F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (18 page)

 
          
Kenny,
his tongue hanging out like a dog, followed her down the wooden steps to the
sand. That Kenny. What a pisser.

 
          
"Let's
go back to Jenk's," Stan said. "She might be hidin inside."

 
          
They'd
turned and were heading back up the boards when Al took one last look back .. .
and saw something moving. Something small and red, rolling across the boards
toward the beach from between one of the concession stands.

 
          
A
ball.

 
          
He
tapped Stan on the shoulder, put a finger to his lips, and pointed. Stan's eyes
widened. He glanced toward the beach, probably looking to signal Jackie and
Kenny, but they were out of sight. So the two of them crept toward the spot
where the ball had rolled from.

 
          
As
they got closer, Al realized why they'd missed this spot on the first pass. It
was really two concession stands—a frozen yogurt place and a saltwater taffy
shop—with boards nailed up over the space between to make them look like a
single building.

 
          
Stan
tapped Al on the shoulder and pointed to the roof of the nearer concession
stand. Al nodded. He knew what he wanted: the second-story man had to do his
thing again.

 
          
Al
got to the top of the chain link fence behind the concession stands and from
there it was easy to haul himself up to the roof. His sneakers made barely a
sound as he crept across the tar of the canted roof to the far side.

 
          
The
girl must have heard him coming, because she was already looking up when he
peeked over the edge. She had one of them cross tattoos on her forehead.

 
          
That
ain't gonna help you against me, honey.

 
          
Al
felt a surge of satisfaction when he saw her blond ponytail and long thick
bangs. Nice.

 
          
He
felt something else when he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks from her
pleading eyes, and her hands raised, palms together, as if praying to him. She
wanted him to see nothin—she was begging Al to see nothing.

 
          
For
an instant he was tempted. The fear in those frightened blue eyes reached deep
inside and touched something there, disturbed a part of him so long unused he'd
forgotten it belonged to him.

 
          
And
then he saw she had a little boy with her, maybe seven years old, dark haired
but with eyes as blue as hers, with a tattoo on his forehead. She was pleading
for the kid as much as herself. Maybe more than herself. And with good reason.
The vampires loved little kids. Al didn't get it. Kids were smaller, had less
blood than adults. Maybe their blood was purer, sweeter. Someday, when he was
undead himself, he'd know.

 
          
But
even with the kid there, Al might have done something stupid, might have called
down to Stan that there was nothing here but some old torn cat who'd probably
taken a swat at that ball and rolled it out. But when he saw that she was
knocked up—very knocked up, as in start-boiling-the-water knocked up—he knew he
had to turn her in.

 
          
As
much as the bloodsuckers loved kids, they went crazy for babies. Infants were
like the primo delicacy among the vampires. Al once had seen a couple of them
fighting over a newborn.

 
          
That
had been a sight.

 
          
He
sighed and said, "Too bad, honey, but you're packin too many points."
He turned and called down toward the boardwalk. "Bingo, Stan. We struck it
rich."

 
          
She
screamed and the little boy began to cry.

 
          
Al
shook his head as he watched her cower and hold the kid tight against her.
Sorry babe. It ain't always a pleasant job, but a cowboy's gotta do what a
cowboy's gotta do.

 
          
And
besides, all these brownie points were gonna bring him that much closer to some
stud time at the nearest cattle farm.

 
          
LACEY
. . .

 
          
Lacey
Flannery heard them coming before she saw them. Coming her way. They weren't
talking, which was a bad sign. Could mean they were on the hunt. She had a
faint hope that maybe they were wanderers like her, but she wasn't about to lay
any money on it.

 
          
She'd
motorboated down from the
Sandy Hook
area last night. The water tended to be pretty safe, even at night. The suckers
stayed off it. She'd abandoned the boat at first light on the inlet jetty and
sacked out here under the boardwalk. She'd been awake for about half an hour
now. She'd packed up her stuff and had been ready to move out when she heard
footsteps on the boards above. A bunch of feet—could have been four, six, maybe
eight people. So she'd stayed put, figuring they'd move on.

 
          
But
instead they were coming to her.

 
          
Lacy
squatted with her back against a double piling and wondered what to do. Her
sleeping bag and duffel were stacked before her on the sand. Better play it
safe. She dipped into her bag of tricks, briefly considered her .38, but
decided against it. She didn't have many bullets and didn't know what kind of
trouble the noise of a shot would bring down on her. She chose her nunchucks
instead.
Two twelve
-inch
steel rods connected by a three-inch chain.

 
          
Yeah.
That'll do.

 
          
She
slipped out of her black leather jacket and her bare arms goose-bumped in the
breeze off the water. The tight black tank top she wore beneath wasn't much for
warmth but at least it wouldn't get in her way. She looked down and noticed her
nipples poking at the thin fabric. She hadn't worn a bra in three years and
didn't miss it now. She rubbed her nipples to make them stick out even more.
Hey, girl—use all your weapons. Then she stuck the nunchucks inside the
waistband of her jeans at the small of her back. The chain was cold between her
cheeks. Thong panties didn't cover much.

 
          
Her
mouth felt a little dry, her palms a little moist. Let's hope they're friendly,
she thought. If not, then let's hope there's no more than two of them.

 
          
She
rose and peeked around the piling.

 
          
Shit.
One was a woman. She was going to be harder to distract. And worse, they were
wearing cowboy earrings. The good news was there were only two of them.

 
          
Lacey
stepped out and faced them. "How's it going?"

 
          
The
stopped dead, staring.

 
          
"Ooooh,
Jackie," said the dumb-looking guy with the bad skin and the red Mohican
as his eyes fixed on Lacey's chest. "This ain't Al's blonde, but she'll
do. Oh, baby, will she do."

 
          
"Shut
up, Kenny."

 
          
The
skinny, pierced-up, white-trash blonde gave her an up and down; she seemed more
interested in checking to see if Lacey's hands were empty. She looked
thirty-five but was probably thirty. Not at all Lacey's type.

 
          
She
fixed Lacey with her squinty brown eyes. "What're you doin down here?"

 
          
"Catching
some Z's," Lacey said. "How about you two?"

 
          
"Lookin
for loooove," Kenny said, grinning. "In all the wrong places."
He stepped closer. "Hey, ain't you somethin. Look at those muscles,
Jackie. And she got tats too."

 
          
Lacey
looked down at her upper arms and the black Celtic knots that encircled each
just between the sleek, well-cut bulges of her biceps and deltoids. She'd spent
a lot of time on those muscles.

 
          
"Want
to see them wiggle like snakes?"

 
          
She
began contracting and relaxing the muscles, making them dance under the Celtic
knots which in turn undulated like, well, snakes.

 
          
"Tits
and tats and ripped to boot," he said, easing another step closer. "I
think I'm in love. Think we can have her join the posse, Jacks?"

 
          
"No
way. Besides, that ain't for us to decide."

 
          
"They
look so hard," he said. "You mind if I give one a little
squeeze?"

 
          
Lacey
smiled. "You're talking about my muscles but you're staring at my
nips."

 
          
He
laughed. "Oh, I do like this one, Jackie." He looked at her. "We
gotta—"

 
          
That
was when Lacey kicked him. She knew how to kick, had taken classes in it, and
she lashed out her foot as hard as she could, putting a lot of her lower body
behind it. She landed a good one, right square in his balls. He made a breathy
noise, something like "Hommf!" as he went knock-kneed and dropped to
the sand. Jackie stared at him stupidly, as if trying to figure out what had
just happened, while Lacey grabbed for her nunchucks. She had a grip on one end
and was snapping the other in a sidearm arc when Jackie looked back at her. Her
mouth was opening, starting to shout, when the steel bar caught her across the
left side of her head. She tumbled to her right and hit the sand, still
conscious but just barely, holding her head and groaning. Blood seeped between
her fingers.

 
          
Lacey
turned back to Kenny. He was down on his knees with his hands jammed between
his thighs, clutching his jewels, his face gray, his mouth working.

 
          
"You
fucking bitch!" he managed. "You're gonna wish—"

 
          
Lacey
kicked him again, in the stomach this time, high, a bull's eye into his solar
plexus. He doubled over. Kenny wouldn't be threatening Lacey or anybody else
for a while.

 
          
Five
seconds later she was back in her jacket and booking south with her duffel and
her sleeping bag. Behind and above her she thought she heard a woman's voice
cry out. The blond the two creeps had mentioned? Lacey stopped and listened.
She heard another cry and looked up at a seagull coasting overhead on the
breeze. It squawked again. Had that been what she'd heard?

 
          
She
dropped her load and grabbed the edge of the boardwalk. The ends of the
weathered boards rasped against her palms as she pulled herself up for a look—all
those chin-ups at the gym were finally paying off. She held her eyes at board
level. No one in sight.

 
          
She
dropped back to the sand, grabbed her things, and started walking again.

 
          
No
time to waste. She'd come to find her uncle.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
Sister
Carole checked the Pyrex bowl on the stove. A chalky layer of potassium
chloride had formed in the bottom. She turned off the heat and immediately
decanted the boiling upper fluid, pouring it through a Mr. Coffee filter into a
Pyrex brownie pan. She threw out the scum in the filter and put the pan of filtrate
on the windowsill to cool.

 
          
She
heard the sound of a car again and rushed to a window. It was the same car, the
convertible, with the same occupants—

 
          
No,
wait. There had been only four before. Now there were three squeezed into the
rear. The woman who had been in the front earlier was in the back; she looked
as if she might be sick; the man with the red Mohican seemed to be struggling
with a newcomer, a young woman with long blond hair. She looked—