“Hmm,” Gabby said in a matter-of-fact tone as she stared out at Axis. “He mothtly cometh at night.”
“Mostly?” Beth whipped around. Through the window, she spotted Jack. He had just entered the office. His back was turned to a tall man she didn’t recognize. It was one of them. Beth felt her heart seize. Her hands fell lifeless to her side. Even across the street, through two panes of insulated glass, that thing held her spellbound.
“You thee him, too,” Gabby said, smiling up at Beth, one hand on Blood’s scruff as he leaped up to paw the window.
Beth slammed her eyes shut. Shaking the apparition’s grip and pounding on the double-thick safety glass, she screamed, “Jack! Jack!” And watched, powerless, as the arresting creature took Jack down. Blood howled, both paws slamming against the window.
“Settle,” she commanded. The dog obeyed and backed away from the windowsill with a mournful whine. Beth crouched down, grabbing Gabby tightly by both shoulders.
“Oww! That hurth.”
“You go back to your room now.” She gripped more tightly. She had to make absolutely sure that Gabby got the message. “Go back right now. You understand?” The look in the girl’s eyes said yes, even if she was too stunned to answer or even nod. “You shut the door and lock it, and . . .”
Beth stole another glance out the window. Nothing. Not a glimpse of Jack or his attacker.
“Hold out your hands,” she said quickly. Gabby obeyed, and Beth pulled double fistfuls of salt from her pockets. She poured more and more into Gabby’s waiting hands until the salt was spilling freely from her cupped palms. “If the boogeyman comes, you throw this at him. You throw this at him, and you run. Do you understand me?”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” Beth scrambled for some answer that would make sense to the child. “Because it’s bad luck for him. Like Nema said. And the boogeyman hates that. Got it?”
Gabby nodded, outstretched hands full of salt.
“And don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.” Beth wheeled Gabby around by the shoulders, practically shoving the little girl down the hallway. “Now, go. Go. Go!”
Beth heard the slamming of an apartment door. She rushed to the fire-escape window and hurled it open. The dog almost leaped out the moment he saw an opening. “I know. I know,” Beth said, crouching down to his level. “But you can’t make that jump, and you aren’t going to be of much use splattered on the sidewalk.” Strange to use logic with a dog, but it seemed to work. He padded back.
Beth clambered out into the frosty air. Her oversized suit bunched up at the legs and she tumbled, falling with a clank to the iron latticework platform. She clawed herself up, scraped palms screaming against the rough, rusty railing. She felt her stomach lurch as she caught a glimpse of the three-story drop to the garbage- and glass-strewn sidewalk. Through the window, there was no sign of Jack. That thing had taken him down and out of sight.
She put one boot on the middle rail. It gave slightly under her weight, like a spring. She gripped the top rail and climbed onto it, balancing as the entire platform began to sway just enough to drain all bravado from her. Beth evened out her breathing and stood ramrod-straight, trying to gain as much elevation as she could as she judged the jump. She’d never been good with heights; five rungs up any stepladder, and her head was already swimming. Right now, it was doing the butterfly stroke at an Olympic level.
She readied herself. This wouldn’t be any different from a dive off the Docklands piers. Just one that would end with her either as a bleeding sack on the pavement or facing another one of those things on her own. And with those opposing evils locked in a mental death grip, Beth jumped.
Her hands locked around the rail reflexively. Her wrists bayed in agony as she struggled to get a grip on the rotting crossbar. Thick slivers of black paint and rusty iron curled up and flaked away, fluttering to the street thirty feet below as she clutched tightly, feet kicking uselessly against the open air.
She could feel her fingers growing longer, her grip beginning to slip. She struggled for purchase, rocking back and forth, and she finally hauled herself up and over. The rail dug sharply into her ribs, and she flopped onto the deck. Lancets of pain sprang from every impact point.
Rising, she spotted Jack through the window. The thing had him backed up against the wall. It was thrashing, snapping at him like a viper. It had its back to her, and for that Beth was thankful. She couldn’t imagine having to face another false Ryan. She clawed her way up from the platform and, without pause, heaved herself through the open office window. She rolled as she hit the plank flooring.
As she got up, she told herself over and over not to look that thing in the eye. Whatever it took, she would not let that happen. Whatever her mind told her it was would be a lie. That thing was nothing but Gabby’s boogeyman—and hers.
Beth shifted closer. The thing was too preoccupied with Jack to even realize she was creeping up on it. It was wide open, defenseless. She reached into her pockets for the salt.
And found them empty.
She’d given it all to Gabby. All of it. Nothing left but a few flakes clinging to her hand as a mocking reminder. Hysteria sucker-punched her. She scanned the office for something to hit the creature with. Her eyes landed on Jack’s pistol. It lie on the ground, out of his reach and hers. In blind panic, she heaved what little salt she had left at the creature.
It sizzled on impact. The thing reared back, letting go of Jack and giving Beth an opening, leaving just enough of a gap between the two of them for her to get to the gun. She dived. Her hand wrapped around the pistol’s knurled grip as she skidded forward, skinning her forearms. Her finger fumbled for the trigger. She rolled onto her back, ready to fire at that thing even if it wore Ryan’s face. She opened her eyes. But it wasn’t Ryan she saw standing there.
It was Jack.
Forty-three
Jack. It was Jack, fixing her there with a gaze that was as calming as half a bottle of valium. It soothed her terror, assuring her that all would be well if she would just submit. It was time now to relax; the impossible fight was over. In fact, this had never even been her battle to begin with. She should just put that gun down, go to him, and let him take her someplace where she’d be safe. Beth’s arm fell to her side like a wet dishrag. The pistol hung loose in her grip, as Jack—
No! Not Jack! She knew in her heart that it was just a mirage. But the lie clung to her mind like hot tar, impossible to unstick and seeping into every corner. It’s not Jack. But yes . . . yet it was Jack. Of course, it was Jack. The other Jack, the one slumped against the wall and not moving, he wasn’t ever the real Jack. It made sense in some dimly understood way.
The real Jack had been the one to save her that night. He’d been the one to invite her into his world even though she’d hit him with a bottle. The false Jack, he was the one on the floor with blood gushing from his neck. He was the bad one, the one who had taped her to the chair. He was the one who had told her to give up, to forget about finding Zoë. And now that she had the real Jack with her, he would take her to Zoë, to Ryan. Then they would climb into his van and drive away, and everything would be right with the world once more. It all made so much sense.
Beth’s body went slack. Her feet began to shuffle toward him. She was hit with that same smell, old pennies and freshly plowed earth, but she no longer minded it. It was pleasant, really. It smelled like a home she had never known but would now call hers forever. She felt his fingertips brush against her shoulder. Watched his jaw as it opened and grew wide. She closed her eyes, waiting—
Suddenly, he was jerked backward, and he screamed, the sound like steel on slate. She watched as the sharp point of a juniper stake burst through his chest. Milk-white blood gushed from his torso, blasting the hypnotic hold it had on her to smithereens. The thing kept grasping, hands clawing, but Jack was behind it, wrenching up on the wooden shaft,
lifting the creature that still bore his face a few inches off the ground.
“Move!” Jack yelled over that siren scream. Beth got out of the way just as Jack rammed the creature into the wall. He let go and stomped the butt end of the stake with his boot. The creature writhed, clawing against the wall as it struggled to pull itself off.
“Gun,” Jack demanded, not taking his eyes off the back of the impaled creature. Beth tossed it to him. He caught it and in one fluid motion wheeled on his target and fired off three rounds. The head exploded into white mist. The body slumped, still nailed to the wall like a scarecrow.
Jack collapsed, landing hard on one knee. Beth rushed to steady him. All of the color had drained from his face; his skin had gone corpse-sallow.
“Time to go,” he grunted, his voice trembling.
“But that—that thing?” she stammered, looking at the slumped body still nailed to the wall. “We can’t just leave it there.”
“Rapid de- . . . decomposition. It’ll be go- . . . gone in an hour. Now . . . go . . .” He nodded to the open window. Even that simple gesture seemed like agony for him.
Beth grabbed Jack’s wrist, pulling his arm across her shoulder as she strained to get him out through the window.
“Ladies . . . ladies first.” He pointed to the other fire escape, barely able to lift his arm halfway up.
“Are you sure?”
Jack looked as if he could barely stand, let alone make the nine-foot leap. “Go. Now.” He gritted his teeth. “Listen to . . . to wha- . . . to wha—”
“All right. All right. I’ll be waiting on the other side.” She scampered up to the top rail, too worried about Jack to even notice the distance to the other building or to the street below. She landed hard on the other side, quickly rising to see that Jack was already standing on the railing.
He swayed, one foot slipped, but he recovered his balance and jumped. His quicksilver alacrity was all gone. He flailed in the air, barely making it, and plowed right into Beth’s waiting arms like a sack of millet. He rose waveringly and they both pitched through the open window and into the hallway. Blood was there to meet them, eyes wide, tail wagging.
“Are you okay?” Beth asked as she ducked inside. She tried in vain to lift him from the floor. His face was pallid, his eyes bloodshot, with pupils dilated as wide as bar coasters. His jumpsuit had been torn, exposing a ragged gash on the juncture of shoulder and collarbone. It wept blood slowly but steadily.
He struggled to get up, pushing against his knees. Beth again wrapped one of his arms over her shoulder, and together they stumbled toward the stairwell. “Not much . . . not much time,” he wheezed, his breath little more than shallow bursts. Blood let out a few sharp barks. He rested one hand on the dog’s neck. “Qui- . . . qui- . . . quiet, B-b-b- . . .” He slipped again, both legs giving out beneath him.
Beth barely kept him from cracking his head against the polished floor. “Jack? What’s happening to you?”
“Bite is poison. Saliva . . . neurotoxin . . .” He could barely spit out the syllables. “Para-paralytic . . . short-term . . . adrenaline’s been . . . b-b-been keeping me . . . keeping me . . .”
“Oh, my God! Are you going to be all right?”
“Not . . . not sure . . .” He slid from her grasp. He lay on the floor, staring up at the acoustic paneling. His lips continued to mouth silently for a few more seconds; then they stopped. His eyes stayed open, red-veined and fully dilated. And as dead-looking as a field of graves. A thin whine came from Blood, standing sentinel next to his master.
“Jack? Jack?” Beth leaned forward. Her ear touched his lips. She thought she felt the barest trace of breath grazing her skin. Then it stopped. She stuck two fingers against his carotid.
She found no pulse.
Forty-four
Gil stood in the receiving area of the New Harbor PD, hands in pockets, fidgeting.
He’d made it as far as the bus. He’d climbed in and kept his butt glued to the cigarette-scarred seat bucket as he snuck increasingly larger swigs of ninety-nine-cent liquid forgetfulness. Not a minute passed where his better angels weren’t blasting their alarm trumpets in his ear, screaming at him that this was wrong. He’d stared out through the smudged glass, wondering what would happen to the rest of the town that he’d called home for the past two decades. And before Gil knew what had happened, he was watching the bus drive away without him on it, as he tore into confetti the ticket that had cost him half of his Judas money.
He’d racked his brain for the entire day trying to figure out who he could talk to, and as much as he loathed the idea, the pigs were his only option. And now here he was, in the stuffy entrance alcove, looking through the glass partition at a couple of bored policemen shooting the shit over Styrofoam cups of coffee.
He turned his back to them, swallowed what little pride he had left, along with a generous gulp of cheap whiskey, and headed in. As he approached the reception desk, he caught snatches of their conversation.
“What do you think’s up with Watson and Richards?” the one standing asked.
The desk sergeant leaned closer, conspiratorially. “Heard they were on the take with that joint down on the Strip.”
“Payola?”
He nodded. “Heard IA had them on surveillance for months. Must have gotten wind of it and blown town.”
“With a police cruiser?”
Suddenly, the desk sergeant seemed to notice that Gil was standing well within hearing range. He motioned for the other cop to take a powder and swiveled around, one fat arm crossed over the other. “Help you, pal?”
As Gil leaned in, the man pushed as far back from the Formica desk as his squeaky office chair would allow. He noticed that the man was breathing through his mouth. Gil wondered if he should have found a way to wrangle a shower first. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to report something suspicious.”
“Sorry,” the desk sergeant said, as if he hadn’t heard a word of Gil’s. “We don’t have any extra beds tonight. And don’t try taking a swing at me, pal. I’ve got your number. We’ll send you right up the river you try that crap again. No comfy bunk in the drunk tank. Nah . . . one in the state pen for you, one with a big buck bunkmate.”
“Listen, I—”
“You know, maybe if you didn’t spend all of your soda-can money on Thunderbird, you’d have had enough for a cot at the shelter.”
Seemed Gil’s body odor wasn’t the only thing the guy could smell from three yards away. His breath had betrayed him, too. Gil rubbed his neck and blurted out, “Look. This isn’t some scam. I’m telling you. It’s about the Night Angel.”
“Right. Night Angel. Let me just put that into the computer. Put an APB right out for you, buddy. And what, pray tell, is a Night Angel, exactly?”
Gil’s voice went as soft as his resolve. “It’s . . . it’s a kind of vampire, I think.”
He could see the man laughing, watch his gelatinous belly quiver with each howling convulsion, but he couldn’t hear it. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears, screaming at him that he’d once again been a fool for thinking that anyone was going believe a word he said. He balled both fists and pounded the desktop. “Listen to me, damn you!”
“No, you listen, Gramps. We got plenty of our own problems here without you coming in and telling us we got a vampire running around New Harbor.”
Just then, a detective in a hundred-dollar suit rolled past the desk. His hair was limp as yarn, and he wore smoked bifocals. “What’s this, now? Vampires?” he asked, stroking his graying mustache. “Guess we better take a statement now.”
“What the fuck for?”
“My youngest daughter goes crazy for that vampire shit,” the detective said, shuffling his scuffed penny loafers. “Read all the books like ten times. Got more posters of them homos than she’s got walls to tack ’em up on. Caught her trying
to talk my wife into putting them up in the kitchen. Can you believe it?” They both chuckled.
Gil shook his head. If the Night Angel came for that guy’s daughter, there’d be a lot less laughing on his part and a lot more sticking his service revolver in his mouth and dining on lead.
“Come on,” the sergeant said. “Let the poor bastard go. He’s got a hot date with a bottle of floor polish.”
“You kidding? I go home, tell my kid I’m investigating a vampire case, she might just put her iPhone down for half a minute and actually talk to the old man. ’Sides.” He leaned in close over the battered desk. “Coming up on pension. Gotta milk that clock where I can.” Gil felt the detective’s hand clap his shoulder. “Now, let’s go take that statement.”
He sat Gil in a worn rolling chair next to his desk. “This isn’t some joke, you know.”
“No. Not at all.” The detective barely looked up from his computer terminal as he clacked away. “It’s our duty to take every report seriously. And vampires . . . that’s serious stuff.”
Gil scratched behind one cauliflower ear. He noticed a flier tacked to the wall behind the detective. It had pictures of two uniformed officers, under which read: Attention. Wanted for questioning. If you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of these officers, contact Internal Affairs immediately. Gil gestured to the flier. “Couple of pigs slip out the pen?”
“Don’t you worry about that. IA’s on it. We keep our own house clean around here, bud.” The detective flashed him a smug smile. “And I’m going to let that ‘pig’ comment slide. Now, tell me what you got on these vampires.”
Gil clamped his jaw shut. “Night Angel.”
“Whatever.” He kept clacking. “My daughter’s gonna eat this up.”
Better that than the other way around, Gil supposed. What difference did it make why this clown wanted to help him spread the word, just so long as he did it? The Big Man sometimes used broken tools for his work. Gil was living proof of that.
As the Worm Turns Page 17
