“Jesus,” murmured Gannon. “Oh, Jesus…”
She could see, through the monitor, that Moller was still standing a few paces ahead, frozen in place. But it lasted only a second. Moller spun around, dropping the camera, an expression of unadulterated horror on his face, his eyes literally protruding from his skull. He opened his mouth and a scream tore through the mephitic air; a hideous, gargling, wet scream as he tried to run, the muck tripping him up. He went down out of the camera’s field of vision, the great dark thing covering his back. Betts, ten feet behind Moller, whirled in an effort to get away—but he, too, lost his balance in the mud, falling forward while grunting like a terrified sow. Pavel also turned and ran, the Steadicam swinging wildly on its harness.
With a gasp of fear, Gannon stumbled backward, trying frantically to unbuckle the monitor from its harness, desperate to rid herself of the deadweight. Everyone around her was scrambling to get away, dumping their equipment, and turning to flee—as a great gust of dank, oily air issued from the mouth of the tunnel and a huge shape came beating out, rushing toward them, demon wings spreading like a cape, voices screaming in terror and agony.
60
WELLSTONE, HIDING BEHIND THE crypt at the entrance to the tomb’s lower level, was growing concerned. Moller and Betts, followed by a camera operator, had entered the tunnel, but because it seemed to both descend and make a turn, they were soon out of sight. There was no way he could get closer without revealing himself, so he had to be content with filming the crew that was left behind. That included the DP, who had refused to go in the tunnel—and no wonder, considering the foul mud that puddled its floor and the stench it emitted. But that was no impediment to Betts and Moller; they were like bloodhounds on a scent.
It looked like he wasn’t going to be able to record the final act of whatever it was Moller had planned. It clearly involved the phony camera, which Moller had been clutching as he went in. Wellstone already had enough footage to prove this was all a staged bit of hocus-pocus. But missing the chance to record the finale was annoying.
As he watched the three disappear around the curve of the tunnel, he paused, finger on the shutter release. Even if he wanted to document more, his second memory card was just about maxed out. As he crouched in his hiding place, he felt a mixture of emotions—excitement, disbelief, and fear. No: fear was too strong a word. He was growing uneasy. And no wonder. He couldn’t wait to get the hell out of this dark and desecrated vault. Maybe he already had enough footage. It wouldn’t be a disaster to get caught now, and possibly searched or even abused by that muscle-bound goon. Although, he had to admit, the guy was looking pretty sweaty and nervous at the moment. It was always the tough guys who cracked first.
He heard a muffled sound from the tunnel, like a wheezing bagpipe. He quickly readied his camera: maybe he’d get a chance for a decent shot after all. The noise was quickly followed by another, much louder—a scream and a powerful beating sound that shook the tomb. What was going on? But then his fear, which had spiked, settled as he understood: Moller’s show was beginning. He heard another scream. Now the DP at the mouth of the tunnel was backing up in fear. Suddenly, she turned and tore off her monitor and harness, while the rest of the crew scattered to a chorus of shouts and screams, running pell-mell for the steps.
What the hell?
At that moment a dark shape exploded out of the tunnel mouth with a great rush of foul air, so large that its leathery wings scraped the walls. It lit upon the scrambling muscleman, grabbing him and forcing him to the floor of the tomb with an unfolding of those monstrous wings.
Wellstone couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe; he felt exactly as if he were in a nightmare, his limbs paralyzed, his body frozen. The creature’s huge, rugose body was topped with a tiny head, which looked like a mosquito’s, with bulbous compound eyes. A tube covered in bristles protruded outward from the head, sliding in and out, its point stabbing spasmodically this way and that.
The creature held the muscleman in place with crablike, hairy pincers attached to bristly pads. The roving tube—spasming in and out—homed in on a spot on the man’s leg. Suddenly, it buried itself deep in the man’s upper thigh. As his awful screeching echoed through the tomb, there was a wet sucking sound, deep and rhythmic. The creature’s wings settled down over the body, covering it like a blanket, and the screaming abruptly ceased.
Seconds later—although time no longer mattered to Wellstone—the sucking noise stopped and the creature was up again, leaving the desiccated remains of the muscleman behind. With a burst of speed, it snatched another member of the crew, ripping her in two pieces as easily as twisting a loaf of bread, blood and viscera spewing out like a bursting tomato.
Wellstone’s vision grew obscured. After a moment, he realized it was his own hand, held out protectively before his face. Some atavistic impulse took over, his muscles relaxed, and he sank down behind the broken crypt, curling up like a fetus, trying to make no noise, motionless, his body on autopilot. He heard the screams, the heavy beating of those awful wings, the sounds of tearing meat, of alien suction; he smelled the humid, burning-rubber stench of rushing wind as it passed over him.
And then the beating faded; the sounds died away; there was silence. And absolute darkness.
Time passed.
Then Wellstone found that he was crawling on his hands and knees in the darkness, tears running from his eyes and snot from his nose. He encountered something wet and sticky and, with no guidance from himself, his body slipped around it. One hand found a worn stone step and, unbidden, his body pulled itself closer: up the step, then the next, then the next. A faint gleam of light now was visible above, and his body moved toward it.
Reaching the top, he saw a room and, past it, the open door of the mausoleum. The light he’d seen was beyond the ruined doors. He crawled toward the light, advancing one knee, then one hand, then one knee, moving slowly and without thought.
Finally he passed through the door. The light was on his right, shining brightly, and a machine to his left was pushing out a stream of fog. He could hear the thrum of a generator.
There was a woman here. Sitting cross-legged on the ground. A blond woman, splattered in blood, with her head buried in her hands. She looked up at him as he emerged from the tomb, her face a perfect blank. The blood on her face looked like ghastly red freckles.
She looked at him for a while, then she lowered her head into her hands again.
Now Wellstone’s body decided it could crawl no more. It was as if his agency had departed. He lay down next to the woman and curled up, once again in a fetal position, covering his head with his hands. Vaguely, he sensed that he was waiting, but for what, or whom, he could not say…any more than he could, or would, say anything else—ever again.
61
TERRY O’HERLIHY PUSHED DEUCE off his lap, got up from his living room couch, walked through the doorway into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. After a brief inspection, he took out a diet iced tea, unscrewed the lid, and walked back to the couch. With a sigh, he flopped down, his form fitting easily into the depression in the springs in front of the TV. A moment later, Deuce jumped back up. Deuce was a black Pomeranian, his wife’s pride and joy. It was his job to take Deuce for his nightly walk, and the way people snickered at his leading a toy lapdog by the leash made him feel like a prison punk.
He took a sip of iced tea, muttered a curse, then screwed the top back on. A humid breeze came through the open windows, stirring the embroidered lace curtains, and he held the bottle to his temple. The window air-conditioning unit had broken two days before, and his social security check wouldn’t be coming until next week. If the damn stuff wasn’t fit to drink, it could at least cool him off a little.
He glanced around the dimly lit room: at the shabby dining room table, the shabby hooked rug, the photos of family members in carefully dusted but yellowing frames. Forty-two years at the tool and die factory, five days a week, waiting to retire—and now he was retired
, all right. Good and retired.
His wandering gaze fell on the ashtray atop the coffee table. Molly had wiped it so clean that it almost sparkled in the dark room. She was a tidy woman, but this was something that had nothing to do with tidiness; she didn’t want ash, or butts, or anything in the room that would put his mind to smoking.
Same with the liquor. One at a time, she’d thrown out his bottles of rye, stuffing knickknacks in the places they’d been. The shelf in the kitchen that once held booze was now piled with dishes. She’d found the bottle he kept in the basement, too—made a big production out of disposing of that one. She was a stone bloodhound, that woman.
“Shit-fire,” he muttered, putting the iced tea down with a bang. Why couldn’t the woman stop dogging him? He’d spent his whole life working. What was wrong with a pack of smokes and a half-pint? Well, all right then, a pint? He felt fine; he didn’t care what the doctors at Memorial said. It wasn’t like he was stepping out on the battle-ax or something. A man deserved his little pleasures.
The fact was, he did have something stashed away for a rainy day—a carton of Kools and a couple bottles of Old Overholt Bonded—somewhere Molly would never find them. Just knowing they were there made him feel better.
He raised one cheek off the sofa and busted ass. Deuce pricked up his ears and looked at him reproachfully. “Come on, boy,” he said a little guiltily, rising from the couch again with a grunt and reaching for the dog’s leash. “Let’s get this over with.”
Stepping outside, he found the night air was cooler than the house, but only a little. He paused. The clouds were clearing from the night sky. The Avondale district of east Savannah was quiet, but in the distance he could make out lights and hear some kind of racket: that senator was in town again, making a nuisance of himself.
He gave the leash a yank and headed east on Louisiana Avenue. His route never varied: a few blocks down New Jersey, a block west on New York, and then a couple more back up Ohio Avenue and home. It was a short run: five minutes, as long as Deuce didn’t get too busy sniffing some other dog’s mess.
As he made the turn onto New Jersey Avenue, he saw the Deloach boys sitting on their front porch in the dark. A strong smell of weed drifted toward him, followed by some whispering, giggling, and then finally, a falsetto voice: “Nice hamster you got there, Mr. O’Herlihy.”
Peckerwoods. He ignored them and picked up his pace a little, forcing Deuce into a trot.
He should start taking a cigarette with him on these walks. That would make it enjoyable, at least. Take tonight, for instance: Molly would be down at New Jerusalem until at least ten, planning for the upcoming game night and silent auction. But no: she’d smell it on his breath when she came home.
He could see the intersection with New York Avenue ahead. Deuce stopped to investigate a big-ass turd, but Terry was in no mood and yanked him away. “No fun tonight, boy.” At this rate, he’d make it home in a hot minute.
The wind shifted, and suddenly he heard more noise. But this wasn’t coming from downtown: it seemed to be coming from the direction of the cemetery. And it wasn’t cheering and clapping: it sounded more like screams.
As he stared curiously in that direction, he saw a dark cloud rise up into the heavy sky. But clouds didn’t rise like that. And clouds didn’t have wings.
Deuce began squeaking and barking hysterically, jerking on the leash. But Terry didn’t notice. He was staring at the thing in the sky.
Skeletal wings beating slowly, it rose up, glowing a pale blue in the ghostly light of the moon. Even from this distance, he could see it had a body like a dry leather sack. As Terry watched, it hovered briefly, then—flap, flap—it glided over the Placentia Canal. It circled the industrial area hard by the cemetery, its hideous little head moving this way and that as if searching for something. And then, quite abruptly, it veered away and shot off like an arrow.
It was headed for downtown.
Terry watched until it vanished in the smoky late-spring night. Even when it was gone, he remained still for a moment. Then he shuffled around and made his way—slowly, stiff-legged—through people’s backyards and driveways in a beeline for his own house. The moment he opened the door, Deuce shot inside and burrowed under the couch. Still, Terry paid him no heed. He headed past the living room, down a hallway, and into the spare bedroom. In the back of the closet, he found the loose panel of veneer and reached into the space behind it. He felt around, grabbed the carton of cigarettes, and pulled it out. But he tossed it aside, reached in again, and found a bottle of Old Overholt. Ignoring the cigarettes, he made his way back to the living room couch, sat down, and—cracking open the bottle—began sipping slowly and meditatively as the distant sounds of the night began to change.
62
PENDERGAST HAD TAKEN THE notebook off the worktable and was consulting it. Now he held it in his left hand, open for reference, while with his right he gently grasped a lever that rested on two metal supports. Beside it was a large meter with a black dial.
“That doesn’t look like an on switch to me,” said Coldmoon.
“It’s called a knife switch. Primitive, and it will easily electrocute the careless user.” He consulted the notebook again. “It would be advisable if you both stepped back. I believe that whatever is going to manifest itself will do so in the space you’re currently occupying—where those two giant electrodes are pointing.” And he indicated the polished steel wands, each topped with a small copper globe.
Coldmoon hastily stepped back, followed by Constance.
“This”—Pendergast indicated a dial on the face of the machine, with two hand-drawn tick marks labeled I and II—“would seem to indicate a choice of power levels. We shall start with the lower of the two.”
“Are you sure about this?” Coldmoon asked.
“Not entirely.” Pendergast gingerly swung the knife switch over to the opposite bracket. There was a loud spark when it made contact, and then a low vibration began. Pendergast stepped back and joined them at the far wall, and together they watched the machine warm up. A computer monitor winked into life, and various data began scrolling up several windows.
Coldmoon felt his heart pounding. He didn’t think it was a good idea to just turn the damn machine on like that. But he had no alternate suggestion to make. And besides, there was no point—there never was—in arguing with Pendergast.
The vibration gradually intensified, until Coldmoon could almost feel it in his gut. The needle on the dial beside the switch began to quiver. A curious warmth seeped into the room, like the glow from an infrared lamp. And then, a flicker of light raced from one copper globe to the other. Another flicker danced from globe to globe. And then, a third arc of light appeared—but this time, it stopped midtransit, hovering at the intersection where the two steel rods pointed. He stared. The flicker began to slowly expand, and it looked to Coldmoon almost as if the very air between the copper globes had become visible: shiny, silvery, gossamer veils, rippling in a strengthening wind. And then the shimmering effect began to fade, and as it subsided, the air cleared and—in its place—a scene came into focus: a nocturnal image of a crowded city square, lit up and bustling with people and cars, and hemmed in on all sides by skyscrapers.
With a start Coldmoon recognized it. “Hey, isn’t that New York?”
“So it would appear,” Pendergast murmured.
It was as if a window to a distant place had opened before them. But its edges were vague and indistinct, composed of ever-shifting, rainbow-hued light. Coldmoon swallowed. The window—the portal—danced and flickered in the center of the room. It was impossible…and yet, there it was before him.
“That’s Times Square,” Constance said, “looking south toward the New York Times Building, and from a significant height.” She paused. “I would guess the vantage point is somewhere on West Forty-Sixth Street—probably the Marriott Marquis hotel.”
“I believe you’re right,” Pendergast said.
It was a dazzling
view of the brightly illuminated square, festooned with huge screens mounted on the surrounding buildings, all glowing with advertising and logos and news images. Near the bottom of the Times Tower ran the traditional news “zipper” and, below that, a stock ticker, with stock prices running continuously along a chyron. It was a lively evening, the square swarming with tourists and theatergoers. And sound—Coldmoon could faintly make out the sounds of Times Square filtering through the portal: horns honking, the murmur and shouts of the crowds, a police whistle, the calls of buskers and hawkers. And an equally faint scent wafted out, as well: the smell of the city, of auto exhaust and pavement and burnt pretzels and shish kebab on a warm May night.
Coldmoon stared. It was too realistic to be a television screen, no matter how high the resolution; it was—again, there was no better comparison—like looking through an open window. His eye drifted over the view in wonder, then focused once more on the Times building and its iconic stack of giant screens, including temperature, date, and time.
Date and time. “That’s Times Square right now,” he said, astonished.
After a short silence, Constance said, “No, it isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“That isn’t Times Square—at least our Times Square. And it’s not now, either.”
“The hell it’s not. The date and time are posted right up on those screens. See? Nine eleven PM.”
Constance slipped out a cell phone and showed its screen to Coldmoon. “It’s nine ten. The Times Square we’re looking at is one minute in the future.”
Coldmoon stared back and forth from her phone to the image. The time on the large screen within the portal changed to 9:12. As it did, Constance’s cell phone changed to 9:11.
“This is the secret to Ellerby’s trading,” Pendergast said. “And Frost’s before that. As you can see, the stock ticker is streaming the price of various stocks—one minute in the future. And only the stocks of major companies are displayed, which explains why Ellerby restricted his trading to Dow Jones Industrials.”
Bloodless Page 27
