She had climbed the fire escape to Claude’s fifth floor apartment, the orderly slung over her shoulder like a bag of wet laundry. Once inside his studio apartment she placed him in his bed and cleaned him with a warm washcloth, doing her best to erase any last traces of whatever Wheele had subjected him to. Then she turned on the TV at the foot of his bed, to make it look as if he had drifted off while watching a movie.
A television anchorman, his hair styled and face unmarred by frown lines or crow’s feet, smiled into camera number one.
“... and congratulations to the zoo’s newest proud parents!” His smile dimmed, but did not fully disappear, as he lowered his voice to indicate the next item he was about to read was serious. “The city’s police and fire departments continue to be baffled by what is being called Mad Night. Early this morning, between the hours of midnight and four am, the city and its surrounding suburbs were plagued by an unprecedented number of violent disturbances, ranging from suicide attempts, to outbreaks of arson. At least fifteen people have been reported as dead and another forty-five injured during the early-morning chaos.
“In what may be a related news item, authorities are investigating what is being described as a ‘Jonestown-like spectacle’ at the estate of controversial televangelist Catherine Wheele. The carnage was discovered early this morning when firefighters responding to a four-alarm fire at the exclusive Jonquil Lane address discovered numerous dead bodies. Details are as yet unclear, but Mrs. Wheele is believed to have perished in the blaze. Also listed among the dead is noted psychiatrist and self-help lecturer Dr. Adam Wexler, author of the best- selling Sharing, Caring and Swearing.” The anchorman’s smile reappeared as he turned to address the weatherman. “So how’s the weekend shaping up, Skip?”
“Looks like a doozy, Fred,” the meteorologist replied cheerily, “with almost no chance of rain.”
Sonja sighed sadly as she took the pillow out from under Claude’s head and pressed it over his face. Although his higher brain function had been destroyed, his stubborn, reptilian mind, which regulated his breathing and heart rate, still clawed at the pillow for a good thirty seconds. Once he went still, she replaced it under his head. She left the apartment the way she came, leaving the TV to chatter away at Claude’s corpse.
Sonja Blue stood among the monuments and silently watched as they put Claude Hagerty in the ground.
It was drizzling and the rain served to muffle the words spoken over the casket. It rested above the open grave on a machine that would lower the loved one with the press of a button. Besides the solemn minister reciting the burial prayer, the only other mourners were an elderly woman Sonja guessed was a relative of some kind and a couple of co-workers.
Sonja turned the collar up on her jacket and squared her shoulders against the rain as she quietly studied the older woman, who clutched a damp bouquet of Kleenex which she kept shredding and re-shredding as she stared at the casket.
She wondered if she had done Claude a greater disservice in death than she had in life. If she had left him to die in the smoking ruins of Wheele’s mansion, at least he would have had a decent crowd for his send-off. Atrocity victims are always popular post-mortem. But that would have led to questions about exactly what a lowly orderly was doing at the home of a famous religious leader, and she could not allow that.
“Ms. Blue?”
She turned a bit too swiftly, and glared at the little man in the dark suit. She’d been so involved in her thoughts she hadn’t heard him until he was at her elbow. A taller, younger man in chauffeur’s livery stood behind him, holding an umbrella.
The little man in the dark suit faltered for a second, his eye contact sliding across the polished lenses of her sunglasses. He coughed into his fist. “Ahem, Ms. Blue, my name is Ottershaw. I represent the interests of Jacob Thorne. I have been instructed by Mr. Thorne to give this to you.” He produced a business envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to you. “I am also instructed to inform you that, while he greatly appreciates the efforts you have taken on his behalf, Mr. Thorne trusts you understand that he wishes to never see you again.”
Having relayed his message, Ottershaw turned and walked toward a limo parked on the narrow road that wound through the cemetery, the chauffeur following at his heels.
Sonja slit the seal on the envelope with her switchblade. It contained a cashier’s check drawn on the family bank. She stared at the zeroes for a while, then at the limousine. The windows were tinted black, but she could make out two figures huddled on the backseat. Ottershaw... and Thorne.
He’s as guilty as Wheele. He told her to kill you. And you know he told her that you’d been to the penthouse. He probably even told her to kill Claude.
“Yeah, I know that.”
Are you just going to stand here and let him get away with it?
The chauffeur started the car and the limousine pulled away, Thorne’s profile a darker blur behind the glass.
Claude’s funeral was over, but none of the mourners had bothered to stick around to see him lowered into eternity. A cemetery worker operating a small earth-mover scooped fresh dirt into the hole.
Sonja stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her jacket and began walking toward the gates of the graveyard, threading her way through the field of the dead.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked The Other. “He’s our father.”
About the Author
Nancy A. Collins has authored more than 20 novels, numerous short stories, as well as served as a writer for DC Comics’ Swamp Thing. She is a recipient of the HWA’s Stoker Award and the British Fantasy Society Award, and has been nominated for the Eisner, John Campbell Memorial, World Fantasy & International Horror Guild Awards. Best known for her ground-breaking vampire character, Sonja Blue, her works include Sunglasses After Dark, the Southern Gothic collection Knuckles And Tales, & the Vamps series for Young Adults. Her most recent novel is Left Hand Magic, the second installment in the critically-acclaimed Golgotham urban fantasy series. She currently resides in the Cape Fear area of North Carolina with her fiancé, Tommy, their Boston Terrier, Chopper, and a number of cats, only two of which she claims to own.
Check out Nancy’s website @ www.golgothamonline.com
About the Cover Artist
Sean Hartter is an artist from Massachusetts. His work as appeared everywhere from the LA Times and movie posters to comics and books. His style is heavily influenced by design ethics from years past, and he strives to incorporate those tropes into his own style. He is married with two almost-grown sons and two cats, Beatrix and Elle.
Check out Sean’s website @ http://hartter.blogspot.com/
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1989 & 2000; revised edition © 2012 by Nancy A. Collins
ISBN 978-1-4976-6173-8
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Sunglasses After Dark (Sonja Blue) Page 25
