Night Of The Beast (38 page)

Paula, her neck slashed wide open and her clothing shredded and bloody from stab wounds, stepped from the closet. She located her son.

Grinned.

Drops of blood fell in thickened clumps to splatter on the precious antique rug, the one she'd loved so much. Timmy returned from the edge, the welcome heat of anger building in his belly. This was not Paula Baxter. It was hideous; raw wounds, white bone and naked tendons. It kept weaving like a drunk, as if whatever had just entered the corpse didn't quite have control. The lips twitched, peeled back like slices of fresh, wet tomato.

"Timmy," she croaked. "Come give your Mom a kiss."

She started towards him, still clumsy, her arms spread wide in simulated affection. They had violated his mother, dirtied her and made her into a monster. He could not allow this to happen. She deserved to rest in peace.

"Timmy?"

The baritone.

His skin crawled.

Timmy reached down and took a magazine from the rack by the couch. He grabbed one of Paula's many cigarette lighters and set the pages ablaze. The creature made the familiar hissing noise and began to retreat on stiff, reluctant legs. Timmy waved the fire. He led the obscene thing along the wall, finally forcing it back into the closet. It growled, but the legends were true. They couldn't stand fire.

Timmy couldn't bear the thought of using the stake and mallet. Not on his mother's body, especially after that sickening struggle with Julie. So he started kicking a stack of his prize horror comics and some old newspapers into the closet with her. He kept the creature pinned inside by continually waving the flaming pages in his hand, sometimes touching them to its pale, sensitive skin. More newspapers, the remaining comic books. The beast feared him — and, of course, the flames. It cringed and shrank away whenever he threatened it.

He was ready.

Timmy tossed his burning torch inside, onto the stack of dry, volatile paper. He slammed the closet door and locked it.

She howled and kicked, but the blaze roared up and consumed her almost immediately. Smoke filled the room, choking Timmy and making his eyes water. He found his croquet stakes and mallet, threw on a jacket and walked out into the unholy night.

The camper would burn for hours. There was no turning back. He would have to climb the slope, spot the lights of Two Trees, then make his way there as quickly as possible. If he ran into more trouble, so be it.

He zipped his jacket, gripped his weapons and trudged along the winding trail. It was the same one Julie had used the evening she'd disappeared, but that fact barely crossed his mind.

Pieces of Two Trees were tumbling like dominoes. Four dilapidated storm shutters, blown loose from the front of Martoni's grocery, sailed several yards through the air and struck the building across the way. Each hit with the impact of a mortar shell, cracking beams and plaster. The noise was lost in the cacophony of clatters, bangs and eerie metallic shrieks parading through the streets and alleys of the little town.

Vargas crawled along after Chalmers, feeling cool and detached. Unless, of course, he slipped and allowed himself to think about the girl. Touching her, hurting her. That fantasy was dangerous. It turned the whole world upside down and set off a violent blast of mushrooming lust that threatened to engulf him. Maggie Moore would have to wait.

He followed Chalmers onto the porch of a deserted home. The bigger man pointed to a brightly lit house across the street.

"He's in there," Chalmers said in a low voice. "We got three in all, if you count the other dude."

Vargas chuckled dryly. "You bet your ass we'll count the other dude. That fucker owes me, and I want him."

Chalmers looked puzzled. Finally: "Tony, I don't like to bug you with too many questions, but this whole thing's got me confused. I mean, what's goin' on here? And why tonight, like it just couldn't wait?"

Vargas hesitated, then decided to toss Billy a bone. "I don't know a hell of a lot more than you do," he said. "Tonight is a real special night. There might never be another one like it. That's why we've gotta follow orders and do exactly what we're told to do. Nothin' less, nothin' more."

"Whatever you say, Tony. Any idea what's so goddamn special about this first guy?"

Both men were squinting, their eyes stinging from the constant spray of pebbles and dust. Vargas ran out of patience. The wooden porch was uncomfortable, and splinters kept pricking his arms and elbows. He brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. "Jason wants him dead, Chalmers, and I want the other one. That's all you need to know."

"I can take a hint."

"One good thing," Vargas said. "Nobody's gonna hear us. We could have a war with all this shit going on. The storm is perfect cover."

He took a few moments to recall the layout of the house. Satisfied, Vargas nudged Billy. "Let's get 'em," he said. "Go around and cover the back, but don't start anything yet."

Chalmers got to his knees, shielding his face with one hand. His clothes began whipping in the wind like laundry on a line. He ducked low again. "Wait a second. You could pick one off through the window, and I might not even notice from there."

Vargas thought for a moment. "If I do, I'll come and yell. If there's anybody else around, they can't hear any better than we can."

Chalmers' teeth flashed. "Be careful, though. I'd hate to shoot you by mistake."

"Get going," Vargas said.

Chalmers lumbered down the alley, around the side and towards the back of the house. Vargas considered moving in a bit closer, but decided he'd be at too poor an angle if he were pressed to take cover. He could get himself wasted before he made it back to the safety of the porch.

"I'd rather see your face," he muttered. "Spit right in your eye when I do it. But the little man said no unnecessary chances. Besides, I got the chick to look forward to."

Movement.

Vargas sighted quickly. He was just starting to squeeze the trigger when he saw a mop of red hair, reflected in the light flowing from the living room. Chalmers, getting into position. Wait. Yeah, somebody inside was walking past the window. He took aim again.

And felt his arms melting like wax, his guts clenching, a white-hot surge of desire welling up from his balls. Maggie Moore was everything he remembered. She was only visible for a few seconds, but to Vargas it seemed an eternity. Jason had shown him all her secrets, revealed her naked body with his cold, cruel eyes. Oh, but this would be a night to remember.

Behind the house: Something was there, in the alley. Chalmers jumped and homed in on the target. Easy boy, he told himself. Remember what Tony said. Just the two men, nobody else.

A woman. Jesus, he'd nearly blown it; shot holes in some old broad who only had one oar in the water. Tony woulda gone nuts. Chalmers felt a chill crawl up his spine. He slid a little further into the shadows. Shit, that was close, he thought. If I fuck up, I'll have to answer to Jason himself. No way, Jose. All I need to know about that mean little motherfucker is that I don't wanna get to know him. Anybody bad enough to scare Vargas ain't on my map.

The woman passed within a few yards of his hiding place. Her eyes were glazed. She stumbled out into the middle of the street and just stood there, hopelessly lost. Goddamn bitch, Chalmers thought. Get the fuck out of here, you're right in the line of fire.

Finally, after deciding on what appeared to be an intriguing destination, the old woman wandered off. Chalmers watched her go, wondering what the hell was wrong with her, and when he looked back he slammed his fist in the dirt. Damn, he'd missed a chance. Someone had been moving around inside the house.

Michael.

Maggie's brother grew restless. He started complaining of claustrophobia, going on and on about how much he hated feeling caged. Rourke could almost see the current wriggling in his aura; felt an emotional charge pulsating and demanding release.

"Damn," Michael shouted, "I'm bananas already! Is this ever gonna let up?"

He jumped to his feet and went to the window.

The first bullet hit him in the shoulder and spun him around. Maggie screamed when he threw himself on the carpet. A lamp exploded as the shot that was meant to finish Michael blew it off the table. The room was plunged into darkness, with only the kitchen light still burning.

Michael cursed and pulled a pistol from his belt. He'd tucked it under his shirt, behind his back, to keep it out of sight. Rourke wanted, very badly, to know why.

"Oh, shit," Michael whispered, his lips white with pain. "I didn't think they'd find me here."

Rourke grabbed his rifle and crawled across the floor. Maggie, still near the fireplace, started to go to Michael's side. Her brother stopped her in her tracks. "Stay right there," he said. "Away from the windows."

Peter examined the injured shoulder. The large, blue puncture looked serious. He tore away a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around the wound. "There. Now talk, Michael," he growled. "What the hell have you gotten us into?"

Michael winced. "This can't be happening, man. There's no way anybody could have traced me here. I not only covered my tracks, I left them believing I was dead."

"Michael, tell me."

"Let me put it this way. Some of the people I've worked for play rough. They eat a lot of pasta, look like they were born with a broken nose — you know the type. Anyhow, I tapdanced and usually steered clear of the serious shit. I figured the less I knew, the easier it would be to split. Wrong. Turns out nobody gets to walk. These guys are rigid as hell about that, it's their code of honor. But I wanted out, Rourke."

Peter felt his face stiffen. "And so you came to visit your goddamned sister?"

Michael snarled back. "Give me a fuckin' break! I never mentioned I had one, much less where she was."

"Then what happened?"

"I was looking after Nicky Perelli's mistress in Vegas. Cushy gig, right? Well, some asshole got to her, and carved her up but good. Left her open like a Thanksgiving turkey. I almost had him, but he got away. That left me in some real deep shit."

Carved her up
, Rourke thought.
Jesus, that's what happened to Dee Jennings
. He frowned. "And?"

"I bribed a cop in Vegas and a junkie morgue attendant. They fixed it so a John Doe drowning wound up with my wallet and a positive I.D. In short, I'm stone dead for all they know."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Maggie sagged, as if she'd been drained of something vital that could never be replaced. Her disappointment hurt Michael as much as the wound in his shoulder. He glanced at Rourke, hoping for support, but Peter was gearing up for a look outside.

He raised his head, probed, then dropped to one knee. Another bullet shattered the rest of the window directly above him. Rourke curled into a ball until the shower of broken glass stopped falling. Wind began to whip the patterned curtains around and more moisture drifted in to fog the already gloomy room.

"I'm sorry, you guys," Michael was saying. "I never dreamed I'd drag you two into this. I was sick of it, Maggie. I just wanted to walk away."

Rourke gripped his rifle. He probed again.
Strange
, he thought,
there's some kind of interference. It's like snow on a rolling picture tube
. Still, he managed to learn a little.

"There are two of them," he announced. "They have... protection, I guess. A barrier of some sort. It keeps me from reading any more than that."

Michael turned to Maggie, his mouth hanging open.

"Christ, you mean he's for real?"

"He's for real, Michael."

Rourke skulled again, but ran into the same jamming technique. An advanced gift was at work. He'd never felt anything quite like it before, not even when he was a kid and competing with others like himself. Only a master talent could have constructed this elaborate a defense.

"We're dealing with a whole lot more than two maniacs out to shoot somebody, Michael. We're also up against whatever killed my dog tonight. A force that brought us all here. It's been destroying this entire town, bit by bit, for months."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Rourke straightened up. "For instance, you'd better not take it for granted that they're just after you. It might be me. I'm beginning to get the feeling there's a price on my head."

"I'm lost. Why?"

"Consider what I just described," Peter said. "Now, why would an abnormally strong psychic, for lack of a better word, bother to build a complicated ectoplasmic shield to keep you out? You haven't the slightest glimmer of E.S.P., as far as I can tell."

Michael grimaced. "Yeah, but you're a whole different story. I get your point. So it's the both of us?"

All of us
, Rourke thought, but he dipped his head casually. He didn't want to alarm Maggie any more than necessary. "That's my guess, yeah. I don't know why."

"Are you good with that? The rifle?"

"I'm good, Michael. I'm also scared enough to be ruthless, if that's what you're wondering."

Michael Moore smiled. "Yeah, you read minds all right. In a situation like this, my friend, to hell with fair play and the Ten Commandments. We go for broke. We didn't start it, but the fact is we're at war."

Yeah.
[compression: A grotesque bulge in the coiled intestine of present time]
You don't know the half of it, Michael. I'm in the middle of this. I've somehow gotten my ass into two wars at once. There's a different kind of assault coming soon, I can feel it. It wants to erode my confidence.