that Joseph met the other night,” Allan answered, barely aware that he’d done so. He, too, was staring in obvious surprise.
“It’s Dr. Van Helsing,” Danny quipped.
Claire laughed and smiled over at him. It had been very tense, all day, between them … at this point, she wished that they’d never gone to bed … but Danny’s knack for keeping things silly was a trait that she really admired in him. As much as it annoyed her, it charmed her as well.
They watched as Joseph led the old man up to the door, the other two following closely behind. For the first time, they noticed the bright purple ring around Stephen’s eye; it was the second big surprise in as many minutes. Allan laughed ruefully, knowing where it came from. It took Danny a moment longer to figure it out. He wasn’t quite so amused.
“Joseph’s not real crazy about Stephen, is he?” he asked.
“You might say that.” Allan chuckled, shaking his head.
“You mean …?” Claire began, aghast. Allan and Danny nodded in unison. She bit her lower lip and looked at the floor. “I’m not so sure I like that,” she mumbled. “It scares me.”
“It scares you,” Danny echoed wistfully. He was tempted to point out that her adorable vampire dreamboy did a lot more than hand out black eyes. But the look she flashed him let him know that she’d already gotten the message. And hadn’t appreciated it in the least.
Then the door opened, and the entourage began to file in. Danny and Claire took one look at those eyes, and their own problems shriveled into tawdry insignificance.
Such torment … such unspeakable gravity and mangled emotion … they had never seen before.
The old man was the best. He smiled easily at them, seeming very much in control. There was a sense of power about him, an aura of wisdom and hard-won equilibrium that struck them as he entered the room. But he was so old, and the price of his victory so clearly etched upon him, that his calm came off as chilling. He seemed to wear his own death like a comfortable old suit, deriving satisfaction from how perfectly it fit.
Stephen was next. He smiled weakly, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. He wore his bruise like the bare sleeve of a court-martialed officer, after the stripes have been stripped away. He was clearly a man who’d hit the bottommost trapdoor of his self-esteem: if he didn’t bounce back up again now, there wouldn’t be another chance. He’d just go down and down into that bottomless oblivion. And never come back.
But for sheer devastation, Josalyn was far and away the worst. Any life and strength and courage that she might have regained in the previous day had been wrenched away from her, as if a great talon had punched through her chest and ripped her heart out. When they met her gaze, it was like staring into the bottom of an empty glass.
And Joseph, who had held the door for the others and now closed it behind him, seemed to have aged twenty years in the space of a day. New folds and creases had popped up on his face, like tattoos rendered with an electric needle. His eyes were shiny and hard and cold: a pair of polished stones, glaring out of a rawhide mask. And his anger was a living presence in the air.
“Did those other guys show up?” Joseph asked Allan immediately.
“No, but they called again, about an hour ago. They should be here any minute.”
“Good.” Joseph turned back toward the door. “I gotta get some things out of the van,” he said, over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
As Joseph left the room, the old man approached Allan first, one liver-spotted hand extending in greeting. “My name is Armond Hacdorian,” he said, an engaging musicality in his pronounced Slavic accent. “And you are …?”
“Allan. Allan Vasey. Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands.
“As I am pleased to meet you, my friend. Joseph speaks very highly of you; and for good reason, as I now see.”
There was something vaguely disturbing about that statement, the smile and the handshake of the man behind it. It wasn’t that Allan detected any hidden malevolence … far from it … but rather, it was the sense of being seen in a way that he couldn’t even see himself. Being seen through, with wisdom and detachment. And being found, not to have a big booger hanging out of his nose, but to be of some mysterious value. It flattered and disconcerted him at the same time.
Armond left Allan to ramify in peace, turning his attention to Danny and Claire. They are a pair of odd ones, he concluded instantly. Voyeurs in this enterprise: virgins who think that reading a book on the subject is the same as experiencing the act. Their eyes, as he approached them, were wide as a hoot owl’s; their awe amused him, even as it convinced them that they were entirely out of their depth.
He exchanged introductions with Danny first, found the young man to be extremely sharp and likable, but a bit quirky and unstable. Armond attributed it to drugs and rebelliousness … a stubborn refusal to let go of adolescence … that had stunted him in the subsequent years.
Claire was very much the same kind of person, hanging on to irresponsibility as if it were a freedom flag; but there was something else about her … a darker taint to her curiosity … that showed up in her ill-concealed fear of him. She had a secret reason for being here, with this group. And she was not to be trusted.
Not to be trusted. The thought made him nervous. So much was at stake. He hoped that he was better at concealing his emotions than she as he ran through the normal social amenities.
Then the door opened again, and he turned to see the two large men come into the office with Joseph. They were both dressed in dark clothing, and their nervousness radiated out from them in strong, jagged waves. Armond smiled at each of them in turn, automatically pleased to see them. Their experience with the horror was firsthand and genuine; he would not have to worry about coddling them. And they were, once again, very large, falling just short of Joseph in height and rivaling him in mass.
Joseph, typically, didn’t bother to introduce them. He set two large duffel bags on the checkout counter noisily and paused to wipe sweat from his forehead. Then, without a word, he proceeded to empty the contents of the bag.
A dozen hefty stainless steel crosses: the ones that Ian had been so impressed with. A dozen or so sharp wooden stakes, each one almost two feet in length, very much like the one that sent the life pouring out from Ian’s nose, mouth, and belly. A dozen wooden mallets, the size of sledgehammers, at a third of the weight, suitable for driving in the stakes with deadly ease.
“Well, this is what we’ve got to work with …” Joseph began, when a muffled groan from elsewhere in the room stopped him cold. He turned just in time to see Josalyn’s eyes roll back in her pasty-white face, her knees buckling beneath her. Allan was up and over to her in a second, catching her as she slumped toward the floor.
“Jesus Christ …” Joseph began again, impatiently.
“Joseph.” Allan hissed it between clenched teeth, trembling under the weight of Josalyn’s body and his own sudden anger. “Shut up. You aren’t the only one here, all right?” He wavered for a moment, trying to get a more secure grip on her, while Joseph stared at him in silent shock.
One of the new arrivals … the black man … moved toward Allan and said, “Can I give you a hand, my friend?” Allan smiled tersely and nodded. The man picked up Josalyn’s feet, and together they carried her over to the assistant dispatcher’s chair, depositing her gently. Once the move was completed, they turned to each other and shook hands.
“T. C. Williams,” the black man said.
“Alright. Allan Vasey. I spoke with you on the phone.” They tightened their grips, solidifying the
meeting, then disengaged. “And that’s …”
“Tommy Wizotski,” T. C. said, indicating his friend. Then he turned back to Josalyn’s unconscious frame and asked, “She goin’ to be okay?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Allan answered, but his expression was rife with doubt. “She’s just been riding the shitwagon too heavy for the last couple of days.”
“I hear that,” T. C. muttered solemnly. “And, hey, I’m sorry about what happened to your brother, you know? Ian was a good man.” He paused for a moment, looking away. “Righteous,” he concluded.
Allan nodded, looking away as well, wishing that he could just be allowed to forget about Ian for a little while. Every time the name came up, he weakened a little inside. And he couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now.
“We are all here now, yes?” said a voice from behind him, and he turned to see Armond Hacdorian smile expansively around the room. A series of mute nods answered him, including Allan’s own. “Then perhaps we can get started now. Too soon, the night will be upon us. We must be ready.”
The statement, though addressed to them all, was specifically directed at Joseph. The big man hadn’t said a word since Allan chastised him; he stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, caught between humiliation and self-righteous anger. Now he looked up at Armond and saw the smile, saw the understanding of his predicament in the old man’s eyes. Slowly, the tension within him decreased; he matched Armond’s smile with one of his own.
Then he turned to Allan and said, “I’m sorry,” waited for Allan to nod acceptance, ushered Tommy into the dispatch area with him, and added, “Now let’s get this show on the road.”
The meeting itself was short and to the point. Allan did most of the talking, of course: it was his plan, by and large, based on Ian’s original ideas. Joseph stood beside him, nodding emphatically at each major point and making sure that everyone was paying attention.
The plan, in essence, was this:
Each of the hunters was given a messenger bag: a large burlap-and-canvas item with a shoulder strap. Each bag contained a beeper, a clipboard, a messenger manifest with the company’s phone number printed across its top, a photocopy of Rudy’s face, a pen, a cross, a mallet, a pair of wooden stakes, three vials of holy water, and a five-dollar roll of dimes.
The hunters would then split up into two groups: one led by Joseph, the other by Armond. They would stake out Stephen’s and Josalyn’s apartments, respectively. Both locations had phony notes planted on their doors: for example, Josalyn’s note read STEPHEN, I HAD TO RUN TO THE STORE. I’LL BE BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. WAIT FOR ME. JOSALYN. This was intended to keep Rudy in one place long enough for dispatch to contact the other group and send them in as reinforcements.
Allan then explained about the messenger/scouts, their function as roving eyes for the hunting parties. He stressed the importance of the beepers, and of calling in to dispatch on a regular basis. “It’s the only way we have of keeping tabs on each other,” he told them. “Otherwise, we’re all alone and in the dark. Also, its the only way to cover an area the size of lower Manhattan.”
It had been decided that Josalyn would remain in dispatch with Allan, to help him handle the phones and keep track of the hunt. She was obviously in no condition to be chasing Rudy all over the Village. There was some concern for Armond, as well, but the old man pshawed it, saying, “I am old, and I am slow; but I think that I may be of some use to us yet.” No one could argue with that face, that voice, those smiling eyes.
The groups were then chosen, with a minimum of debate. Danny, Claire, and T. C. all went with Armond; Joseph’s companions were Stephen and Tommy. Secretly, both leaders were pleased with the arrangement: Joseph wanted to keep an eye on Stephen, in much the same way that Armond felt about Claire.
After that, very little remained to be said. Tommy and T. C. emphasized the importance of being cool in the tunnels, if anyone happened to find themselves down there. “That’s why we told Allan to have you all wear black,” Tommy said. “If anybody catches us runnin’ around down there, me and T. C. will wind up with our asses in a sling.”
The clock on the wall said 7:45. In less than an hour, the sun would be well into its downward slide.
And the shadows would take over, devouring all light.
“Time to go,” Joseph said abruptly. He was not surprised to see how many of them jumped.
By eight o’clock, Allan and Josalyn were alone in the dispatch office. To Allan, it was quite a bit like being entirely alone. Josalyn had awakened just before the meeting began, and she hadn’t said a dozen words since. Her eyes were still focused on some spot in the unfathomable distance. She responded to sound; she sat upright in her chair; when he lit his pipe, she pulled a cigarette from her purse and followed suit. But she wasn’t really there.
That was why he was so surprised when she turned to him suddenly and said, “Are they really going to kill him tonight?”
He looked at her, stunned. The soft lines in her face were taut with concern. The dazed expression was still in her eyes, but something was trying to cut its way through; the longer he looked into them, the cleverer they seemed to become.
“Will they really be able to do it?” she asked.
“I … I don’t know,” he said, flustered, regretting it instantly. She doesn’t need to hear that, stupid, his mind chided him. “Yeah, I don’t see any problem,” he amended.
“Don’t patronize me,” she said with sudden force; and for a moment, her eyes were sharp as daggers. “A lot of people are going to die tonight. You know that, don’t you?”
So much for that theory, Allan mused privately. “Yeah,” he answered her. “I think I do.”
“Do you think he’ll kill them all?”
“No.”
“Do you think”—and her eyes flared up again, this time with fear—”he’ll find out where we are?”
“No way,” he answered confidently. “We’ll have him too busy running.”
“But do you think they’ll really be able to kill him? To make sure that he doesn’t come back?” Her voice was loaded with so much emotion that he winced at the sound of it.
What do I think? he asked himself. Does this stand a chance of working out? Can we actually kill a thing that’s already dead, using pointy sticks and crosses, fercrissake?
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I really don’t know.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her. She turned away again, silently puffing on her cigarette, while the distance crept back into her eyes. Leaving Allan, once again, alone in the room.
It was ten minutes after eight.
CHAPTER 38
Rudy, too, was waiting for the stars to come out.
He crouched, unseen, under a darkened workman’s staircase on the low end of the Lexington Avenue line. His eyes were drowsy, thoroughly mad, and more redly luminous than the lit tip of the cigarette that he lazily dragged to his lips.
He had been waiting all day for the sun to go down.
Ever since the early morning … so early that it still deigned to be called the night, for dawn was far away … ever since he awakened from that terrible trance, with his rectum still throbbing memories from his pilloried violation, Rudy had been trembling on the near side of sleep. Several hits of speed, taken at regular intervals, had allowed him to maintain that uneasy state.
But it was the sleep of the dead that he deprived himself of. And the sleep of the dead is more demanding than the sleep of the living.
He twitched suddenly, the effects of the amphetamine that coursed through his almost bloodless veins. He didn’t know how or why the blood left his system … it didn’t seem to be coming out through his pores, and he had neither urinated nor defecated in eight solid days … but somehow it did, leaving him starving for more. And today, with no sleep to buffer the region between satiation and ensuing hunger, had been the most difficult of all.
Because he had been trapped down here in the tunnels, with the slow
ly mounting emptiness alive inside his body. Because he had been helpless to do anything about it, pinned down by the sun and the busyness of daytime Manhattan. Never had he felt so restricted in the tunnels, so much like a prisoner wandering nightmare catacombs that offered no protection and no release. It made him crave surrender to the deeper darkness of sleep.
But he was afraid to sleep.
He was afraid to dream.
And so the nightmares had come to him awake, twisted fragments of imagining that skittered past him on spider-thin legs. Shadows, lurching out at him from nowhere. The ghostly echoes of ancient machinery, the timeless cries of men in pain. Strange flashes of light that yanked him away from the arms of slumber, like angels summoning him up to a place where he could never dwell. And wisps of laughter, terrible and familiar, that made the white flesh crawl over his bones.
Death without rest is a horrible thing. Rudy knew that now. An intimate knowledge. The Age of the Three-Day Creative Marathon was past. The Age of the Endless Party, as well: that surreal succession of barely glimpsed days that flipped past him like cards in a shuffling deck. Both of them, gone, as he grappled with the knowledge that he was in a strange place, where all the rules had been changed, and the path to Hell was the only road before him.
Most self-respecting vampires wouldn’t touch speed with a ten-foot pole. They knew how badly they needed to forget, if only for a few hours. To forget how much worse it could so easily become.
Rudy’s eyelids fluttered shut, pale membranes over the red luminescence. Now, with the sun’s final surrender to the skyline, with the coming of the darkness that gave him life, he surrendered himself to death’s whirlpool embrace. He let it suck him under, lapping over his head in dark whispering waves, lulling him as he settled into succoring folds, its replenishing depths.
As the seconds. Turned to minutes.
Into hours.
CHAPTER 39
The clock on the wall said 10:45.
And everybody was going insane.
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