Creepers (20 page)

An hour later, exhausted and discouraged, Corelli was ready to call it quits. Rummaging around in the past had been pointless; there just weren't any stories about people vanishing into the subway and never coming out again. There were kidnappings and missing persons--frantic mothers, husbands, and families--but nothing that could be specifically earmarked as originating underground. It was too much to hope for that a pattern of disappearances would emerge; it would be too much the stuff of television coincidence. There was no pattern, no verification that the creepers were anything more than TA myth. And that meant Frank had failed. Failed himself. Failed Louise.

Disgusted that he'd allowed the irrational part of his brain to get such a foothold and actually give him hope, Frank packed up the packages of microfilm cassettes, prepared to admit defeat. He prided himself on being a rationalist; if he couldn't hear it, see it, smell it, touch it, or taste it, it didn't exist. Plain and simple. Cut-and-dried. Yet this once he'd allowed himself the luxury of speculative deduction. And look where it had gotten him-- cramped and grumpy. Christ, maybe I'm going through male menopause, he thought sourly as he pushed his chair back, balancing the microfilms unsteadily in his hands.

As he got up, he saw a lone reel of film he'd overlooked wedged under the viewer. When he attempted to retrieve it, the other boxes spilled down around his feet. "Shit," he complained in a voice a little too loud for any library. A stranger's head appeared from the next booth, appraised the red-faced detective, then disappeared back into its own world like a tortoise retracting its head.

"Shit again," Corelli hissed in the direction of the stranger, just for spite. He collected the scattered boxes, stacked them on the desk, and pulled the errant reel of film from its hiding place. This film was old, out of sequence, years from where he'd given up. He held it in his hands for a moment, then, on a wild hunch, threaded it into the machine and scanned the headlines for November 23, 1911. Nothing. His hunch was a total bust. Only intelligence and cunning were worth a damn. Even the punks in the subway could have told me that, he thought.

Corelli was reaching for the switch to rum off the machine when he saw it--a one-column story that ran halt a page in the back of the paper. He scanned the headline twice, sensing a rush of adrenaline that supercharged his body and elevated his expectations to the sky. He read the article and knew he'd found it!

TRIBE OF VAGRANTS FOUND
LIVING IN SUBWAY

It was reported to the Times yesterday by Chief William Blayton of the New York Police Department that a band of derelict men and women had taken refuge underground from inclement weather in the city's subway system.

"It's almost to be expected," the chief opined. "Those tunnels provide shelter from bad weather for those poor creatures." Although this sentiment might sound forgiving, the police have taken a firm stand against such actions by the city's less fortunate.

A recent spate of brutal assaults has been directly traced to this group. Police now have one Theodore Alden in custody. Alden, a man in his late twenties with no fixed address, is the apparent leader of this group, known to the workmen and authorities alike as the "creepers" because they skulk and creep through the tunnels to avoid detection.

"They prey on innocent passengers waiting alone in the stations. After robbing them, then hiding in the tunnels, they go outside and pawn the bounty for money to buy food and drink. It's a regular society they have living down there," one subway worker was quoted as saying.

Alden, who admits to being one of the men who live in the subway, steadfastly refuses to admit he is the group's leader. He says he has done nothing dishonest other than trespass in the tunnels. When questioned how he and his wife and child, who have also taken to the tunnels, survive, Alden admitted he panhandled for money for food.

But Chief Blayton had another theory: "He's lying. He's the organizer of the 'creepers,' their leader. And you can be sure they're up to no good. People in the stations are sitting ducks for Alden and his band of savages. Today they only steal from passengers, but who knows what vile things they'll be up to if we don't put an end to this straightaway?"

Theodore Alden, who is being held without bail, will be tried next week.

Corelli read the article three times, each time feeling its impact more. Curiously, his sense of dread had been not that the "creepers" still existed, but that they didn't. The existence of descendants of the Alden group--perhaps original "creeper" members surviving as reigning patriarchs--brought a cohesiveness, a logic to the recent disappearances that Corelli's mind had so desperately needed. It told him that there was something hidden in the subway and that others knew of it, too. What other reason for Dolchik's evasiveness, for today's threats over the phone from TA headquarters? What other reason for being chased?

He scanned the following weeks' news, searching for more of Theodore Alden. He finally found what he wanted on the last page of the Friday edition two weeks later. Tucked between news of several lost sheep in Central Park and a wedding announcement was the following:

SUBWAY DERELICTS' LEADER FREED

Theodore Alden, accused leader of a pack of thieves living in the subway system, was freed today by Judge Charles Gabush. Police were detaining Mr. Alden after subway patrons complained of being robbed and abused by men and women who had taken up residence below ground.

Mr. Alden was let off with a two-dollar fine for trespassing on city property, and was warned that should he or any member of his family be found in similar circumstances again, he would surely be imprisoned. In closing, Judge Gabush suggested Mr. Alden find gainful employment.

Corelli flicked off the light and ruefully shook his head. Times certainly had changed. The idea of suggesting to a vagrant that he find gainful employment was ludicrous. Men like Alden didn't want to work; that much hadn't changed in almost eighty years. People like Alden wanted to take. From others. Any way they could. The moral climate of the country had evolved drastically over the years since 1911, but Corelli suspected the code of the outcast and the criminal hadn't evolved at all. He saw proof of that every day in the faces of the men and women who flooded the subway system. Today's criminals were the spiritual inheritors of Theodore Alden's legacy.

And Corelli now believed that there were other inheritors, physical descendants of Theodore Alden and his "creepers." But unlike their great-grandfather, they no longer sojourned into the world. They stayed underground. And when they attacked lone passengers, it wasn't because they wanted money to buy food.

It was because the passengers had become the food!

Chapter 10

On his way out of the library, Frank put a call in to Louise. The phone rang ten times before he hung up. He'd told her not to go out, not to answer the door. She should have been there!

After overtipping the taxi driver, Frank bolted past the amazed doorman in Bill Quinn's building. As the elevator rode slowly up, he prepared himself for the worst. He didn't know what he'd find, in the apartment, but he was up against top professionals. Maybe he'd been fooling himself all along that one TA cop could outsmart them. And maybe Louise would be the price he'd pay to learn that lesson.

The apartment door was unlocked. Corelli flung the door open, at the same time jumping back out of view. Nothing happened. He waited, then dropped low and cautiously peered into the darkened room. A distant whining announced that the two cats were in residence; the darkness told him that Louise was not. He straightened up, reached in, and flicked on the lights. Nothing.

He searched the apartment, looking for signs of a struggle, but nothing was out of place. Louise's suitcase, still unpacked, stood next to the rumpled bed where he'd made the phone call to Dolchik hours before. Was it possible the line had been traced? No, definitely not. Yet Louise was gone. He closed the front door and turned off the lights. Whoever had done this, whoever had abducted her, would be back. They'd probably seen him enter the building. It was probably the two men who'd followed them earlier. Or maybe not. There might be an army of faceless soldiers waiting to be enlisted in the war against Frank Corelli, the war to stop him from spreading the word about the creepers.

The creepers.

Alone in the dark, his .38 resting in his lap as he sat in the chair opposite the front door, Frank finally allowed himself to contemplate the newspaper articles. It was preposterous, of course. The idea of a band of men and women taking to life underground in the subway system was the stuff of fiction. Many weird things went on in New York every day, but this took the cake. Corelli slowly shook his head. Was it really possible that Penny Comstock, Ted Slade, and all the others were dragged into the subway by descendants of Theodore Alden? Alden began as a thief. But these creatures were something else. Something almost too monstrous to contemplate--cannibals.

Someone turned the front doorknob. Corelli grabbed his gun and leveled it at the door; the shots would take the intruders in the stomach, disabling if not killing them. The next shots, if need be, would kill. The anger he'd been suppressing all day bubbled to the surface, and as the door began to open, he found himself aiming the gun, waiting to pull the trigger. Frank Corelli wasn't just some two-bit cop who bowed and scraped and turned the other cheek. He didn't shirk his duty.

As the light flashed on, Frank dropped to one knee, bracing the gun in both hands. He was already squeezing the trigger when he saw Louise's horrified face.

"No!" she screamed as the grocery bag fell from her arms onto the floor. "Please, don't shoot, Frank!"

The gun tumbled from Corelli's hands to the floor. He rested his head against his knee, sick with the knowledge of what had almost happened. One more second and he might have fired. One more second and he might have killed Louise.

She stood in the doorway shaking all over. She stared down at the tins of cat food and Stouffer frozen entrees at her feet; then she began to smile, but it quickly turned to tears. "Look what you've made me do, Frank. Look what you made me do." She pushed the dropped groceries with her foot, moving them aside.

Corelli leaped to his feet, brushed her aside, and slammed the front door. "I told you not to go out. I told you to stay right here and not go out." His voice was harsh and loud.

"The cats were hungry. And we had to eat," Louise said almost wistfully. She looked down at the gun, unable to take her eyes off it. Unexpectedly, she turned on him, her fists raised. "You were going to shoot me, weren't you? You were going to kill me!" She beat against his chest, tears streaming down her face.

Corelli absorbed her blows, too terrified by her outburst to defend himself. It was true. One more second and he would have shot her. And maybe saved someone else the trouble. "I told you not to go out," he repeated, his voice so low he barely could hear it. "Why did you do it?"

"Because I wanted us to have a nice dinner." She broke down completely now and fell against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I don't know who I am anymore, Frank. I don't know who you are...or what I'm doing...or..." Her voice trailed off in a series of hiccuping sobs.

"You're okay," he soothed, putting his arms around her. "Nothing happened. You're all right." He smoothed her hair, then rubbed the back of her neck.

Corelli pulled her tighter, losing himself in the warmth of her body. Soon, between the soothing and the reassuring, he began to kiss her, lightly at first, then with real passion. Louise accepted the kisses and returned them with an ardor that was surprising. She'd been so close to death moments earlier, so close to destruction, that her little caresses and deep kisses seemed to verify that she was still very much alive--and that he was now part of her life.

Without another word, Corelli led her into the bedroom and undressed her. She watched dispassionately as her clothes piled up around her, but when Frank began to undress, she came to life and helped him, then pulled him down next to her on the bed. For a long time they lay pressed against each other, letting their bodies touch as they kissed and fondled each other experimentally, like children. And as the terror of their recent brush with disaster ebbed, their passion and their need for each other mounted.

Corelli's lovemaking was almost brutal, but Louise's response matched his fervor. They were two people caught up in something that dehumanized them; their physical coupling proclaimed that they had not been lost . . . not to each other.

Afterward, while Louise prepared dinner, Corelli decided there were two things necessary to verify the existence of the creepers. The second was actually to capture one of the creatures and bring it aboveground into the daylight--but that would have to wait. The first was far more manageable: get the pathology report on Ted Slade at New York Mercy Hospital It was far too late to contact Dr. Geary again, so there was only one way to get proof positive--go to the hospital morgue tonight.

"Goddammit, you're staying right here," Corelli yelled in exasperation at Louise, who sat naked on the bed, arms folded over her breasts. To their mutual surprise they had made love again after dinner, their physical needs aching to be satisfied once again. And once again their union had drawn them closer together . . . until Frank prepared to leave.

"And I say that from now on, where you go, I go." She let her arms slip down a few inches, exposing the pink areola of her nipples.