The Season Of Passage Part 50

'Who am I supposed to ask? Lorraine?'

'You might.'

'I can't even wake her up.' Kathy paused. 'You don't think she's a vampire, do you? Christ. Why did you tell me all this stuff? You've got to come here. You've got to rescue me.'

'I can't.

'You keep saying that. Why can't you?'

'I have to rescue Lauren first,' he said.

'No! If what you said is true, she'll kill you.'

Terry took a breath. 'I have to see her. I love her. It's funny in a way: after all I've seen and read, I can't imagine her hurting me.'

He was lying, naturally, but not entirely. He firmly believed Lauren was capable of killing him, or of turning him into a blood-sucker. But he also believed that, when he confronted her again, the unexpected would happen. Kratine's gate would open up and the planet Mars would swallow him. Or else a ray of Chaneen's light would s.h.i.+ne down from heaven and he would float into the stars. The feeling was so strong it could have been a premonition.

'Don't worry about me,' he continued. 'You have to take care of yourself. Listen to me. Get out of the house. Gary knows where you live. Go somewhere else. Go to a hotel. Buy some candles. They're afraid of fire. Light the candles and put them in the windows of your hotel room. Put a few by the door. Don't let anyone in after dark.'

'What about Lorraine? What if Gary comes back for her?'

He didn't want her taking Lorraine along; the witch might help Gary find Kathy. 'Gary's not interested in Lorraine. He was only interested in you before he went to Mars. Whatever's inside him, it still reacts to Gary's memories.'

She didn't believe him. 'What about my mother?'

He rested his tired head against the door of the phone booth. 'I don't know. I just want you to be safe. Promise me you'll leave.'

'Promise me you'll stay away from Lauren. You won't, I know it. I don't know what I'll do. I might go to the police.'

'Good luck,' Terry said.

Kathy considered. 'What was Jennifer like? I mean, you told me about her before, but could she really have been magical?'

That was one thing he did know. 'Yes. Jenny was magic. She was wonderful.'

The airport speakers announced his flight. He told Kathy he had to go. They agreed to talk the following day, if they could. Kathy told him she loved him before she hung up. He told her he loved her. He had to have someone left to love.

Disguising his voice and using the same phone - once again, with only the audio engaged - he called Herbert Fry's parents. Herb's mother answered.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'h.e.l.lo. Mrs Fry?'

She sniffled. 'Yes.'

'Mrs Fry, please listen to what I have to say. Do not hang up. For reasons I cannot explain right now, I can't identify myself. But I have something important to tell you about your son's death. Herb did not commit suicide. He was murdered. Someone forced him to swallow those pills. That is a fact. Do not believe the police, no matter what they tell you. They don't know what's going on. The person who murdered Herb is still at large. But this murderer is not to be blamed. She's sick. It's important that you understand that, so that you will not feel bitter toward her. It is my responsibility to find her. I will find her. I will see that she receives help. I'm sorry I can't elaborate. This is a matter of high national security.'

'My boy didn't kill himself?'

'No. Once again, I know that for a fact. He was murdered.'

'But who is this?'

'I was a friend of your son. Please don't ask me anything else. You can still be proud of your son, Mrs Fry. He was a brave man. He was a good person.'

Terry hung up before she could ask more. The speakers called his flight for the second time, but he still had a few minutes. He ran out to the parking lot and got his shotgun and case, and his bag of Catholic goodies. He had no trouble checking his gun, once they had punched his name into a computer and seen that he had no felonies on his record. Hurrying to the boarding gate, he saw white roses on sale in the airport shop. He remembered that Pastel had given Chaneen a bouquet of white roses. Vampires were supposed to be afraid of them. He swung into the shop and bought a dozen. The salesgirl wrapped the stems in moist paper towels, which she surrounded with snug-fitting plastic. She wanted them to stay fresh. She asked who they were for.

'My fianc6e,'he said.

The girl smiled. 'That's sweet.'

Terry boarded the jet with the flowers in his arms. The flight was half empty, and not long after lift-off he was able to stretch out on three empty seats. He was exhausted. He fell immediately into a deep dreamless sleep. He awoke only when the jet was preparing to land in Casper, Wyoming - just in time to see the sun sink below the horizon.

FORTY.

Seventeen-year-old Daniel Floyd knelt in the thick gra.s.s of the cemetery beside the tombstone bearing the inscription: Jennifer wagner, 1992-2005. He set down his tools on the ground. The sun had just set. The western sky was a dull orange, shot through with tunnels of violet. A full moon was rising in the east, touching the tops of the trees that lined the cemetery with a silver glow. There was enough light to work by.

Daniel a.s.sembled his tools: a steel file, a water-filled canteen stolen from the personal belongings of the late Professor James Ranoth, an ancient crossbow from Daniel's own collection of exotic weapons, and a single shaft of rock-hard cedar wood. He stared at the latter. There would only be time for one shot.

He remembered Jennifer's last instructions.

Daniel uncorked the canteen and wetted the wooden shaft with the water James Ranoth had brought from deep beneath the Himalayas. Jennifer had taken it from Ranoth's place while the Nova was still on its way to Mars. Using the file, he began to sharpen the tip. The wood was hard as steel; sweat sprung on his well-muscled chest as he worked. Three times he was forced to stop and rest. But each time he stopped it was darker, which made him want to work all the harder. When the first stars appeared overhead, he set aside the file and leaned closer to the tombstone. He began to sc.r.a.pe the shaft at sharp angles over the rough granite, until the tip turned to a fine point. Again he wet the wood with the water in the canteen. Then I he took the crossbow, pulled back the taut wire, and set the shaft in place.

The last traces of sunlight were gone, but the moon continued to rise, bathing the forest in a false romantic serenity. A warm breeze stirred the leaves. Daniel tested the tip of the shaft carefully. He had done his work well. His delicate pressure was enough to p.r.i.c.k his finger. A single dark drop of blood fell from his hand and was lost in the flowers and gra.s.s that covered the grave. The stake was sharp as a sword. Nothing could stand in its way and live.

But he thought of Dr Lauren Wagner.

Daniel gathered his tools and hurried from the cemetery.

FORTY-ONE.

At the end of Rattlesnake Range, Terry Hayes pulled his rented car onto the shoulder of the road. He left the engine idling and climbed out, looking down upon the twinkling lights in the wide valley below - the city of Mobile. It was 10:14 p.m. The rental car company had taken a half hour to deliver his car. He had looked a fine sight, waiting for it in the airport lobby with his gun case and white roses in his hands.

Overhead, the night sky was ablaze with the moon. He thought it appropriate. A hard warm wind blew from the south, the direction of his cabin. He leaned over and stretched his legs and his back; it felt good - that's why he'd stopped. His muscles had been cramping for the last ten minutes. The reason was not complicated. He was scared s.h.i.+tless.

Terry was stepping back to his car when the wind abruptly s.h.i.+fted, coming out of the east instead. He was instantly alert to a change in the quality of the air. It seemed somehow thicker, and tainted with an odor of decay. He stopped, troubled. The smell was coming from the city, not from the direction of his cabin. Had Lauren taken a minor detour for a late-night snack? If that were true where was he to search? Should he waste the time?

Then he remembered the last thing Lauren had said to him at Edwards.

'Goodbye, lover. We'll meet again, maybe, and we'll dine together in our favorite place.'

They had never had a favorite restaurant. He had never understood her comment. But now that he was not far from his cabin, he figured if they had to name a restaurant, it would have been Mr Russo's. And hadn't Lauren promised the gentleman that she would have dinner at his establishment to celebrate her return?

Terry got in his car and headed toward the restaurant. It lay on the eastern outskirts of Mobile, sheltered by an outstretched arm of the forest. It was Thursday. They had probably just closed. Mr Russo and his son Michael were probably cleaning up.

Terry arrived half an hour later. Her smell was strong. The restaurant parking lot was empty, except for Mr Russo's cream-colored Volvo. The building's lights were out. Terry took the flare from the glove compartment. He draped his rosary around his neck and jammed the vial of holy water in his back pocket. Then he opened the gun case. He loaded the sh.e.l.ls without difficulty - five shots. He wondered whether he would have time to get one off. He pumped a sh.e.l.l into the chamber. He got out of the car and headed for the front door.

He found Mr Russo a moment later. The man sat on the ground with his back against the closed door, his head slumped to his chest. At first Terry thought Mr Russo was dead. But when Terry shook him, he looked up. His eyes were vacant, and his face even allowing for the moonlight -was as pale as a bleached ghost's. He appeared to be in shock.

'Terry?' he said softly. 'Have you come for dinner?'

Terry glanced uneasily around and knelt by Mr Russo's outstretched legs. 'Has Lauren been here?' he asked.

'Does she want dinner, Terry?'

Terry gripped his shoulders and shook him. 'Tell me if Lauren has been here!'

Mr Rus...o...b..inked. 'We should be closing.'

'Where's your son? Where's Michael?'

'Michael,' Mr Russo mumbled. A faint smile touched his lips. 'He's a good boy. He makes his Papa proud.'

Terry slapped him across the face. 'Has she been here, d.a.m.nit?'

Mr Russo's head rolled with the blow. Then he frowned, puzzled. 'She came with you. We were closing and she said that your car had stalled on the hill. I went to check on it...' He trailed off, lost.

'Where is your son now?' Terry asked anxiously.

Mr Russo nodded pleasantly. 'Talking to Lauren. They were talking about Mars when I left...' His voice trailed off again. But then his face suddenly contorted into a lump of pain. He began to weep pitifully. 'She put Michael inside. She put my boy in with the meat.'

He would say no more. Lighting the flare, Terry pushed him gently to the side and opened the front door. He stepped inside, into the dark. It pressed down upon him like a heavy blanket. He tried the light switch. Nothing happened. He held the flare out before him with his left hand, carrying the shotgun in his right. The flare wasn't very bright. It seemed to make more shadows than it dissipated. He wished it didn't burn with a red light. It reminded him of Mars, and he had never even been there.

The dining room was unoccupied. Terry crept toward the closed kitchen door. He knew he was making the mistake of his life. He hoped to G.o.d Lauren hadn't felt this way on Mars. It must have been worse, of course - although honestly speaking, he couldn't imagine how it could have been. The reason his flare was causing every shadow in the room to jump at him was because his hands were shaking so badly.

Terry reached the door and pressed his ear to it. All he could hear was the roar of his own blood in his ears. Putting a finger on the trigger of his shotgun, he opened the door.

The smell was extremely bad. He could have just broken the seal of a tomb full of black-plague victims. He wished he had brought incense along with his rosary. He tried holding his breath, but he began to cough. Fortunately the effect of the smell on him was purely physical. He had no sudden desire to rape a pig. He relaxed slightly, very slightly. He told himself Lauren mustn't be around.

He tried another light switch, and got the same result as before. He made his way around the central butcher's table. It was then he stepped through a layer of cold air. He pointed the flare to the right: the s.h.i.+ny steel freezer door was lying wide open. In with the meat you say, Mr Russo.

Terry knew Lauren could be in there, too. She could probably turn on and off her perverted psychic overload switch at will, the cold-blooded lizard. But what the h.e.l.l, he thought. He'd already paid the plane fare. He said a silent Hail Mary and stepped into the giant icebox.

Fat slabs of beef hung in his burning light. The stink wasn't getting any better. Steam poured off the tip of his flare. All he needed now was to fog the whole freezer. Vampires loved to attack in the fog. He stepped deeper into the icebox. Mr Russo must have bought his meat in huge wholesale blocks; there was enough of it. He could have been walking through Kratine's pit.

In more ways than one.

At the back of the freezer, hanging between two b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.ses, he caught sight of a human leg.

Michael.

The boy was completely naked. The back of his head had been impaled several inches deep onto a meat hook. The force of the impalement had caused the hook to bend . slightly, and that was a hook that was used to the weight of cows. His eyes were half open, the pupils rolled upward into a dead brain. He stared at Terry with two white marbles. Terry couldn't help but stare back. Michael's skin was ashen, even the boy's once brown hair seemed drained of color. His throat had been completely ripped open, yet there was a little blood. A lump of dark pubic hair lay below his hanging feet. The hair appeared wet, almost as if it had been spat out. Terry forced himself to look closer. The boy had been castrated. The wounds were rough and jagged. The job had not been accomplished with a knife.

She had used her teeth.

Terry ran from the cold tomb. He barely reached the kitchen sink in time. He vomited again and again until he was gagging on dry heaves.

After a minute or two, as his nausea began to subside, Terry heard moans from the back of the building. At first he a.s.sumed Mr Russo had got up and staggered around to the rear of his restaurant. Clutching the flare and shotgun, Terry stepped out the back door. The stink was still about, but it was a thousand times less intense than inside. He felt little relief. He saw dark trees shaking in the wind, an empty parking lot. He couldn't find the source of the moaning sounds.

But had he really heard them? Or had he been making them himself? He was distraught. A young boy castrated by his fiancee's molars. d.a.m.n NASA! Why did they have to explore s.p.a.ce? Couldn't they see it was dark out there? That bad things could come out of the dark?

The light of Terry's flare finally fell on a crumpled form lying in the shadows of the trees, about thirty yards from the restaurant.

Terry ran to the form, and looked at the person's face. It was Daniel. The boy seemed unconscious. Nevertheless, he was writhing in pain. His s.h.i.+rt was wet with fresh blood. His right arm was twisted at an awkward angle; it had obviously been broken. The right side of his face was badly bruised; the right eye was swollen shut. Terry probed for major bleeding. He found none, but his touch made Daniel resume his moans, although he did not awake. Terry had to a.s.sume the boy had a serious concussion.

Terry sat back and looked around. A rifle leaned against a nearby tree. It looked like the gun Daniel had been showing off the day before they had left to drive to the s.p.a.ce Center. But it seemed shorter, somehow. Terry rose, walked over to it, and picked it up. He almost screamed. The barrel had been twisted entirely around. The muzzle was now aimed directly into the shooter's eyes.

Why is Daniel here?

Terry couldn't understand how Daniel knew Lauren was a vampire. Sure, he had probably read the earlier drafts of Jennifer's story. He probably knew more about the Asurians than anyone one else alive, but that wasn't saying a lot. The only explanation was that Jennifer had told him the whole story before she died. Yet that didn't make sense, either. Why hadn't Daniel told him if vampires were on their way? And how did Daniel know Lauren would come to Russo's at this precise time? Terry was dumbfounded.

He re-examined the boy. Even though Daniel was still unconscious, his breathing appeared to be growing stronger. Terry began to feel optimistic about his recovery. Especially when he noticed the silver ring Daniel wore on his left index finger. Terry had been wondering all day and night where he had left it, but now he realized that he must have simply misplaced it beside the cabin fireplace after his initial reading of Jennifer's story. Yet, the more he thought about it, the less he believed that.

The ring had been important to Jennifer. He had not just tossed it aside. The ring had seemed to disappear on him. He had searched for it before leaving the cabin to come back to Houston - and had not found it. Well, in either case, it must have been there. Daniel must have taken it from the cabin. The ring was probably the reason he wasn't on a meat hook in the freezer with Michael.

Jennifer had always liked Daniel. Terry left the ring where it was.

Terry returned to the restaurant. The phone inside was broken. But he was able to reach the paramedics on a pay phone strapped to a tree at the far end of the parking lot. He explained Daniel's condition and location. They told him to stay with him and they would be there in fifteen minutes. He told them to make it ten. He hung up without mentioning Michael, or giving his own name.

He wasn't going to be around in fifteen minutes. Or ten.

He went inside the restaurant once more and returned to Daniel's side with a tablecloth of white linen. Covering the injured boy, he realized what he already knew. His holy water and rosary were a joke. Who was he trying to fool? He wasn't going to save anybody. She was dead. Now she had to be destroyed. In the end even Chaneen had learned the same hard lesson, and had brought the fire.

I can't leave Michael for the medics to find. He might wake up in the morgue later on and bite off someone else's b.a.l.l.s.

Terry returned to the freezer and lifted Michael off the meat hook. Grabbing the arms, he dragged the body into the dining area. There was a fireplace, but it was small, and because it was summer, there were few logs on hand. No problem. He went after the tables and chairs. He was in a hurry. He didn't bother breaking them up. He just stacked them - one on top of the other - in the middle of the room. He threw on several tableclothes. When he was through he" hoisted Michael on top of the pile. He kept expecting the boy to wake up and grab his crotch.

'Forgive me, Michael,' he said.

He lit the stack with his flare and took a step back.

The tableclothes caught quickly; the flames licked the wood and turned it dark, and then a bright orange. Oily black smoke filled the air. In minutes the room looked and felt like a funeral pyre. Terry could hardly stand the heat and fumes. Yet he lingered. He wanted to watch Michael burn. He wanted to see if the boy would try to get up. He wanted to hear if a shrill demonic scream rent the air. He had plenty of proof. He had more than he needed. But still...

Michael's flesh peeled. His hair cracked. The whites of his eyes melted. His toenails turned into ten lit matches. He s.h.i.+fted uneasily in the flames, but only because the wood beneath him s.h.i.+fted. Nothing the books had predicted happened. Terry felt like a fool watching. It made him sick. The author of Dracula was just a guy like him. He knew nothing. Only Chaneen knew. Terry finally fled the room, coughing so hard he felt as if he would hack out a piece of his lungs.

Outside the front door, Terry helped Mr Russo up, and led him across the parking lot to the man's car. He propped him up in the Volvo's front seat. Mr Russo looked over at his smoking place of business. He had stopped weeping. The lights inside his brain had gone back off. Maybe it was just as well, for the time being.