Blood Rites (39 page)

They parked in the terminal hotel lot, took an elevator to the basement, and cut through the underground train station next to the square. It seemed a better plan than the crowds and the sunlight and the risk of running into some of Car-rera’s men before the exchange.

They saw a policeman Dick knew standing beside the station news counter, and Dick pulled his hat low on his face as they walked a wide circle around him and into Higbee’s department store. On the ground level, they cut through two more stores before crossing Euclid Avenue to the Arcade near the Public Square.

The buildings shaded the afternoon streets and only a few thin bands of searing sunshine still crossed Euclid Avenue. Nonetheless, Dick and Stephen stood in the deeper shadows of the Arcade, scanning the crowded street leading to the square. They identified three men who were with Carrera—one standing at the corner of the square where Dick was to surrender, another in a third-story window of the terminal, and Russ Lowell on the flat roof of a building across the street from the Arcade.

Stephen stared up at the monster who had brought so much misery to his family. This would be his chance, the only one he might have to destroy him. A single mental command would force Lowell to take the few steps forward, the fall to the pavement three stories below. Perhaps he’d live, lying helplessly in a hospital bed, a victim dreading the night Stephen finally decided to come for him. More likely he’d die from the fall. Stephen didn’t mind making Lowell’s end a quick one; after all, he most likely faced an eternity of pain. But as Stephen moved deeper into Lowell, he felt the obsessive need of the man, then saw Helen as Lowell had left her, the blood seeping from the cuts that crisscrossed her body, and he understood what she had done and why. He might have seen much more had he probed deeper, but then the rage he already had difficulty controlling would override his will and he would destroy Russ Lowell with no thought of the consequence.

He loved Helen too much to let her be any less than one of his own. No, he would not protect her any longer.

His nails dug into his palms, the self-inflicted pain restoring his control. With a quick, deliberate snap he pulled out of Lowell and turned to Dick who stood beside him, red-faced with fury at what they had shared.

—How can you see what he did to her and let him live?— Dick asked.

—Helen is no child. If I destroy him I will lose her, probably forever.—

—What if she can’t kill him?—

—The boys will tell me where she is being held. They’re coming. Can you feel them?—

Dick could, and he saw them first, stepping out of the dark terminal entrance to the intersection on the northeast corner of the square. Patrick wore the suit Lowell had given him and he sat in Alan’s arms, his eyes darting from person to person, looking for a familiar face in the crowd swirling around them. No one noticed Dick walking forward, his expression remote and resigned, his eyes fixed on the car parked at the square, Volpe beside it waiting for him. Some glanced at the ragged boy who walked across the street with silent tears rolling down his face; more at the beautiful dark-haired toddler he carried. Only a few of the shoppers glanced curiously as Dick, waiting for the light to change, gave Alan a quick squeeze on the shoulder before he crossed the street.

No, they were oblivious to the drama taking place in their midst until the shots were fired. In the joy of seeing his father, Patrick had forgotten to send his warning. Stephen, his mind still linked with Richard’s, had fallen to one knee with his arms outstretched to lift his son from Alan’s arms. On the edge of his vision, he saw the flash as Lowell’s rifle fired and instinctively he moved backward though not soon enough. The bullet intended for the top of his spine hit his jaw instead. Spun by its impact, two more hit him in the back of the head. He felt Richard wrenched out of his consciousness, heard Patrick’s shriek of rage, Alan’s softer cry. A wave of despair and the distant wail of a siren carried him down and down into the darkness preceding death.

As soon as he’d fired, Russ stepped back from the edge of the roof, dropped the rifle, and walked to the fire escape. He climbed down one flight and through an open window. By the time he reached the car parked two streets over from the square, the faded grey jacket had been replaced by a blue sportscoat and tie and Russ looked no different from any professional man going home to his family after a short day’s work.

While Russ made his escape, the crowd that had run from the street in terror slowly trickled back, forming a wide circle around the wounded man, the toddler silently trembling against the blood-soaked shirt and the older boy sobbing openly beside them.

At the square, unnoticed, a car drove off. Dick Wells sat in the rear with his head pressed against the front seat, numb to those on either side of him, the cuffs too tight on his wrists. Three shots. Perhaps three targets. And now he was alone and trapped and no one could save him.

I

Stephen waited.

For the first time in his centuries of existence, death had become an act of will and the pain and fear of certain discovery made him almost welcome it.

But for the first time in a thousand years, bonds stronger than instinct drew him back to life—his love and children.

No, in spite of the consequences, he would not choose to die.

He let his consciousness begin to fade taking the pain with it, yielding his will to his body and its needs!

Dimly, he sensed someone bending over him, rolling him over. “Damn!” the man swore, his hand on Stephen’s wrist, his neck, searching for a pulse. Stephen felt the heat of him as the man began to lower his head toward Stephen’s chest, thinking he would listen for the slightest flutter of life, unaware that his own was about to end.

Closer. Closer and he would strike.

“Give it up. Nobody with head wounds like that can be alive. Cover him up and take him to the morgue.”

The man moved away and Stephen did not have the stength to call him back. No food!

Did they lock the corpses in their tiny drawers or would he be free to wake and call—the primitive mind of a bloody ghoul in search of life?

“I’ll do the postmortem tonight.”

The voice sounded familiar, the thought terrifying. If he could move, he would be able to grip this man, pull him close and feed. But he had not been wounded this dangerously in years and in the distant past they had always buried him and left him to the slow renewal of the earth. Now they would drain what was left of his blood, pump chemicals into his body, cut him open. He would never. . .

No! I survive.

But someone was already fumbling with his arm, a brief stab of pain hardly noticed among the rest, then relief. He tried to focus on the man beside him, to hold him back, but his mind must have been damaged because it didn’t work. With effort he managed to move his head a few degrees, an almost imperceptible sign of life, then nothing.

Later, consciousness of a sort returned and his mind moved out to study the brightly lit windowless room. He saw himself lying on a long marble table. Shelves with clear glass bottles covered the wall. Someone probed his neck. He felt a quick cut, a tube being forced into him. They’d have to do the autopsy first, wouldn’t they? He moved his head again, trying to show that he was alive, but though the person beside him must have seen, he continued with his work. Then blood began to flow into his body—cold, lifeless as if he sucked the remnants of a day-old corpse. Yet it was blood and it did nourish beyond what he would have been able to do on his own. His heart responded by increasing its beat. His mind grew stronger.

And his body began its relentless demand for life. Soon the need would override all control and he would have no choice but to kill.

The man fumbled at his wrist again. The liquid stopped, then started. The sheet covering him was removed. Fear. He felt the man’s fear the way he felt his face re-forming, his mind growing sharper. Soon he would be strong enough to call and feed.

And when he woke would he be beside the corpse of his victim? In a hospital bed? In a cell? No matter. His instincts would take control soon and nothing he could do would alter their course.

“Just lay still. The daytime help has all gone home. We’re alone for a while. I’ll do what I can for you.”

The voice! Stephen knew the voice. If he could only remember. His mind seemed clearer now, clear enough to question. — Why?—

“I’m John Corey. Dick’s friend, remember?”

—Need . . . blood.—

“I have more. As much as you need.”

—Dead . . . not dead.—

“Dead?” Confusion. Understanding. A sudden surge of delicious fear. “It’s all I have except for myself.”

—Kill. I must kill.—

He felt the body move away in justified caution, the loss of its heat and scent already troubling. “Does the blood have to be human?”

—Alive.—

“Hold on,” Corey said. “Give me a little time. There’s a lab upstairs. They keep all kinds of animals. I’ll bring a cage.” He moved back farther as he spoke, ready to turn and run as fast as his heavy body would allow. Stephen still didn’t have half his face. How could he bite? One more step. Another and Corey would bolt for the hall.

But the shape of the room had shifted. The door had become smaller, miles away at the edge of a long tunnel, and he and the body on the table were at the beginning, together, alone. Corey smelled himself—the fear, the alien blood on his hands. He sensed the other—the horrible need that reached out to him demanding to be filled. Ropes whirled around him, cutting off all sights but the body whose hunger could not be appeased with anything but Corey’s life.

Something ancient, predatory, merciless, was here with both of them and neither he nor Stephen had the means to hold it back.

Corey took a step toward the table. Another. And halted—frozen, ready for the beast to begin to drink. His heart beat faster as if his body was building pressure, preparing to meet this creature’s needs.

He did not know how long he stood, his body the waiting meal, before he lowered his head, turned it sideways, and felt the warm, welcome breath on his neck.

Then Corey sensed something he’d never noticed before: the air currents shifting in the room as the main door into the morgue opened and closed.

Stephen must have sensed it as well because the hold on Corey broke and Corey could see the room as the room always appeared—white enamel and polished marble tables, the huge plain clock on the walls charting the passage of lives, and the door that a moment before had been cracked open now swinging inward.

Will Bowen looked startled to see him, then a bit sad. Corey glanced at the hammer in one hand, the stake and autopsy saw in the other.

Corey was no fool. He had been warned years ago about the risks to himself if he tried to help Austra, even knew enough to hold Austra without blame for whatever his instinct demanded. But this? He looked at Will with frank disgust. “That would be murder, Will.”

“He was dead already. You said so.”

“I was wrong,” Corey replied, knowing how foolish he must sound.

“Were you? Then why is this patient being treated by a coroner instead of upstairs in the hospital with a real doctor?” Will raised the crowbar, ready to strike if Corey tried to stop him from approaching the table. “Come on, Cor. How many people did this thing kill on its last pass through town?”

Corey and Will had been friends for the four years Will had worked for him as assistant homicide examiner. Corey was a family man so Will got the three to midnight shift until today when Corey had pulled rank and sent him home. Though Will was one of the last people Corey would have pegged for Carrera’s payroll, he had to be on it. How else could he have known what Austra was? “How much does Carrera pay you, Will?” Corey asked.

Will took another step toward the table. “Just let me finish this and I’ll forget you ever said that.”

Corey stepped backward, hitting the table. “Carrera asked me once, Will. I turned him down.”

“I didn’t.” Will swung, and though the bar hit Corey, it didn’t do the damage Bowen had expected. Stephen had reached out one long arm, grabbing Will’s wrist, deflecting his blow, then tightening the grip, dragging Will toward the table. In spite of Will’s attack, Corey tried to pull him loose. Then the thing that had been Stephen seized him as well. Corey closed his eyes and, concentrating on his friendship for Dick and for Helen, held himself icy calm until he felt the grip on his wrist slacken enough that he could pull away.

The crowbar fell from Will’s numb fingers and Will, shaking, looking to Corey as if he were ready to scream from terror for the first time in his life, was pulled toward the gaping, bloody jaws.

It was too late to find a substitute for human life. Corey knew it even before Stephen used his free hand to rip a hole in Will’s neck, his palm under Will’s chin, holding back the head so the wound stayed open, dripping into his mouth. With the same detached curiosity that made him so good at his work, Cor watched the shell of Stephen’s face move as it re-formed until, able to suck the life from his victim, Stephen pulled Will against him.

And Will was still alive! Mute, hopeless terror in his eyes as they silently begged Corey to save him.

Corey couldn’t save anyone, not anymore. “I’m sorry, Will,” he said, turned his back on the table, and headed for his desk and the bottle he kept in the back of the lower drawer. He remembered falling into his chair, then nothing.

Corey woke to the sight of a covered body resting on the table. Already guessing who had died, he pulled down the sheet and looked at what was left of Will Bowen.

The crowbar lay where Will had dropped it and Corey glanced down the hall at the open doors, then back at his desk where a small puddle of blood had formed from the cut Will had opened on his head. He sensed the messages left in his mind. The first would be a logical one in more normal circumstances—
call the police
. The second—
make a statement to the press
—seemed less so.

Before he reached for the phone, he made a thorough visual inspection of the body. “Yeah, Cor,” he said out loud to himself. “You tell the cops they cut his throat. Fine. Now how do you explain where all of Will’s blood went?” Corey looked down at the table. A piece of Will’s neck had been gouged away, probably the spot where the teeth marks would have shown. The blood on the floor had vanished, washed down the sewer drain, diluted beyond recognition. Even the marble table seemed meticulously clean. “Well, Stephen Austra, you’ve survived all these years on a hell of a lot more than luck. I’m betting my professional ass on it.” Corey removed a suspicious drop of blood from the edge of the table, rehearsed his story through once, then buzzed upstairs, alerting the building to the break-in.