“Hey, you wouldn’t be human, right?” DeFeo asked.
“You’re doing all right,” Brad commented. “Jeez, I was doing all right until the pathologist told me that . . . he wasn’t so sure the limbs had been sawed off. He said that they’d been chewed off.”
“I thought that’s what it looked like; you didn’t?” DeFeo asked.
Brad looked like he was going to be sick again.
“Sorry,” DeFeo said quickly.
“I’ve never seen anything like this at all,” Brad told him. “Bullet holes, decayed flesh, knifings. Nothing like this.”
An uneasy feeling settled into DeFeo’s gut.
“It’s hard for all of us,” he said. He turned to the lieutenant. “I know the city. Leave it to me,” DeFeo said. He started to walk away. He vaguely heard Anderson’s phone and wasn’t paying attention—hell, limbs chewed off?—until the lieutenant called him back.
“Hey! DeFeo!” he called.
DeFeo stopped, turning back.
“You got one wrong. There is no nurse at the hospital by the name of Adriana Morgan. She doesn’t exist, according to their records.”
THE NOISE WASN’T coming from inside the tomb—it was coming from outside.
As he listened, Austin could hear footsteps—light footsteps—on the gravel that surrounded the tomb. He listened hard. Cops. Cops had probably come to stake out the place.
He just had to remain really quiet.
Whoever it was crunched on the gravel again. The person was trying to be stealthy, as if certain someone else was in the cemetery.
And they were looking for that someone. Stalking them.
Austin caught his breath. Yes, another crunch. And another.
He tried to shrivel into himself. He couldn’t be seen; he was in the Montville tomb. DeFeo hadn’t locked him in, but it surely appeared that the gate was locked. Whoever it was would go away.
But they didn’t.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, soft, and yet there, and all around the tomb.
“Come out, come out, come out—wherever you are!” came a voice.
It was a quiet voice, a teasing voice.
A feminine and sensual voice.
Austin’s blood ran cold throughout his veins. He wanted to jump up and run, run as far as he could possibly run. Staying still was almost impossible.
His heart!
His heart was thumping so loudly that it seemed like a marching band was playing in his chest! Surely, the sound would be heard. And his breathing . . . oh, Lord! Every inhalation and exhalation seemed like the winds of the worst hurricane on record.
“Come out, come out, I know you want to play. . . .”
He didn’t want to play. He wanted to be Austin Cramer, computer geek, commanding animated figures on the screen.
“Austin!” The voice whispered his name.
She knew him. And, oh, God—he knew her. He knew the voice. It was Adriana Morgan who was out there, and it was as if she were sniffing him out, as if she had . . . radar! She knew where he was.
Crunch, crunch, crunch . . .
And then nothing.
But he could feel her. She was right outside the iron gate.
He rolled, as silently as he could. He had to get away. Where? He was in a tomb. He began flailing in the shadows, mindless; not even knowing what he was looking for. And then, as he kept inching back, he leaned a hand against the marble near the floor....
And it gave.
He pushed it, and rolled.
He came to rest on a patch of dirt. Good old dirt. There was no coffin in the tomb. If someone had been laid to rest where he lay, their remains had long since given way to the furnace-heat of summer, and they had been swept back to the holding area. No, where he lay, it was completely clear and clean, a bed of fresh, natural-smelling earth.
“Austin, come on, come out!”
He heard the rusty gates swing open. She was coming for him.
“Austin, come on baby, I know what you said about a night of abstinence, but I’m ready. I’m ready to do what I want to do in all the carnal ways! Carnal. Well, carnivorous, maybe, too. Come on, Austin, I’m ready to show you the time of your life!”
He lay still, stunned and in shock.
Adriana?
No! It was impossible. Impossible. Impossible . . .
Adriana killing people . . . killing people like Brian! A big old strong football-hero guy. How could little Adriana have gotten to a guy like Brian?
Couldn’t be, couldn’t be, couldn’t be . . .
“Austin, don’t make me angry! All right, I do like to play with my food, but . . . hmm. I’d thought about leaving you for another night, but the full moon doesn’t come around that often. I mean, really, it’s great with the police thinking that it has to be you! Oh, they would string you up faster than a man can swat a fly!” She laughed, the sound of her voice still so teasing and petulant—and sensual. “Wait! They don’t string men up anymore, do they? Well, they’ll give you the needle. Actually, hmm, think of all the fear while you wait for them to make all the fussy arrangements, strapping you in and all that. I really would love to wait around and see, but . . . I’m still hungry, Austin. I had a few snacks tonight, but I had to be careful—had to make it look like you. But that doesn’t matter anymore,’cause the playing just didn’t do it for me. I’m so, so hungry! So hungry for you!”
He didn’t even dare breathe. He lay there, frozen.
“Austin! Silly boy—I will find you. I can smell you, you know that. I’ll hear your little rabbit heart pretty soon . . . come on out. I can make it fun, and then . . . I can even make it easy. Catch that carotid while you’re still shaking with bliss. Don’t make me angry, Austin! I’m not fun when I’m angry. And I’m the most erotic thing you’ve ever experienced when I’m not.”
Fear streaked through him with an icy vengeance. He could hear her sniffing—just as if she were a dog. Sniffing and sniffing the air. He heard her move, and he could almost see her, imagine her bending down, and figuring out that the marble slab that covered the bottom tomb wasn’t really a marble slab at all; it was a swinging door....
It opened. The moonlight in the main tomb seemed brilliant after he had lain in the slab-covered dirt area for many minutes. He saw her. Saw her perfect face, saw her smile. Saw the blond hair, sweeping down around her shoulders.
“There you are, Austin!” she said.
Then she cast her head back, and she let out an ungodly sound. It was a howl, it was worse than a howl; it was like a dozen wolves crying out beneath the moonlight in pure victory....
Wolves!
She contorted. Her head snapped back; her arms bent forward at a bizarre angle. Hair—luscious golden hair—suddenly seemed to burst out all over her body, and she fell down to all fours. Her eyes narrowed and her nose grew, and she opened her mouth and it was filled with sharp white teeth that seemed to glitter and gleam in the moonlight.
She growled and lunged.
He felt her breath, hot and fetid, and he felt the dripping of saliva and he closed his eyes, screaming as he nearly felt the reach of those teeth, snapping for him with fanged vengeance....
“Get the hell off him!” he heard.
And, miraculously, she was wrenched away from the tomb. The marble slab waved wildly, and Austin rolled out and as far across the tomb as he could, ready to lunge to his feet at any opportunity.
DeFeo Montville was there; he was back. And he had wrenched the Adriana-thing away from him just a split second before she could sink her fangs into his flesh.
She was massive; a massive golden wolf. But DeFeo had her by the scruff of the neck, shaking her. She yelped and growled, desperately trying to wrangle free and sink her teeth into him. But his grip was incredible. So strong.
Then DeFeo cast his head back and opened his mouth.
Austin let off a silent gasp of astonishment as huge fangs sprouted in DeFeo’s mouth. He sank them into Adriana’s neck.
She wriggl
ed; she let out one last weak growl....
And she went silent, wolf’s head cast to the side.
He dropped her, shaking his head.
Then he stared at Austin. “Look, you’ve already got your occasional stray werewolf wandering into the city, the kooks who think they’re aliens . . . don’t ever, ever get involved in any ridiculous demonology business again, and I don’t give a damn if you ever get laid again in your life!”
AUSTIN STOOD BACK.
The beautiful temple-style tomb with its pillars and portico and weeping angel looked magnificent, if he did say so himself. A little fresh plaster, and a nice new paint job, and flowers surrounding the gate. He had done a great job—really!
It had taken all day, and now dusk was falling, but he was done. He whistled while he finished his work, picking up the paint cans and the brushes from the last of his ministrations to the tomb. He crawled out of his work overalls, set them with his supplies in his wheelbarrow, and then hurried out. The gate would lock soon and he no longer kept a key.
He deposited the wheelbarrow and its contents in the back of his ordinary white van.
Letters advertised his new life’s plan on the van. CRAMER HOME REPAIR.
He drove on to his new favorite hangout on Frenchmen Street. Walking in, he took a seat at the bar. Joe looked up at him, nodded, and poured him a beer.
“Is he on his way?” Joe asked.
“I haven’t seen him yet,” Austin said. “I imagine he’ll be here soon.”
“I’ll get his special drink ready,” Joe said. Joe kept DeFeo’s “special” drinks in a refrigerator in the back. His daughter really was a nurse at the hospital, and she managed to keep him supplied with just what he needed.
“Anyone singing tonight, Joe?” Austin asked.
“A great girl. She can really sing the blues. And you’ll love the guys playing with her. A jazz trio. It should be a fine night, filled with real local talent.”
As he finished speaking, DeFeo walked in. “Hey, Joe!” he called, taking a seat. Then he turned to Austin. His eyes were sparkling. “You need a reference for that new business of yours, I’m your man. My home has never looked better!” he said. He lifted his glass and clinked it to Austin’s.
“And there’s great music tonight,” Austin said, grinning. “Local talent.”
In a few minutes, the music started up. DeFeo stood to watch. Joe stood by the bar near Austin. “Yeah, a great night! I love New Orleans! What a great place to call home. Especially when the damned werewolf population has been taken care of again. The vampires, they’re just fine, once they settle in. But you just never know when a wolf will turn on you, huh, son?”
Austin nodded.
“Hey, I may need some home repair next week, got a leak in the old roof,” Joe said.
“I’m your man—unless, of course, DeFeo needs me for something at his place.”
They both looked at DeFeo, but he was just swaying with the music.
He loved jazz and the blues, and he loved New Orleans.
And he sure loved his home. And from now on out, Austin would take the best damned care he could of that home.
The Mansion of Imperatives
JAMES GRADY
That three-story Gothic mansion rose like a hulking mirage from the desolate snowy prairie east of Montana’s blue misted Rocky Mountains.
Five people came there that winter Friday.
Louise hoped rehabbing the old house with their friends Bob and Ali would spark a paternal instinct in her husband, Steve.
Steve hoped fixing up the deserted relic would get his wife off his case and let him hang out, that’s all, just hang out with Ali, Bob’s willowy wife.
Ali was there because doing what Bob wanted kept her comfortable.
Bob told himself that it was okay to keep secret how he was going to work their group investment because he was the guy who always turned a profit—and had the bankroll, the blond wife, and the do-gooder plaques to prove it.
Parker stood in the front yard outside the mansion that cold gray morning as Bob said, “What do you mean you’ve never set foot in here?”
“Wouldn’t go in fifty years ago,” said Parker. “Won’t go in now. Stood here then watching Mom yell at my old man ’bout how he come to architect for Mister Rich—who had some heart attack, left this hulk and his fortune to my old man. Dad wouldn’t quit here for us. Saw him push Mom off that front porch. Watched her disappear day by day, die waiting for him to come to his senses. After the UPS guy found him froze like a statue here last month, if I didn’t need your money, I’d let this damn place rot to dust.”
“We won’t work in your pickup or our rental car,” said Bob. “If a storm is coming down from Canada, the longer you argue about that, the harder it will be for you to drive the thirty-seven miles back to town.”
“You folks really plan on staying here all night?”
“For four nights,” said Bob. “Power’s on—drafty, but the furnace works. Got a portable heater, fuel. Sleeping bags, food. Four nights now in December gives us ten percent of our ownership as occupants during our first calendar year—the minimum requirement for the homesteading tax credit.”
Bob didn’t say, And with the hardware store receipts plus date-stamped pictures of us working, we prove renovation, increasing our equity.
He told Parker, “Either you come in or we’re all out.”
Parker clumped up the porch steps as if he were climbing a gallows. Louise handed him coffee from a thermos they’d filled at a Starbucks 110 miles away in Great Falls. The four friends had flown into Great Falls the day before, from Denver. She followed Parker and Bob into the dining room with its legacy of scarred furniture that included a document-covered table.
Steve laughed while Ali strapped a tool belt around his waist.
Louise caught the glow in her husband’s eyes.
Bob gets off on seeing that fire in other men.
Louise shook her head: Why did I just think that?
Montana recognizes legal verification other than notarization. A digital movie camera recorded the four friends processing sales documents with the mansion’s heir. Parker wanted to sign, sign, sign and skedaddle, but Bob insisted on explaining each document to forestall future lawyers.
Fifty-four minutes later, Parker yelled, “Done!”
The front door swung open. They all hurried to its gaping view.
Outside snowflakes parachuted down like an invading army.
“But there’s no wind yet,” said Steve. “What opened the door?”
“Old houses,” said Bob. “They’re always settling.”
Parker said, “I’m so outta here!”
Louise grabbed his arm. “You can’t drive in a whiteout!”
Her husband, Steve, pushed the door closed.
Damn my logic, thought Louise. She didn’t know why.
And again the door swung open.
“Whoa,” said Ali. “That’s weird.”
As with a great whoosh, wind rose in the storm.
Bob closed the door. “Parker, if you die out there, the sale gets stalled in your probate. That blizzard will swallow you. What could be worse?”
“I don’t wanna know.” From his shirt pocket Parker fetched a steel lighter and a hand-rolled cigarette. The herbal smoke he exhaled revealed marijuana.
Bob said, “You’re getting stoned? Now? Celebrate at home!”
“Ain’t celebration.” Parker took another hit. “Medication.”
The door rattled.
“Didn’t think the wind was blowing that hard,” said Steve.
“Not thinking’s the way to be here,” said Parker. “My old man didn’t hole up here because he was a drunk. He drank because he holed up here. Staying outside or being stoned makes it harder for the thinking to get you.”
“Look,” said Bob. “Thoughts, voices, whatever you hear—”
Ali asked, “Why did you say that?”
“—doesn’t matter,” co
ntinued Bob. “We gotta fix this place up fast. Seal ourselves in or this storm will turn us into icicles. The leaky windows in the upstairs bedrooms: no time to replace them, but we can cover them up.”
Louise heard her husband, Steve, say, “Ali and I’ll do it!”
“Good,” said Bob. “Louise, help me Sheetrock that basement insulating wall Parker’s dad didn’t finish.”
Breaking glass!
They ran into the dining room and found the popped-off-the-wall shelf that Ali and Steve had laughingly named “Look-out Ledge” when they stacked it with bottles of red wine, the smoky Scotch Lauren ached to give up for motherhood, and the vodka Bob favored because it never breathed the secret of its sip. Plus Diet Coke and tonic water and two six-packs of beer.
The plastic bottles of Diet Coke and tonic water had survived—one Diet Coke bottle rolled across the floor to greet the five of them running in.
The liquor bottles were a jumble of broken glass cupping tiny pools of red wine.
Parker said, “Looks like you guys just lost your medical protection.”
He stubbed out the joint on the lighter and put them in his shirt pocket.
“Leave this mess,” said Bob. “We gotta work. It’s getting colder.”
Bob led them to the living room and their stack of delivered hardware supplies, their luggage and sack lunches and read-on-the-plane newspapers.
He handed Parker a hammer. “We’re all trapped in a house that needs fixing. Rip out the molding, reframe that window to keep out the cold.”
Parker shrugged: “If you gotta, you gotta.”
Steve grabbed a roll of plastic weathersheeting, duct tape. He would have dashed up the two flights of stairs to the bedroom level except Ali floated up the steps with that long-legged languor Steve didn’t want to miss.
Louise blinked: No, that wall didn’t just pulse.
Bob led her to the basement while their spouses climbed to the third floor with its wide-open stairwell bordered by a railing-protected corridor. Steve looked down the huge open shaft. Felt the vertigo of its inviting depth.
Home Improvement: Undead Edition Page 15
