He grabbed the bottom rung; it was cold to the touch and lightly coated with rust, making it rough against the flesh of his palm. He clutched the second rung with his other hand, using upper-body strength to pull himself along. His right foot groped blindly for purchase on the lower rung he'd just cleared. So far, so good. His head felt like a balloon full of dirty water, and his heart was beating hard enough to shake his rib cage. He could do it. Sure. No prob. All the way to the top. Yeah. He managed two more rungs before his body rebelled.
"Hagerty! Get down from there before you bust your skull."
Sonja's voice cut through the cotton stuffed between his ears, and for one moment he thought he was back in junior-high gym class and Coach Morrison was yelling at him again. Startled, he lowered himself to the floor. His sinuses ached and his shoulders felt as if he'd been attacked with a broom handle.
Sonja Blue positioned herself before the rung ladder. "Hold on tight around my neck, okay?"
"I don't know. Are you sure?"
"Just do it."
Hagerty looped his arms over her shoulders and around her neck. He felt more than a little silly. Here he was, a grown man riding piggyback on a girl four inches shorter and at least a hundred pounds lighter than himself.
Sonja Blue climbed the ladder as if she had a ten-pound sack of potatoes strapped to her back. Claude glanced down at the hardwood floor as it quickly receded beneath his shoes. Vertigo squirted bile through his esophagus and he tightened his grip. Sonja pushed open the trapdoor, and a rush of chill, heavy-industry tinged air struck Claude in the face. It felt wonderful.
They emerged onto the roof of an old building located in what Claude recognized as the city's warehouse district. It was early evening, judging from the stars overhead, and the area abandoned except for winos and junkies clustered around the down-and-out dives fronting the main traffic artery. Claude collapsed onto the tar paper covering the roof, staring up at the night sky. His head still ached and his clothes were too thin for the night air, but he didn't care. He'd escaped the monster's lair, if not the monster.
He glanced at Sonja Blue as she peered over the ledge into the alley below. Could she hear what he was thinking all the time? Probably not, or she'd have let him dash his brains out on the floor.
He'd panicked when she first suggested that he hold on to her. Talking to her was one thing, but actual, prolonged physical contact… He'd rather have a tarantula set loose in his shorts. But it hadn't been that bad.
"So what do we do now? Use the fire escape?"
She shook her head. "That's not how I operate. Never know who, or what, might be watching. Never let 'em see where you go to ground. That's rule number one. Besides, there's no fire escape on this rat trap."
"Oh. Then how… ?"
"Don't ask. Just hold tight, savvy?"
Claude did as he was told. He was sweating despite the cool air.
She took three steps in the direction of the nearest building and jumped. Claude glimpsed empty space beneath his toes and, below that, a darkened alleyway full of garbage cans and broken bottles. He was jarred loose by the landing impact before his brain had time to register what had happened. He lay sprawled across the roof of the neighboring building, and after a couple of minutes his heart resumed its beating.
"Jesus! You could have at least warned me!"
"Told you to hold tight, didn't I?" She helped him to his feet, dusting off his clothes.
"Okay, what now? Do we rappel down the side of the building?"
"You're free to do as you like. You can go home, if that's what you want, but I suspect Wheele's got her zombies watching your place. I can give you enough money to get out of town and start somewhere else. I'll make sure you get away safely."
"What about you?"
She shrugged and smiled without showing her teeth. "I've got payback to attend to."
"Yes, I bet you do," he thought. "I think I'll take you up on that offer to get out of town."
"No problem. I need to take care of a little business first, though."
"What kind of business?"
"Gotta go see someone I used to know."
After what had happened to him in the past twenty-four hours, Claude was actually relieved to find himself in one of the worst neighborhoods in town. The menacing shadows and derelict storefronts seemed to exude a folksy charm. His surroundings may have been dangerous, but at least they were normal.
He walked a step or two behind Sonja Blue, who strode down the street with her hands jammed into the pockets of her leather jacket. She looked preoccupied, so he didn't offer any small talk.
Without saying a word, she swerved and headed down a dimly lit alley a platoon of marines would have had second thoughts about entering. Claude hung back for a second, warily eyeing the foul-smelling passage. Sonja did not miss a step, her boot heels measuring out a steady tap-tap-tap as she continued on her way. To her this was just another shortcut, nothing to be worried about. Claude hurried after her, breathing through his mouth in an attempt to keep the alley's pungent aroma from overpowering him. It didn't work too well.
It was so dark he nearly stumbled and fell when he collided against her. She lifted a hand for silence and he closed his mouth before he could ask her why she'd stopped. She stood perfectly still, her hands clear of her pockets. She held something in her right hand that Claude couldn't make out. She tilted her head to one side, like a robin listening for earthworms.
Claude felt fear enter his bloodstream. His heart went into overdrive and his ears strained to catch the faintest sound. They weren't alone; he was certain of that, although he'd seen and heard nothing.
There was the sound of an empty bottle rolling across pavement and the scrape of a garbage can being pushed aside. Sonja shifted in the direction the noises originated from. Claude realized she'd placed herself between him and whatever it was in the darkness.
There was a low hissing sound, like the laughter of snakes, before they emerged from the blackness. Claude heard Sonja swear under her breath.
He couldn't see what the problem might be. All that blocked their path were two winos, one black and one white.
The black wino stood a little over six feet tall, although his badly stooped shoulders made his exact height impossible to guess. He was incredibly thin and his head resembled a burnt-out lightbulb. He was dressed in filthy castoffs and his feet were bare. His companion was shorter, older, and hairier, with a snarled white mane the color of dirty ivory and a discolored beard that looked like it belonged on a goat.
"Look what we got here, brother," wheezed the stoop-shouldered black, pointing a spidery finger at Claude and Sonja. "We got ourselves a trespasser."
"Tresssspasssser," agreed the goaty wino. Claude recognized him as the source of the snake laughter.
"If you wanna come this way, sister"—the stooped Negro smiled, revealing pointed teeth—"you gots to pay a toll. Ain't that right, brother?"
The goat wino grinned, exposing equally sharp fangs. "Yessss. Toll."
"Cute. Since when do your kind work together?" Despite her tone of voice, Sonja did not relax her stance. Claude felt an overpowering need to piss his pants.
The black vampire looked confused. "Don't know what you mean, sister. Old Ned an' me's been together forever. We was partners before. Saw no reason to end such a bee-yoo-ti-ful friendship, eh, Old Ned?" The vampire regarded the bearded revenant with something close to affection.
"Friennndssss," echoed Old Ned.
"Don't see how you can kick, sister. By the looks of him, there's more than enough to go 'round."
Claude made a choking sound and took a step backward. Sonja quickly repositioned herself. Old Ned was trying to outflank them. There was the efficient click! of a spring-loaded mechanism, and Claude saw the glint of twisted silver in her hand.
The stoop-shouldered vampire shook his head sadly. "I was hoping you'd be more friendly, sister. Open to nee-go-she-ay-shun. Guess you'll have to learn to share the hard way."<
br />
"Sisssterrrr."
Claude screamed when the goat-faced old man slammed into him, but no sound came out. It was like his worst nightmares made real. He fell amidst a collection of garbage cans and overflowing plastic trash bags. A squealing rat wriggled out from under him. Hagerty's reflexes were the only thing that kept the revenant from burying his fangs in his throat; Claude grabbed Old Ned's thin neck and squeezed as hard as he could. The beast's face was inches from his own. Saliva dripped onto Claude's cheeks and eyelids. The undead bum stank of soured wine, dried feces and rotten meat. Claude did not want to go through eternity with that stench in his nostrils.
A hand emerged from the darkness and grabbed a fistful of Old Ned's greasy hair, yanking him free of Claude. Hagerty rolled out from under the struggling revenant in time to see the silver blade slice the air.
The body stood upright for a few seconds, the hands clawing at the spurting stump where a head had been, before toppling into the surrounding garbage.
Sonja Blue held the severed head aloft like a demented Diogenes, studying it with mild distaste. Old Ned's eyes flicked back and forth, as if looking for direction from his companion. The mouth continued its ineffectual biting motions for a few more seconds until the brain registered its final death. Claude was reminded of rattlesnakes, how they're capable of delivering a deathblow even after decapitation. Then he blew his lunch all over the alley.
"Damn revenants. Bad as gila monsters," Sonja muttered in the same tone of voice used by homeowners to complain about termites. "Still, that's the first time I've seen 'em work together like that. Revenant and vampire, that is. Pretenders are loners by nature. Unless one of them's a Noble, it's almost unheard of for them to team up. Good thing, too, or the human race would be confined to cattle pens by now." She tossed Old Ned's head, which was beginning to resemble a cross between an overripe cantaloupe and a deflated basketball, into a handy dumpster.
The stoop-shouldered vampire lay sprawled in the garbage, his head twisted at a weird angle. Claude stared at it in sick fascination. "It's still alive," he marveled, staring at the crippled vampire. Its fingers wriggled like the legs of a dying spider.
"So it is." Sonja drove her switchblade into the base of the vampire's neck just as he spoke his final words. Claude could not hear what he said but he could see his lips move.
"I ain't your damn sister," hissed Sonja Blue as she straightened. She aimed a kick toward the dead thing's head, but it had already degenerated into foul-smelling sludge.
Claude leaned against the alley mouth. He was bathed in sweat, his heart felt like it'd been put through a juicer, and his mouth tasted like he'd just gargled with battery acid.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Sure."
Jacob Thorne was a workaholic. A lot of men at his age and station in life had their vices; some drank too much, others were addicted to various white powders, while still others involved themselves in illicit love affairs with women young enough to be their granddaughters. Thorne's vice was being wrapped up in his work. That's why his household was located atop Thorne Tower.
There were smaller homes salted across three continents, but Thorne never really felt comfortable at the villa on the Cote d'Azur or in the chalet in Colorado. What he liked about the tower penthouse was that he could lock himself in his office and be immersed in the very heart of his empire, concentrating on mergers, takeovers, insider trading, and the like while his wife went quietly mad.
Thorne lay in bed, listening to his wife mutter as she slept. She was taking more and more Valium, but it didn't blot out the dreams. Shirley had always been delicate. That was part of what had attracted Thorne to her, forty years ago. She'd been the eldest daughter of a respected banking family, while he was an audacious young upstart, the son of Swedish parents who'd had their name "Americanized" from Thorensen to Thorne by the officials at Ellis Island. It was just like the Hollywood versions of the American Dream said it would be.
Shirley was four years Thorne's senior—which, at the time, was almost as shocking as her choice in husbands—and it was five years before she conceived.
Unhappy with the way his thoughts were going and unable to sleep, Thorne eased himself out of bed and glowered at the digital clock on the night table. Eleven o'clock. I must be turning into an old man, he mused sourly. Since he couldn't sleep, he put on his robe and slippers and headed downstairs to his office. Maybe an hour or two of paperwork would take the edge off and allow him to sleep.
Shirley's pregnancy had been difficult, resulting in a dangerously premature baby and the doctor warning that any more attempts might prove fatal. Thorne could still recall Denise's earliest days. He remembered the feeling of frustration when he realized that no matter how much money or power he had, he was as powerless as some poor shmuck of a charity-ward father.
He didn't sleep the first week of his daughter's life. All of his time had been split between the board room and peering through the plate-glass window at the maternity ward, watching his newborn child in her incubator. She looked so tiny, as pink and fragile as a little bird, that Thorne was overwhelmed by a desire to protect her and make sure nothing bad ever happened to her. He watched the nurses' every move, fearful they might prick his baby while changing her diapers.
When Denise was finally allowed to come home, Thorne scandalized his in-laws by refusing to hire a nurse for their grandchild. For the first six months of his daughter's life he changed diapers, walked the floor, and administered three o'clock feedings, just like any other father would. He was proud of that. So was Shirley.
Thorne cherished those memories, but he resented them as well, for they made the past two decades all the more empty. He had come to grips with Denise's disappearance from his life by submerging himself in his work. His wife, however, did not have that option.
Thorne had watched his wife grow more and more obsessed with attempting to locate their daughter. After the private investigators had run dry, she began frequenting psychics, dowsers, spiritualists, and other sleazy con artists. By the time he'd decided it was time to step in and try to get professional help, it was too late. The Wheeles had their hooks in her. He'd hoped the faith healer's sudden death would set her free, but he hadn't counted on the widow. She was a thousand times worse than her slime-ball husband ever thought of being.
Thorne opened the door to his private office. He was letting himself get upset. There was no point in worrying about that witch and her threats right now. He smiled to himself as he glimpsed the reassuring outlines of his office, familiar even in the dark. His hand brushed the light plate inside the door and the room jumped out of the shadows.
There was a man sitting in his chair.
Thorne shook his head in order to clear it. The man remained seated in Thorne's green leather chair behind the mahogany desk. The man was large, resembling a football player gone to seed, and his hair was cut short. He looked to be in his late thirties, his blocky chin covered in a dark stubble flecked with gray. He had also been the recipient of a recent beating.
"Who are you and how the hell did you get in here?" Thorne stepped into the room, too outraged by the intrusion to be frightened. It was the same instinct that had helped him amass several million dollars over the years. He was suddenly aware of the reek of garbage permeating the room.
"He's with me, Mr. Thorne. I was gambling that you would keep the access code on the private elevators as a sort of keep-the-home-fires-burning gesture."
Thorne turned to see a woman, dressed in a black leather jacket and mirrored sunglasses, step out from behind the door. He went pale, grabbing the edge of the desk in order to steady himself.
"Oh, God… no…"
Sonja Blue smiled, revealing her fangs. "Hello, Mr. Thorne."
The big man with the bruised face got up, grasped Thorne by the elbows, and eased him into the vacated chair.
"You better fix Mr. Thorne a brandy and soda, Claude. I think he needs one in a bad way. I'll close the door. I'd hate to
have our little reunion spoiled. If I remember correctly, the bar's next to the bookshelf."
Thorne stared at Sonja with open fear and disgust. "She… she said you'd never get out."
"Who? You mean Wheele?" Her face was unreadable, but there was something in her voice that made Claude look up from his place behind the bar.
"Why? Why couldn't you stay away? After all this time… I used to pray someone could prove you were dead. That way I could get it over with. Grieve and be done with it. That's a horrible thing to pray for, isn't it? Proof of your only child's death? I had my prayer answered, all right." His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "My daughter's dead."
"Then why did you agree to put me away if I'm not your daughter?"
"She threatened to tell my wife about you. I couldn't allow that."
"But you said I'm not your daughter."
Thorne shuddered, refusing to look at her. "No, but you're hers. I buried my Denise years ago. My wife's Denise is another story." Thorne let his head drop into his hands. He looked like a tired old man instead of a self-made business tycoon.
Sonja stepped closer, one hand extended toward him. "Father…" Her voice contained a hint of Denise.
Thorne snapped back to attention, glaring at her from beneath steel-gray brows. "Don't call me that! Never call me that!"
Claude set the brandy and soda on the desk, staring at Thorne in fascination. At first he'd seemed like just another old duffer in his pajamas, but now that the initial shock was wearing off, he was turning into the fabled Jacob Thorne. The old guy was tough as a rhino. Claude was amazed how much alike he and Sonja were.
Thorne's hands trembled but his voice remained steady. "First there was Wheele, threatening to reveal the truth to my wife. Then that degenerate Englishman coming around, hinting that he'd leave the country if I made it worth his while. I didn't believe Wheele at first, naturally. It was just a lot of psychotic hogwash… or so I thought. She showed me pictures, but pictures can be faked. Besides, you don't look like Denise. Oh, there's some resemblance, but not enough to convince me. Then she sent me the videotape."
Sunglasses After Dark Page 20
