by Brian Hodge
At that instant the buffalo returned, and when the first horn pierced Steven Adler through, he learned that a god, even a dying god, can still thirst for vengeance.
In the spring the thing that had taken over Steven Adler left the cave. By summer it had moved into Arizona, feeding and killing as it went. There it found a group of Army deserters.
A week later every man, woman, and child in Crowder Flats, except one, was killed. The one survivor, a Navajo boy who would become Amos Black Eagle's grandfather, said the killers were dressed in blue.
Chapter 19
Jake's Place, 3:00 A.M.
The sign was off, the parking lot deserted.
Except for an old Jeep Cherokee.
Oil spots decorated the gravel. In the moonlight, they looked like fresh blood.
John Warrick sat alone at the long bar in the dark, sipping a Lone Star, waiting, trying to hold on to his anger. Anything to keep from running. The trouble was, he hadn't been able to hang on to anything—not love, not hate, not anger. Not even his life. It had all slipped away somehow. One night at a time. He was tired way down deep in his soul and he wasn't sure of what he would do tonight.
He didn't know if he would even survive the night.
The beer was clammy in his hands and, when he took a sip, it tasted bitter. Like fear.
That was the only emotion he could hang on to.
The odors of spilled booze, too many unfiltered cigarettes, and cheap perfume clung to the room, bringing back memories of all the nights he had spent here when he was young. Elvis, the Stones, Ray Charles on the jukebox, on the radio, loud laughter, girls trying to be women, boys trying to be men. Nobody knowing how. They had fumbled toward adulthood in the dusty seats of old pickup trucks out there in the dark, sure that once they were grown, they would have the answers.
Instead, all they had were more questions.
He and Thomas Black Eagle and Martin Strickland had hung out in Jake's back room, playing pool every chance they got, each boasting to anyone who would listen that he was the best.
But never putting it to the test. Afraid that if they did, they might not be friends anymore.
Friendship was more important to them back then.
They believed in it.
In those days, they were young and their dreams lay spread out in front of them like the shimmering highways that led out of Crowder Flats.
The years had chipped away at their dreams, wearing them down to the bare bone, until finally there was nothing left to believe in. Thomas Black Eagle had been the lucky one, he had died young. Before he had seen all his dreams die, before he had become one of the walking dead.
Now there really was nothing left. Martin and Thomas were dead. Leon, too.
That didn't seem fair, because John knew he was the one to blame for what had happened.
He should be the one who was dead.
John had Steven Adler's cue stick lying in front of him on the bar, and he tried not to look at it, but his eyes were drawn time and again to its seductive yellow length. He felt dirty whenever he looked at the cue. Like he had been violated. Like something had been stolen from him. Moonlight, the color of old dimes, spilled through the window, caught the emerald eyes of the serpent and turned them into fire. The red feathered serpent lay coiled around the handle, watching his every move, as though waiting for a chance to strike. He resisted the urge to move his hands away.
John was scared of the cue that had almost killed him twice. He was more scared of the man who owned it. His stomach bore the marks of what he had gone through at Amos's, two jagged wounds where he had been gored in his dream.
The wounds had been seeping blood earlier, but Louise had put bandages on them.
In the quiet John relived his peyote vision, and again saw the herd of buffalo, heard the distant thunder of their hooves as they made their endless trek across the plains. He felt the fear, the revulsion of Matt Thomas as he was invaded and taken over in the lonely cave, the pain of Steven Adler, who had tried to end his friend's pain. John felt the searing agony of the buffalo horns tearing into his stomach, but more than anything else, he felt the horror of Steven Adler, who had once been human, and was no longer. At the end of the vision, John had heard Steven's voice crying out and knew there was still a man in there who begged for release. A man who couldn't even kill himself to be free.
What could it be like to live with something alien inside of you for 120 years, making you torture and kill?
Never being able to escape?
The lean pool hustler again looked out the window, anxious for this meeting to be over. He was here to make the trade, one cue stick for one five-year-old, and then he was out of here for good. Headed someplace far away. Maybe he could convince Louise to come with him. Crowder Flats held nothing but sadness for the both of them. Maybe it wasn't too late to start again. He'd give anything for a fresh start.
He looked out the window again, saw shadows on the moon.
The waiting was eating away at his nerves, filling him with doubt. His hand touched the gleaming wood beneath his beer bottle, sought out the slight darkness there, the darkness that was Thomas Black Eagle's blood.
This was the first time John had been in the bar since the night Thomas had been killed. He wished Steven Adler had chosen another place to meet. Any other place. Sitting here in the dark, surrounded by the tired ghosts of his life, made him think, and that wasn't something he liked to do. Thinking made him feel old and used up. The past followed him around like an insistent panhandler, one who was never satisfied no matter how much money was laid in his greasy palm.
There was movement in the back parking lot, lights flashing across the window, the sound of tires crunching on gravel, and John was almost grateful that the meet was under way. At least he would be doing something, instead of waiting. Anything beat that. He moved over to the window and watched as Leon's old red Caddy pulled in. The sight filled John with anger.
And fear.
The car sat there idling, then went silent. After a bit, the driver's door swung open and a blond man stepped out into the night. This time he wasn't wearing a sweat shirt and jeans and high-tops, this time he was dressed like an Old West gunfighter. Or at least the Hollywood version of one. Everything was black, from the flat-brimmed Stetson on his head, to the vest, to the duster that whipped in the wind, to the boots on his feet. He should have looked laughable in such a getup. But he didn't. He looked scary as hell.
John tried to see if anyone else was in the car. The Caddy looked empty. Where was the blond man's partner? Where was Timmy Cates?
This was supposed to be a straight trade. John felt panic, forced himself to be calm.
Even though there were five windows facing the back parking lot and the bar was dark, the blond man's gaze found the window John watched from. He smiled an easy smile and winked, as though the two of them were sharing a private joke.
John backed away from the window.
This was the man who had stuffed Leon Wilson in a freezer before Leon was even dead.
Man was the wrong word, but John couldn't force himself to think of Steven Adler in any other terms. If he did, he might not be able to go through with this.
According to what Elliot Cates had said, the thing inside Bobby Roberts was at least five hundred years old, maybe more, and it was afraid of this man who stood so easily in the parking lot.
What could cause such fear?
John watched Steven Adler approach the bar. The blond man moved casually, unhurriedly, and yet his head was raised and his eyes seemed aware of everything around him. His shoulder-length hair flowed out behind him, a golden mane rippling in the wind, as he moved across the parking lot. There was something animal-like about the way he walked, and John felt as if he were watching a sleek jungle cat closing in on its prey.
In this case, John knew he was the prey. Sweat trickled down his back as he waited.
The door to the bar opened and Steven Adler was inside. He wa
s just there. It was like some kind of magic trick. His eyes probed the shadows while he sniffed the air, and John was again reminded of a huge cat testing the wind for enemies. He turned to John, seemingly satisfied that they were alone.
Steven reached behind the bar, grabbed a cold beer, took a sip. "Well, Mr. John Warrick, you've led me a merry chase."
His eyes settled on the cue stick, but he made no move toward it. "I don't think we've been formally introduced. My name is Steven Adler and I think you have something that belongs to me."
John had the absurd feeling the man was going to offer to shake hands. He didn't.
They studied each other, one fair and young, the other dark and middle-aged.
"Where's the boy?" John asked.
"He'll be along in a minute. If you've held up your end of the bargain." Steven hefted the cue stick, undid the handle and checked the contents. He seemed satisfied. "You're staring. Don't you like my clothes? I'm trying to fit into the spirit of your Frontier Days."
John tried hard to keep his face neutral, but Steven saw something there. The blond man held John's gaze. "I've become pretty good at reading people's expressions. Had a lot of practice over the years." The easy grin faltered. "You know something, John, what is it?"
"I don't know anything. I don't want to know anything. Just give me Timmy Cates, take your cue stick, and we'll call it a night."
"You're not much of a liar, John. You saw the note in Leon's basement, so you know I killed him. You know I killed Martin, too. That's why you're here. No, it's not just hate or my clothes, it's something else. When I walked through the door, you looked at me like I wasn't… human." Without warning, he reached out and grabbed hold of John's hand.
John tried to resist.
His effort was useless. Steven Adler held him easily.
There was a burning sensation, and when John snatched his hand away, he saw his skin had been broken where Steven had scratched him with a knife. It wasn't much of a wound, just a tiny prick. Several drops of blood had welled up.
Raising a finger that held a drop of John's blood, Steven licked it clean. Something shifted behind his eyes. They became incredibly ancient, incredibly cruel. "I'll be damned, you're psychic, and you think you know what I am." He paused as though searching for a missing piece of information. "It's hard to read past the peyote, but I think you've told others."
"How could I tell anyone what you are? Who would believe? No one has ever even heard of anything like you." John resisted the urge to go for the .32 in his boot. "I don't know what you are."
"What am I?" Steven considered the question. "You're the first human to ask me that in a long while. By the time most people learn what I am, they're past caring." Steven took another sip of beer. "As I told Leon Wilson, vampire is as close as you can get to what I am, and even that's not quite right."
"You don't know what you are?"
"I guess you could call me a parasite—the ultimate parasite. I live other people's lives. Been doing it for quite a while now."
"Elliot said whatever was in Bobby Roberts has been around more than five hundred years. How many of you are there, how old are you?"
"You ask a lot of questions. There's only one of me, and as for how old I am, I don't really know." Steven reached out and touched the cue stick, his fingers tracing the snake. "Time has little meaning for me. I've lived more lives than I can count, but not all of them have been human, so things get a little murky when I think about time." He sat down on the barstool as if he and John were old buddies sharing a beer. "Sometimes, in the late hours of the night when I'm all alone, I dream about giant lizards that walk upright like men." Steven brightened suddenly. "Hey, John, you want to see a trick, a really good trick?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Come on, don't be a party pooper. You'll like this, it's an impression. See if you can guess what I am?" Steven's face began stretching out, the jaw lengthening, almost beyond human proportion, as his lips peeled back from bared teeth. Strings of saliva spilled from the corner of his mouth, ran down, splattered on the bar. He tensed and a savage, guttural snarl erupted from his throat as he sprang at John.
John scrambled back, almost fell off his stool as he felt hot breath against his neck, but the leap fell short and Steven Adler's face became human again.
Steven was laughing. "Good trick. Scared the shit out of you, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did. What the hell was that?"
"A wolf."
John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You become other people… and animals… how can you do that?"
"I've gotta tell you, John, it feels strange to put this into words, but here goes. I find a host and I drive out their blood, and move on in. Then I absorb their memories. It's like renting a furnished apartment." He nudged John with an elbow. "And I don't even have to sign a six-month lease."
John saw the bodies they had found in the creek bed near the Navajo graveyard. "Don't you feel," he groped for the words, "guilt at the deaths you cause?"
"Is this a confessional? Are you a priest?" Steven picked up the cue stick, stroked it gently. "You eat steak. Do you feel guilt that a cow has to die?"
"No," John faltered, "it's just that I feel like I know a little about you, or at least the man you've taken over. I just want to—"
"Understand. There's nothing wrong with wanting to understand, I suppose. A little confession might be good for my soul." He smiled. "Supposing I have a soul." Steven raised his hand, fended off John's next question. "Before I say any more, I want something from you."
"What?"
"A game of pool."
"After all the people you've killed, that's all you want?"
"For the moment." Steven walked over to the pool tables, confident that John would follow. He began racking the balls. "I'm always in search of a good game. Any kind of game. I get bored."
"I don't want to play against you. Give me Timmy Cates and you'll never see me again. I swear it."
Steven rolled a ball down the table, watched its course. "You have no choice, John; you have to play against me."
"What if I don't?"
For an answer, Steven lazily ran the tip of the knife down John's arm before John could move back. The familiar burning sensation came and more blood appeared. Steven dipped his finger in the red line and began writing letters on the balls. He did it fifteen times, once for each ball in the rack before he let go of John. "L is for Louise, A is for Amy, M is for the mayor, B is for Boyce. I'm sure a smart guy like you is getting the picture."
"It spells lamb, you son of a bitch."
The vampire leaned close, and John used a lot of willpower not to back away. "As in washed in the blood of the lamb." Steven wasn't upset; his tone remained conversational, friendly. "Here's the deal, Johnny boy. You don't play my game, I'm going to break this rack of balls and whoever doesn't fall in, I'm going to kill—after I've had my way with them." Steven leaned over, blew on the balls to dry the blood on them. His back was turned to John. "Do you want to play now?"
John pulled the .32 out of his boot, aimed it at Steven's back.
"Don't forget I've already got Timmy," Steven said, without turning around. "So you might as well hand that over." He looked over his shoulder and grinned in John's face, showing too many long teeth. "Besides, it wouldn't be very sporting to shoot me in the back."
John fought the urge to squeeze the trigger, but uncertainty about Timmy made him hesitate.
Steven moved around the table and his eyes were shiny, slightly yellow in the light. He took the gun from John. "Look at it this way; you've got a chance to save a lot of lives. If you win, I take a hike and nobody dies. If you lose, then that graveyard on the mesa will get the blood of some new lambs. How many lambs depends on you."
"What do I have to do?"
"That's more like it. I've come up with a little something for the occasion. We'll just call it a game of nerves." Steven pulled the balls out of the rack and placed them flush against
the back bumper of the table. The first one in line had a red L smeared across it. The vampire placed the cue ball at the far end.
Then he did the same thing at another table.
An inkling of what was about to happen hit John.
"I can see you've done this before." Steven began chalking his stick.
"Yeah, once or twice. We take turns shooting at the balls against the back bumper, you at your table, me at mine."
"You got it. We bank the balls into the corner pocket at the shooter's end of the table. We keep doing it until one of us misses. It's mostly a game of nerves. The first one to blink loses."
John plucked a cue stick from the wall.
"Oh, one other thing before we start." Steven drained the last of his beer. "If you miss any of the balls—even one—then the game is over and that person is mine. Unless"—he produced a knife from the waistband of his belt and stuck it in the wood of the pool table—"you want to buy that person's life back."
"What's the price?" John eyed the knife.
"Nothing much, just a finger."
"What happens if you miss?"
"The game's over. You walk away with Timmy, and everyone in Crowder Flats lives happily ever after."
"Not everyone. There's six dead. Why are you doing this, isn't there any Steven Adler left in you?"
"A little." Steven's eyes looked into some dark place only he could see. "And that's the reason I've stayed with him for so long. He helps to curb some of my… nastier impulses."
"Like what you did to Bobby Roberts, Martin Strickland, and his family. Billy Two Hats?"
"That's right. The need for new sensation consumes me from time to time, and that means people have to die." He shrugged apologetically. "It's a weakness I've been unable to overcome, but I try to be selective about who I take. I find the lonely, the people with broken lives, and I try to bring them peace. People such as yourself."
