Suddenly the lamp on Terry's desk went off.
He leaned over and tried to turn it back on.
It wouldn't go on.
The light must have burned out.
He sat alone in the dark, listening to his heart.
And he thought of Lauren trying to blow out the jack-o'-lantern. The vampire trying to extinguish the fire and being unable to. He thought of the vampire kissing him later that night, loving him, with her fangs sitting on the nightstand beside them, just waiting for the day she would put them back in her mouth, and bite him.
All these things, he thought in the dark.
The phone on his desk began to ring.
He went to pick it up. Then he hesitated.
'Do you want me to tell her that you called?' ¦ Just the thought of the vampire.
It was enough to bring the madness.
The barrage of images came out of the ceiling and down through the crown of his skull. They soaked his brain with purple vapors. They came without warning. They overwhelmed. They were as bad as before. They were as good. What was wrong with him? Didn't he know a good thing when it crawled up his leg and chewed on his dick? So there was a little pinch, a little pain. In the end it would all be sweet. The blood would flow down his leg. It would drip on the floor, and the serpents could lick it up. Pick up the phone and let me lick you. It's Halloween, Terry.
He reached for the phone. Sure, he tried not to. He resisted with every cell in his body. But not too hard. You see, he wanted to talk to her. He wanted her treats, even her tricks, in the worst way.
He picked up the phone and pressed it close to his ear.
'Hello?' he said.
No one spoke. She didn't have to. He knew she was there, and she knew everything else. Still, it might just be the phone company calling to say hello.
'Hello?' he repeated.
Hints of breathing. Thick heavy hints. That were more gusts of stinking wind in his face than obscene pants.
'Lauren?' he said. 'Is that you?'
Then it started, a deep husky laugh. It climbed swiftly in volume until it roared in his head, and all he could think of was a roaring red river, pouring out from the bowels of the Earth, and into the black of deep space, a river of blood draining the last life out of every living creature on Earth. It
was not good as he had been promised. It was really very bad.
But it made a believer out of him.
'Chaneen!' Terry cried.
The laughter ceased, the spell broke. Terry slammed down the phone and ran for the door. Behind him, almost immediately, the phone began to ring again. Terry kept running. He ran until he reached the street. Only then did he let out a loud scream of horror.
THIRTY-NINE
When Terry was a kid it had not been unusual for him to sit in the library until nine o'clock at night with a book in hands. Nine o'clock was when the lights would begin to flicker overhead, indicating it was time to go home. Even as a kid he had known the only thing he wanted to do with his life was write stories to be put on the shelf with all the other stories. He had thought that would be the most wonderful of all things. The library had always seemed to him a holy place.
The lights were flickering as Terry finished scanning the occult section of Houston's largest community library. He had already selected a pile of books; he could have easily selected another dozen. Esoteric literature was in vogue; the occult section took up two aisles. Carrying his books, Terry walked to the front desk.
A plump teenager with a terrible case of acne regarded his selection with a look of contempt: The Search for Dracula, The Golden Bough, History of Vampires, German Folk Tales, The Succubus, Monster of Dusseldorf, Werewolf, A Case History of Possession, Astrology and the Red Planet.
'How can you read stuff like this?' she asked, taking his library card. 'Doesn't it give you nightmares?'
'Sometimes,' Terry said.
'My minister said books like these should be destroyed.' She began to stamp the return dates on the inside sleeves.
'Really?'
'Are you born again?' the girl asked.
'Huh?' Terry glanced toward the exit. Almost everyone had already left. He didn't want to walk to his car alone.
'Are you a Christian?' the girl asked. 'A Christian shouldn't be reading books like these.'
'I'm a Catholic'
'You study this.' The girl slipped a pamphlet inside his copy of The Succubus. 'A Catholic can become a Christian.'
Terry removed the pamphlet and tore it several times over. He gave the pieces back to the girl. 'You caught me at a bad time,' he said, gathering his books.
Outside, before getting in his car, Terry checked the back seat twice, the trunk once. There was an all-night coffee shop two blocks from the library, a place where he could study his books and be around people.
Once at the coffee shop, he took a table in a corner, far from the windows. The place was old but clean. He ordered coffee and a danish. The food and drink came and he finished them off without realizing it. In the background, truck drivers talked with the waitresses about the lack of morality in day care centers. Every now and then his tall red-headed waitress swung by and refilled his cup. He read for three solid hours, skimming mainly, not taking notes. At the end of the three hours he sat back and stretched. He decided he was wasting his time. Well, he hadn't expected the key to Martian possession to rest on the shelf of a Houston library.
On the other hand, he had uncovered a few interesting points. In almost every culture throughout history there had been legends of vampires. They were usually described the same way. It was as if mankind had a genetic nightmare about a monster that came out at night and drank human blood, a thing that also had the ability to transform its victims into beings like itself, if it so desired.
He had also been surprised to discover that vampires generally disliked - beside the usual garlic and crucifixes -white roses and running water. The latter was interesting insofar as Chaneen had said that running water would bind the Asurians.
Terry had gone for the books because he remembered Jennifer had been studying Dracula before Lauren had taken it from her. Yet he suspected Jennifer's study had been of a superficial nature. Fire was only occasionally mentioned in the books as a weapon that could be used against vampires. But what did the authors know anyway? They might have tracked down isolated supernatural happenings all over the world, but they had never been to Mars and back. Lauren wasn't a vampire; he had already decided that much. Most legends were simply distorted by-products of historical facts. If Jennifer's story was an accurate account of ancient events, then he already knew what had been distorted. According to Jennifer, all he needed was a flame thrower and he would be all set to meet with Lauren and Gary.
Yet Terry had to admit part of his cynicism with the books was that they gave him no hope. They all said a vampire could be destroyed, but not saved. As far as they were concerned, vampires were dead. And even Chaneen had not been able to bring back the dead.
You're thinking of Chaneen as if she once was a real person. You do believe in her.
That was not exactly true. He was remembering the long walks he had taken with Jennifer during the months before Lauren had awoken in orbit above Mars. Yet the two thoughts, of the powerful Queen and the frail Princess, blurred together in his mind, and became difficult to tell apart. It made him wonder all the more. But not whether old age had brought on Major Thompson's heart attack, instead of a sudden loss of blood. Lauren's last phone call had convinced him once and for all that he wasn't going to stumble upon a reasonable explanation for her behavior.
Terry suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to call Herbert Fry. He still had Herb's number in his pocket. Terry went to the coffee shop phone and dialed the motel where Herb was staying. A gruff-voiced woman put him through to Herb's room. But the phone just rang and rang. Terry immediately began to worry. He couldn't imagine Herb out late, wandering the dark streets. Herb had specifically told him that he di
dn't know anybody in Houston. Terry, hung up, dialed the motel again. The motel phone had no video. The woman at the desk answered. She sounded annoyed when she heard it was him again.
'I just put you through to his room,' she said.
'But no one answered.'
'So what?' the woman asked. 'Maybe he just stepped out.'
'Would you know if he had?'
'Listen, bud, I just hand out the keys and take the money. What people do is their own business. I've got enough problems of my own.'
'This guy's a friend of mine. He hasn't been feeling well. I doubt he would be out this late. Could you please just check his room and see that he's OK? He's in number 204.'
'If you're so worried about your friend, you check on him. I don't make house calls.'
'Give me your address,' Terry said.
Terry arrived at Herb's motel thirty minutes later. It was in an old part of town, where faded paint peeled off dusty buildings. Room 204 was on the second floor, at the far end · of a narrow corridor that overlooked an empty swimming pool. Herb had worked on the space station at high union wages, but either he saved every penny, or else he sent them all to his mother. Terry climbed the steps reluctantly. A grandson of his old ulcer began to burn into the other side of his guts. The books in the coffee shop had been interesting to read and all that. But what if these creatures really were able to cross vast distances in the blink of an eye? He might be walking to his death.
The lights in room 204 were on. Terry knocked softly on the door. There was no answer. He knocked harder. No one responded. He tried the doorknob. It was locked.
'Herb?' he called. 'It's Terry. Let me in.'
Still, no answer. Terry thought of Lisa Jackson. He ran to the manager's office.
The woman at the desk was as rough as her voice. Her face had as many lines on it as the leather of her raunchy cowboy boots. The fat ashtray beside her left elbow was glutted with cigarette butts. Terry thought he could see tobacco stains in her hard gray eyes. Terry identified himself as Herb's friend and asked for a key to room 204.
'Against the rules, my friend.' She blew a cloud of smoke in the air. He'd always hated cigarette smoke. It was no wonder he had to get drunk when he went to bars. 'You want a key, you've got to pay for it.'
He pulled out his wallet. 'How much? Room 204. One night.'
She sat back in surprise and then shrugged. Then she put out her cigarette and grabbed a large brass circle loaded with keys. She spoke wearily. 'You can have a look at your
gay lover if it means that much to you. Come on.'
'Thanks.'
He followed her to Herb's door. There he stuck out his hand for the keys and suggested that it would be better if he went first. The remark must have confirmed in the woman's own mind that he was gay. She snickered as she handed over the brass circle. Terry inserted the key and opened the door.
Herb was alone in the room. He lay asleep on the bed beneath the blankets, his eyes closed. Every light in the room was on. Terry crossed to his side and shook him gently. Herb did not wake up. A plastic bottle containing red capsules stood on the bedstand near Herb's head. There was also a nearly empty water glass. For a moment Terry thought Herb had caught a cold and was taking antibiotics. Lauren had once prescribed similar-looking pills for Terry when he had been ill. He picked up the bottle and studied the label. Unfortunately, the pills were not penicillin, but phenobarbital. Herb was not sleeping. Half the bottle was gone. Terry touched Herb's neck. Herb was dead.
I should have called. I promised him I would.
'Is he a stiff?' the motel manager asked at his back.
'What?' Terry whispered.
'Did your friend go and kill himself? Horseshit, yes, he did. With those pills there. Man, this is the third one this year. These faggots and their drugs. Got to call the police now. You'll have to fill out the papers. Don't go thinking I will. I've got enough problems of my own.'
'I'll fill out the papers,' Terry said taking hold of Herb's cold hands. 'But I'd appreciate it if you called the police. I'd like to be alone with him for a few minutes.'
The woman paused at the door. 'Do you know why he did it?'
Terry swallowed thickly. 'He was afraid of the dark.' While waiting for the police to arrive, Terry found an open Bible resting under the blankets across Herb's chest. It was turned to Psalms. Terry read several of them aloud to ¦Herb. He was still reading when an officer tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he would mind coming down to the station to answer a few questions. Terry said fine. At the station he filled out papers that asked for his name, address, and phone number. He also had to explain his relationship to the deceased. He told them he had met Herb for the first time that afternoon, interviewing him for a possible article on the return of Project Nova. Terry explained that Herb had appeared upset over the recent suicide of Lisa Jackson, who had been a friend of Herb's aboard Space Station One. The sergeant in charge nodded sympathetically. He appeared satisfied there had been no foul play, but he asked Terry if he would mind hanging around until they got the results back from the autopsy. A coroner was presently on duty in the lab. The sergeant thought it would only be a couple of hours. Terry said all right. At least at the police station he was around other people, and they carried guns.
Terry ended up being the one to contact Herb's parents. The sergeant traced them through NASA. Terry woke up the mother and father in Chicago at four in the morning. You must be mistaken, they said, our boy would never kill himself. They thought it was a crank call, but then the sergeant took the phone from Terry's hand and confirmed the bad news, only to shove the phone back on Terry a moment later. The mother began to cry. Terry was sorely tempted to tell her that her son was simply another victim of an ancient curse. But he said nothing. He had to save the world. He couldn't have the sergeant locking him up for a few days.
The results of the autopsy took six hours to come back. It was nine o'clock before Terry left the police station. The coroner's report stated that twenty-nine-year-old Herbert Fry had died from a self-induced overdose of phenobarbital. Great, Terry thought, feeling cranky by then. He could have told them that. Six hours wasted sitting on a wooden bench while the plague of aliens swept across the globe.
In the light of the bright new day, Terry drove to a park where he used to go with Jennifer and Lauren. It was a huge park - half a mile across - and had a duck-filled lake in the center. He bought a tall glass of lemonade at a concession stand and found a bench. He took off his shoes and massaged his feet in the grass and watched as young mothers appeared with blankets and babies and talked about what a fine day it was going to be. He, too, was happy for the sun.
He was thinking.
Kratine said that the reawakening of his curse was inevitable, and Chaneen had not argued the point with him. She in fact admitted to its power, yet she promised her children she would return to stop it. Regrettably, she did not say anything about the length of her return visit, and Jennifer was dead. But was it possible - given that the basis of his analysis was far from a reasonable possibility - that by sacrificing her life, Jennifer believed she could halt the spread of the possession that infected Lauren? In a sense Jennifer had simply copied Rankar. Then again, Rankar had not committed suicide. He had been murdered, and try as Terry might, even moving in the stratospheric circles that he presently was, he could not see how pouring gasoline on oneself and striking a match could help anybody. Terry feared that in taking the form of a child, Chaneen had lost the bulk of her cosmic perspective and
magical powers. Certainly before the Nova departed, Jennifer had had no clear recollections of the Garden, only tormenting nightmares of Kratine.
There was another possibility. Jennifer had only killed herself after she had finished her story, and she had left her story out for him to find. Perhaps she felt she had fulfilled her purpose by describing in detail the nature of the beast that would come from Mars. Terry could only wish she had left behind a secret chant that could invoke the
Fire Messenger.
Then there was what he considered the most likely explanation of her actions. Jennifer had killed herself because at heart she had not changed from her Chaneen days. She was still incapable of hurting others, even an enemy, especially when the enemy came clothed in the body of her beloved sister. Terry could relate.
What came next? What did he think?
I'm probably going to have to kill them.
Terry checked his watch. It was close to ten, which meant it was near eight o'clock in California. Military people started work early. There would be someone at the phone at Edwards. Terry walked to the neat red brick rec center at the center of the park and closed himself in a phone booth, disengaging the video transmission. A minute later he had reached the officer he'd spoken to the previous day. The guy was in a better mood.
'I'm sorry, Mr Hayes,' he said. 'Didn't Dr Wagner call you? She and Major Wheeler left last night.'
'Last night?'
'Yes, sir. They snuck out under the cover of dark. I shouldn't have been so abrupt with you yesterday. Word had already leaked out that they were here. The base has been surrounded by reporters since yesterday.' The man chuckled. 'We stashed them in the back of a supply truck
and drove them right past the people at the gate. They were grinning from ear to ear. I've never seen two people so eager to be free. Frankly, I can't blame them.'
'Do you know where they went?' Terry asked.
The man must have verified with somebody - possibly Dean Ramsey himself - who Terry Hayes was. He spoke freely. 'Major Wheeler told me he was itching to look up a pair of old girlfriends in Los Angeles. I believe Dr Wagner was dropped off at the L. A. airport. She was anxious to get out in the country. She'd said she needed to see green grass and tall trees again.'
Terry was reminded of a remark Jennifer had made.
'When she comes back, she will have to come here - no matter what.'
The Season of Passage Page 44
