F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (63 page)

 
          
Lacey
looked at Carole and waggled her eyebrows. "Let go."

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Joe
could see the kitchen doors through Houlihan's plate glass windows. He'd
watched Carole and Lacey push through them only a few minutes ago, but it
seemed like an hour.

 
          
"Come
on, ladies," he whispered. "Come on."

 
          
The
idea was to make this look like a food raid—desperate people risking their
lives to take food out, not leave something behind. That was why he'd asked
Lacey not to show a gun unless she had to. All it would take was one shot to
bring the
Vichy
running. Let them think the thieves who'd
hit them were amateurs armed only with nunchucks and knives.

 
          
Am
I doing the right thing? he wondered for the thousandth time since they'd
arrived in
New
York
.
He had a feeling he wasn't.

 
          
They
were following his lead, trusting him with their lives. Was he, as the phrase
went, exercising due diligence? He didn't know. All he knew was that once the
idea of targeting Franco in his aerie had taken hold, he couldn't uproot it.
He'd considered other options, but none of them held a candle to this. Because
this was unquestionably the best tactic or because he'd become fixated on
Franco? Part of him argued that he should have sent either Carole or Lacey
west, to try to cross into unoccupied territory with the secret. But a stronger
part had countered that he needed both of them along to take Franco down, and
that argument had prevailed.

 
          
And
he knew why. He had a secondary goal in mind, one he dared not tell Carole and
Lacey. They'd never let him go through with it.

 
          
But
he had another concern. Joe was noticing wild mood swings. In life he'd been
prone to periodic lows that usually responded to a couple of stiff Scotches.
Now he found himself experiencing surges of rage at the slightest provocation.
He'd managed to control them so far. Like early this morning when Lacey had
questioned him about some minor point in tonight's plan, he'd had this sudden
urge to grab her by the throat and scream at her to stop asking so many
goddamned questions.

 
          
He'd
managed to fight it off, but that urge still frightened him. Was it the stress,
the responsibility of what they'd planned, or was he edging closer to the
darkness in his daymares? What if—?

 
          
Movement
in the SUV's side mirror caught his attention. A
Vichy
, bearded and denimed like so many of them,
had rounded the corner and was approaching the Navigator with a raised pistol.
Then Joe recognized him: the one who'd been with the head
Vichy
in the Armani suit when Joe was dropped
outside the front entrance.

 
          
He'll
recognize me! This will ruin—

 
          
Wait.
He won't recognize me.

 
          
Joe
had forgotten momentarily how his face had been disfigured by the sun. Easy to
forget when you'd never seen it, when mirrors gave back only a smeary blur.

 
          
"What
the fuck is this?" the
Vichy
said, stepping up to the open driver window and leveling his
semiautomatic at Joe. "Who are you and what the fuck you think you're—shit!
What happened to your face?"

 
          
That
voice ... Joe remembered it taunting him in the long elevator ride to the
Observation Deck.

 
          
I'm
glad I ain't you. Holy shit, am I glad I ain't you.

 
          
"Good
morning," Joe said. "Just waiting to pick up a friend. And the face?
An industrial accident."

 
          
"Who
gives a shit. What're you doin here, man? You think this is some kinda taxi
stand?"

 
          
Joe
turned his head and showed his right earlobe. He flicked the dangly earring.
"Hey, I'm in the club."

 
          
"That
don't mean shit. Who you waitin for?"

 
          
Joe
cudgeled his brain for the name of this guy's buddy, the one in the suit who'd
called him "god-boy."

 
          
"Barrett,"
he said as it came back to him. "He told me to meet him here at
sundown."

 
          
The
Vichy's eyes narrowed. "Barrett's on night duty with me. Should be here
any minute." He pulled open Joe's door. "Let's go see about
this."

 
          
As
Joe stepped out of the car, he saw movement in Houlihan's over the Vichy's
shoulder: Carole and Lacey leaving the kitchen.

 
          
Joe
reached for the man's pistol and was surprised by how fast his hand moved. It
darted out in a blur of motion; he grabbed the weapon and twisted it from his
grasp. The
Vichy
jumped back with a shocked look and stared
at his empty palm. Then he opened his mouth to shout but Joe's other hand
reached his throat first, fingers gripping the nape of his neck while the thumb
jammed against the windpipe. The man made a strangled sound. Joe pressed
harder, hearing the cartilage crunch as it began to give way.

 
          
Stop,
he told himself.

 
          
They'd
decided no killing tonight, it might rile the
Vichy
too much, send them out hunting instead of
staying close to Houlihan's and tomorrow's breakfast.

 
          
But
this felt too, too good. And oh this man deserved dying for how he'd taunted
him. Worse yet, he'd seen too much.

 
          
A
crushed throat might raise too many alarms, though.

 
          
With
a heave Joe lifted him off his feet and hurled him head first toward the
sidewalk. The back of his skull hit the concrete with a meaty crunch; his arms
stiffened straight out to either side, then fell limp beside him.

 
          
"Joseph?"
It was Carole, stepping through the revolving door. She stared at the body with
the blood pooling around its head. "What—?"

 
          
"Hey,
Unk," Lacey said. "I thought we said—"

 
          
"In
the car, both of you!" he snapped. "We've wasted too much time
already!"

 
          
Their
fault. If they hadn't dawdled so damn long inside, this wouldn't have happened.

 
          
The
two women piled into the back seat as Joe slipped behind the wheel. He wanted
to slam his foot against the accelerator and burn rubber out of here, but a
quiet departure was best. When he reached Sixth he turned uptown one block,
then raced east on Thirty-fifth. Mostly pubs and parking garages along this
block. He pulled into a multi-level garage and parked far in the rear. If the
Vichy went hunting for the thieves who stole their food and killed their man,
they'd never expect them to hide just one block away.

 
          
As
he shut off the engine he noticed a foul odor emanating from the back seat.

 
          
"What
is that?" he said.

 
          
"Just
some snack foods we picked up," Lacey said. "A pepperoni and what looks
like provolone."

 
          
"The
pepperoni—does it have garlic in it?"

 
          
"Probably,
I—oops. Sorry about that."

 
          
"Throw
it out."

 
          
"No
way, Unk. We might never see another pepperoni again. But we'll eat it outside
the car."

 
          
Joe
was halfway turned around, ready to grab the damn pepperoni and shove it down
her throat when he stopped himself.

 
          
He
turned back and leaned his head against the steering wheel.

 
          
What's
happening to me?

 
          
CAROLE.
. . .

 
          
At
dawn, and not a minute before, Joseph, Carole, and Lacey stepped out of the
garage and started toward
Fifth Avenue
. The pistol in Carole's hand— Joseph had
told her it was a 9mm Glock—felt heavy as it swung with her gait, muzzle toward
the sidewalk.

 
          
They'd
been waiting for Joseph when he awoke an hour ago. After Carole had fed him a
few drops of her blood, they'd gone to work checking weapons and mentally
preparing themselves for the coming ordeal.

 
          
While
Joseph and Lacey had tinkered with their guns, Carole sidled off with her gear
to a far corner of the garage to make her own preparations. In a little while
they'd be entering the heart of darkness, with a fair chance of not coming out
alive. Carole wasn't afraid of dying. It was undying that terrified her. So
while Joseph and Lacey armed themselves from the collection of weapons
confiscated along the way, Carole added extra precautions to guarantee she'd
never be an undead: extra charges front and back, and extra triggers. If it
came to the point where all hope was lost, she'd make her exit. But not alone.

 
          
If
worse came to worst, she'd be risking eternal damnation to avoid undeath.
Carole shuddered at the prospect. She'd been taught that suicide was a one-way
ticket to hell, but she hoped and prayed that God would understand. Death
before dishonor . . . death before undeath . . . surely that was the right
thing to do.

 
          
And
now they were on the street, heading toward . . . what?

 
          
"All
right," Joseph said as they neared
Fifth Avenue
. He was walking between them. "This is
it. We take it slow down to Thirty-fourth. If things went as planned we won't
meet any resistance. If things didn't, well, we might have to fight to
escape."

 
          
Carole
knew all this but let him talk. She sensed an unusual tension in

 
          
Joseph.
Was it because this was their D-Day, when all their planning and watching and
waiting would either bring them success or death? Or was it something else?

 
          
He
stopped them at Fifth and worked the slide on his gun.

 
          
"Ladies—time
to lock and load."

 
          
Carole
followed his example. The slide gave more resistance than she'd expected.

 
          
"Remember
what I said," Joseph told them. "If anything happens to me, get out
of town and do your best to reach unoccupied territory."

 
          
He
leaned away and peered around the corner, then turned back to them and nodded.

 
          
"I
think we're in business."

 
          
He
motioned them to follow when Carole cleared the corner she saw what he meant.
Down the gentle slope, past
Thirty-Fourth Street
, she spotted three still figures lying on
the sidewalk under the
Empire
State
Building
's front canopy.

 
          
As
they passed a smashed and looted Duane Reade, Houlihan's came into view.
Writhing forms littered the sidewalk in front of it. One lay in the open
doorway next to the revolving door. The odor of fresh coffee wafted across the
street through the cool dawn air. On another day, in another place, the smell
would have had her salivating, but right now her stomach had shrunk to a tight
little knot the size of a walnut.

 
          
They
crossed the street and now Carole could see the
Vichy
close up— their gray faces, their bloodshot
eyes, their blue lips. She tensed and ducked into a half crouch as she caught
movement to her right. One of the
Vichy
was convulsing on the sidewalk. Her first
impulse was to run to his side and help him, but she suppressed it. She, after
all, was the reason for his seizure.

 
          
Carole
stared in horror at the thrashing arms, the foam-flecked lips. It was one thing
to plan for their deaths, to imagine them dead. It was something else entirely
to witness their death throes.

 
          
"Dear
God, what have I done?"

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
"Let's
keep moving," Joe said.

 
          
He
noticed Carole's sick look. He felt for her, but this was no time for Carole to
start second-guessing herself. The old Father Joe might have been appalled, but
ex-Father Joe was more fatalistic. It was an ugly scene, but what was done was
done. No turning back now.

 
          
"Eight,"
Lacey said. "Your window is shrinking."

 
          
Joe
checked his watch. He had less than fifty minutes before daysleep took hold.
They entered the building and he led Lacey and Carole on a winding course
through the prostrate forms in the
Empire
State
's front lobby.

 
          
At
the elevator banks he stopped when he noticed the closed doors to the local
car. He pressed the call button, then stepped back and aimed his pistol at the
doors.

 
          
He
motioned Carole and Lacey to the side. "Be ready to fire. This may not
arrive empty."

 
          
"But
this car is waiting," Carole said, pointing to a set of open doors.

 
          
"That's
the Observation Deck express. At this point we only want to go to three."

 
          
The
car arrived empty. Joe got on after Lacey and Carole, stabbed the 3 button, and
they were on their way. Mentally he was anxious, but physically he was calm—no
butterflies in his gut, no pounding heart. As if his emotions were divorced
from his body. Or maybe because his body had entered a new mode of existence,
one without adrenaline.

 
          
Joe
pointed his gun at the doors as the car slowed to a stop on three. They parted
to reveal an empty hallway. He touched his fingers to his lips and stepped out.
Keeping his pistol raised before him, he approached the open double doors to
the security center. He was four feet away when a heavyset Vichy stepped into
view.

 
          
"About
fuckin—"

 
          
His
eyes widened as he saw them and he was reaching for the pistol in his belt when
Joe shot him once in the chest. He staggered back, eyes even wider, and then
another shot rang out, catching him below the left eye and snapping his head
back. He fell like a tree to lay stretched out on the hall carpet.

 
          
Joe
glanced at Lacey who had her pistol extended in a two-handed grip.

 
          
She
smiled. "Just making sure."

 
          
He
looked at Carol. She clutched her pistol waist high, pointed at the wall. She
looked like a startled deer.

 
          
Joe
stepped into the security area and found the three technicians staring at him
in shock. He pointed to the fallen
Vichy
in the hall.

 
          
"Any
more like him here?"

 
          
They
shook their heads.

 
          
"No,"
said the oldest of the three. He looked about sixty with gray hair and a
receding hairline. "But there will be soon. He was waiting for his relief
so he could go get breakfast."

 
          
"His
relief's not coming," Joe said. "And breakfast has been
canceled."

 
          
He
allowed himself a moment of congratulation. They'd done it. They'd knocked out
the
Vichy
and captured the
Security
Center
.

 
          
Now
they had to hold it.

 
          
"Who
are you?" said the technician. He couldn't seem to pull his gaze from
Joe's face.

 
          
Joe
opened his mouth to speak but Lacey beat him to it.

 
          
"Just
some nobodies who've come to liberate the building."

 
          
"No
shit?" said the youngest, who appeared to be in his forties.

 
          
"No
shit," Lacey agreed. "Who are you three and why are you working for
the bloodsuckers?"

 
          
"I'm
Marty Considine," said the gray-headed one. He pointed to the young one.
"This is Mike Leland, and that's Kevin Fowler." The third technician
was fat and wore a stained half-sleeve white shirt. He nodded but said nothing.

 
          
"As
for being here," Considine went on, "we don't have much choice."

 
          
"Yeah,"
said the fat one, Fowler. "Not if we want our wives and kids to
live."

 
          
Lacey
shook her head. "You call this living?"

 
          
Leland
looked away. "No. But when they slap your kid around and rape your wife in
front of you, just to give you a taste of what will happen if you screw up, you
get the message."

 
          
Joe
felt for them, but not terribly. Everyone had suffered. He was scanning the
monitors. When he recognized views of the Observation Deck, he said,
"We've got one job for you, then you can go back to your families."

 
          
"And
do what?" said Fowler. His lower lip trembled. "Where can we
go?"

 
          
"That's
up to you. Within half an hour, if all goes well, your services will no longer
be needed here. By anyone." He stepped closer to the monitors. "Is
there a camera in the stairwell to the Observation Deck?"

 
          
Leland
began typing on a keyboard. "We've got three there. Which one do you
want?"

 
          
"The
highest—between the eighty-fifth and eighty-sixth if you've got one."

 
          
"We
do."

 
          
"Audio?"

 
          
"Just
video." He grabbed a mouse and clicked. "Here you go."

 
          
A
monitor went blank, then cut back in with a view of a door marked 85 in an
empty stairwell. A sawed-off shotgun leaned in the corner next to the door.

 
          
"Excellent,"
Joe said.

 
          
Leland
squinted at the screen. "Hey, somebody's usually guarding the door to
eight-five from dawn to dusk."

 
          
"We
gave him the day off," Lacey said. "Any way of broadcasting from
here?"

 
          
Considine
shook his head. "The building has a huge TV antenna, but that's another
department. We're security. We don't know squat about TV transmission."