Darkfall (28 page)

Every time he tried to put on a little speed, the car started to slide, in spite of the snow chains on the tires.

“We could
walk
faster than this!” Jack said ferociously.

“We’ll get there in time,” Rebecca said.

“What if Lavelle is already there?”

“He’s not. Of course he’s not.”

And then a terrible thought rocked him, and he didn’t want to put it into words, but he couldn’t stop himself: “What if he
called
from the Jamisons?”

“He didn’t,” she said.

But Jack was abruptly obsessed with that horrendous possibility, and he could not control the morbid compulsion to say it aloud, even though the words brought hideous images to him.

“What if he killed all of them-”

“—killed Penny and Davey—”

“—killed Faye and Keith—”

“—and then called from right
there
—”

“—called me from right there in the apartment, for Christ’s sake—”

“—while he was standing over their bodies!”

She had been trying to interrupt him. Now she shouted at him: “Stop torturing yourself, Jack! We’ll make it in time.”

“How the hell do you know we’ll make it in time?” he demanded angrily, not sure why he was angry with her, just striking out at her because she was a convenient target, because he couldn’t strike out at Lavelle or at the weather that was hindering him, and because he had to strike out at someone, something, or go absolutely crazy from the tension that was building in him like excess current flowing into an already overcharged battery. “You can’t
know!”

“I know,” she insisted calmly. “Just drive.”

“Goddamnit, stop patronizing me!”

“Jack—”

“He’s got my kids!”

He accelerated too abruptly, and the car immediately began to slide toward the right-hand curb.

He tried to correct their course by pulling on the steering wheel, instead of going along with the slide and turning into the direction of it, and even as he realized his mistake the car started to spin, and for a moment they were traveling sideways—and Jack had the gut-wrenching feeling that they were going to slam into the curb at high speed, tip, and roll over—but even as they continued to slide they also continued to swing around on their axis until they were completely reversed from where they had been, a full one hundred and eighty degrees, half the circumference of a circle, now sliding backwards along the street, looking out the icy windshield at where they had been instead of at where they were going, and still they turned, turned like a carousel, until at last the car stopped just short of one entire revolution.

With a shudder engendered by a mental image of what might have happened to them, but aware that he couldn’t waste time dwelling on their close escape, Jack started up again. He handled the wheel with even greater caution than before, and he pressed his foot lightly and slowly down on the accelerator.

Neither he nor Rebecca spoke during the wild spin, not even to cry out in surprise or fear, and neither of them spoke for the next block, either.

Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

“I understand. You were crazy with worry.”

“Still am. No excuse. That was stupid of me. I won’t be able to help the kids if I kill us before we ever get to Faye’s place.”

“I understand what you’re going through,” she said again, softer than before. “It’s all right. And everything’ll
be
all right, too.”

He knew that she
did
understand all the complex thoughts and emotions that were churning through him and nearly tearing him apart. She understood him better than just a friend could have understood, better than just a lover. They were more than merely compatible; in their thoughts and perceptions and feelings, they were in perfect sympathy, physically and psychologically synchronous. It had been a long time since he’d had anyone that close, that much a part of him. Eighteen months, in fact. Since Linda’s death. Not so long, perhaps, considering he had never expected it to happen again. It was good not to be alone any more.

“Almost there, aren’t we?” she asked.

“Two or three minutes,” he said, hunching over the wheel, peering ahead nervously at the slick, snowy street.

The windshield wipers, thickly crusted with ice, grated noisily back and forth, cleaning less and less of the glass with each swipe they took at it.

Lavelle got up from his rocking chair.

The time had come to establish psychic bonds with the small assassins that had come out of the pit and were now stalking the Dawson children.

Without turning on any lights, Lavelle went to the dresser, opened one of the top drawers, and withdrew a fistful of silk ribbons. He went to the bed, put the ribbons down, and stripped out of his clothes. Nude, he sat on the edge of the bed and tied a purple ribbon to his right ankle, a white one to his left ankle. Even in the dark, he had no difficulty discerning one color from another. He tied a long scarlet ribbon around his chest, directly over his heart. Yellow around his forehead. Green around his right wrist; black around his left wrist. The ribbons were symbolic ties that would help to put him in intimate contact with the killers from the pit, as soon as he finished the ritual now begun.

It was not his intention to take control of those demonic entities and direct their every move; he couldn’t have done so, even if that
was
what he wanted. Once summoned from the pit and sent after their prey, the assassins followed their own whims and strategies until they had dealt with the intended victims; then, murder done, they were compelled to return to the pit. That was all the control he had over them.

The point of this ritual with the ribbons was merely to enable Lavelle to participate, first-hand, in the thrill of the slaughter. Psychically linked to the assassins, he would see through their eyes, hear with their ears, and feel with their golem bodies. When their razor-edged claws slashed at Davey Dawson, Lavelle would feel the boy’s flesh rending in his own hands. When their teeth chewed open Penny’s jugular, Lavelle would feel her warm throat against his own lips, too, and would taste the coppery sweetness of her blood.

The thought of it made him tremble with excitement.

And if Lavelle had timed it right, Jack Dawson would be there in the Jamison apartment when his children were torn to pieces. The detective ought to arrive just in time to see the horde descend on Penny and Davey. Although he would try to save them, he would discover that the small assassins couldn’t be driven back or killed. He would be forced to stand there, powerless, while his children’s precious blood spattered over him.

That was the best part.

Yes. Oh, yes.

Lavelle sighed.

He shivered with anticipation.

The small bottle of cat’s blood was on the nightstand. He wet two fingertips in it, made a crimson spot on each cheek, wet his fingers again, anointed his lips. Then, still using blood, he drew a very simple
vèvè
on his bare chest.

He stretched out on the bed, on his back.

Staring at the ceiling, he began to chant quietly.

Soon, he was transported in mind and spirit. The real psychic links, which the ribbons symbolized, were successfully achieved, and he was with the demonic entities in the ventilation system of the Jamisons’ apartment building. The creatures were only two turns and perhaps twenty feet away from the end of the duct, where it terminated in the wall of the guest bedroom.

The children were near.

The girl was the nearer of the two.

Like the small assassins, Lavelle could sense her presence. Close. Very close. Only another bend in the pipe, then a straightaway, then a final bend.

Close.

The time had come.

Standing on the dresser, peering into the duct, Penny heard a voice calling out from within the wall, from another part of the ventilation system, but not far away now. It was a brittle, whispery, cold, hoarse voice that turned her blood to icy slush in her veins. It said,
“Penny? Penny?”

She almost fell in her haste to get down from the dresser.

She ran to Davey, grabbed him, shook him. “Wake up! Davey, wake up!”

He hadn’t been asleep long, no more than fifteen minutes, but he was nevertheless groggy. “Huh? Whaa?”

“They’re coming,” she said. “They’re coming. We’ve got to get dressed and get out of here. Fast.
They’re coming!”

She screamed for Aunt Faye.

The Jamisons’ apartment was in a twelve-story building on a cross street that hadn’t yet been plowed. The street was mantled with six inches of snow. Jack drove slowly forward and had no trouble for about twenty yards, but then the wheels sank into a hidden drift that had completely filled in a dip in the pavement. For a moment he thought they were stuck, but he threw the car into reverse and then forward and then reverse and then forward again, rocking it, until it broke free. Two-thirds of the way down the block, he tapped the brakes, and the car slid to a stop in front of the right building.

He flung open the door and scrambled out of the car. An arctic wind hit him with sledgehammer force. He put his head down and staggered around the front of the car, onto the sidewalk, barely able to see as the wind picked up crystals of snow from the ground and sprayed them in his face.

By the time Jack climbed the steps and pushed through the glass doors, into the lobby, Rebecca was already there. Flashing her badge and photo ID at the startled doorman, she said, “Police.”

He was a stout man, about fifty, with hair as white as the snow outside. He was sitting at a Sheraton desk near the pair of elevators, drinking coffee and taking shelter from the storm. He must have been a day-shift man, filling in for the regular night-shift man (or perhaps new) because Jack had never seen him on the evenings when he’d come here to pick up the kids.

“What is it?” the doorman asked. “What’s wrong?”

This wasn’t the kind of building where people were accustomed to anything being wrong; it was first-class all the way, and the mere prospect of trouble was sufficient to cause the doorman’s face to turn nearly as pale as his hair.

Jack punched the elevator call button and said, “We’re going up to the Jamisons’ apartment. Eleventh floor.”

“I know which floor they’re on,” the doorman said, flustered, getting up so quickly that he bumped the desk and almost knocked over his coffee cup. “But why—”

One set of elevator doors opened.

Jack and Rebecca stepped into the cab.

Jack shouted back to the doorman: “Bring a passkey! I hope to God we don’t need it.”

Because if we need it, he thought, that’ll mean no one’s left alive in the apartment to let us in.

The lift doors shut. The cab started up.

Jack reached inside his overcoat, drew his revolver.

Rebecca pulled her gun, too.

Above the doors, the panel of lighted numbers indicated that they had reached the third floor.

“Guns didn’t help Dominick Carramazza,” Jack said shakily, staring at the Smith & Wesson in his hand.

Fourth floor.

“We won’t need guns anyway,” Rebecca said. “We’ve gotten here ahead of Lavelle. I know we have.”

But the conviction had gone out of her voice.

Jack knew why. The journey from her apartment had taken forever. It seemed less and less likely that they were going to be in time.

Sixth floor.

“Why’re the elevators so goddamned slow in this building?” Jack demanded.

Seventh floor.

Eighth.

Ninth.

“Move,
damnit!” he commanded the lift machinery, as if he thought it would actually speed up if he ordered it to do so.

Tenth floor.

Eleventh.

At last the doors slid open, and Jack stepped through them.

Rebecca followed close behind.

The eleventh floor was so quiet and looked so ordinary that Jack was tempted to hope.

There were seven apartments on this floor. The Jamisons had one of the two front units.

Jack went to their door and stood to one side of it. His right arm was bent and tucked close against his side, and the revolver was in his right hand, held close to his face, the muzzle pointed straight up at the ceiling for the moment, but ready to be brought into play in an instant.

Rebecca stood on the other side, directly opposite him, in a similar posture.

His eyes met Rebecca’s. She nodded. Ready.

Jack pounded on the door.

In the shadow-crowded room, on the bed, Lavelle breathed deeply and rapidly. In fact, he was panting like an animal.

His hands were curled at his sides, fingers hooked and rigid, as if they were talons. For the most part, his hands were still, but now and then they erupted in sudden violent movement, striking at the empty air or clawing frantically at the sheets.

He shivered almost continuously. Once in a while, he jerked and twitched as if an electric current had snapped through him; on these occasions, his entire body heaved up, off the bed, and slammed back down, making the mattress springs squeal in protest.

Deep in a trance, he was unaware of these spasms.

He stared straight up, eyes wide, seldom blinking, but he wasn’t seeing the ceiling or anything else in the room. He was viewing other places, in another part of the city, where his vision was held captive by the eager pack of small assassins with which he had established psychic contact.