F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (22 page)

 
          
He
did a slow backup while he searched the shadows and moonlit patches. Nothing.
Shit. Either he was seeing things or he'd spooked her.

 
          
He
was just about to slam back into DRIVE when he heard a voice. A woman's voice.

 
          
"Hey,
mister."

 
          
Al
grabbed his flashlight from the passenger seat and beamed it toward the voice.

 
          
A
woman half hiding behind a tree in the bushes. Not undead. Maybe thirty, skinny
but not bad looking. He played the light up and down her. Short dark hair, lots
of eye makeup, a red sweater tight over decent-size boobs, a short black skirt
very tight over black stockings.

 
          
Despite
the alarm bells going off in his brain, Al ignored them as he felt his groin
start to swell. He left the car in the middle of the street—like he had to
worry about getting a ticket, right?—and walked over to her.

 
          
"Who're
you?"

 
          
She
smiled. No, not bad looking at all.

 
          
"My
name's Carole," she said. "You got any food?"

 
          
"Some."
Yeah, she looked like she could use a few good meals. "But not a whole
helluva lot."

 
          
Actually,
he had a lot of food, but saw no reason to let her know that.

 
          
"Can
you spare any?"

 
          
"I
might be able to help you out some. Depends on how many mouths we're talking
about."

 
          
"Just
me and my kid."

 
          
The
words jumped out of his mouth before he could stop them: "You got a
kid?"

 
          
She
waved her hands in quick, nervous moves. "Don't worry. She's only four.
She don't eat much."

 
          
A
four-year-old. Two kids in one day. Almost too good to be true.

 
          
His
brain kicked into overdrive. How to play this? For a while now he'd had this
little scheme of keeping a piece on the side, with neither the bloodsuckers or
the posse knowing nothing about her. He'd get her a house, keep her fed, keep
her protected. But it sounded like this Carole already had herself a house.
Even better. She could stay where she was and he'd visit her whenever he could
get away. She treated him right, they could play house for a while. She gave
him any trouble, like holding out on him, she and her brat became gifts to
Gregor. That was where they were going to wind up anyway, but no reason Al
couldn't get some use out of her before she became some bloodsucker's meal or
wound up on a cattle farm.

 
          
And
maybe he'd get real lucky. Maybe she'd get pregnant before he turned her in.

 
          
"Well...
all right," he said, trying to sound reluctant. "Bring her out where
I can see her."

 
          
"She's
home asleep."

 
          
"Alone?"
Al was like immediately pissed. He already considered that kid his property. He
didn't want no bloodsucker sneaking in and robbing him of what was rightfully
his. "What if—?"

 
          
"Don't
worry. I've got her surrounded by crosses."

 
          
"Still,
you never know." He paused, thinking. "Here's the deal. I got food
but I got this tiny little rundown place that ain't fit for the cockroaches
that live there. Maybe I could like spend some time at your place. That way I could
guard you and your kid from those cowboys. They'd love nothing better'n hauling
a little kid into the bloodsuckers."

 
          
Did
that sound concerned enough?

 
          
A
hand flew to her mouth. "Oh dear!" Her voice softened. "You must
be a good man."

 
          
"Oh,
I'm the best," he said.

 
          
And
I've got this friend behind my fly who's just dying to meet you.

 
          
"I'll
show you my place," she said. "It's not much but there's room for
you."

 
          
Yeah,
babe. Right on top of you.

 
          
She
got in the car and directed him to the corner and around to the middle of the
next block to an old two-story colonial set back among some tall oaks on an
overgrown lot. He nodded with growing excitement when he saw a child's red
wagon parked against the front steps.

 
          
"You
live here? Hell, I musta passed this place a couple of times already
today."

 
          
"Really?"
she said. "We usually stay hidden in the basement."

 
          
"Good
thinkin."

 
          
He
followed her up the steps and through the front door. Inside there was a couple
of candles burning but the heavy drapes hid them from outside.

 
          
"
Lynn
's sleeping upstairs," she said.
"I'll just run up and check on her."

 
          
Al
watched her black-stockinged legs hungrily as she bounded up the bare wooden
stairway, taking the steps two at a time. He adjusted his jeans for a little
more comfort. Man, he was hard as a rock. Couldn't wait to get her out of that
miniskirt and himself into—

 
          
And
then it hit him: Why wait till she came back down? What was he doing standing
around down here when he could be upstairs getting himself a preview of what
was to come?

 
          
"Yoo-hoo,"
he said softly as he put his foot on the first step. "Here comes
Daddy."

 
          
But
the first step wasn't wood. Wasn't even a step. His foot went right through it,
like it was made of cardboard or something. As Al looked down in shock he saw
that it was made of cardboard—painted cardboard. His brain was just forming the
question Why? when a sudden blast of pain like he'd never known in his whole
life shot up his leg from just above the ankle.

 
          
He
screamed, lunged back, away from the false step, but the movement tripled his
agony. He clung to the newel post like a drunk, weeping and moaning for God
knew how long, until the pain eased for a second. Then slowly, gingerly,
accompanied by the metallic clanking of uncoiling chain links, he lifted his
leg out of the false tread.

 
          
Al
let loose a stream of curses through his pain-clenched teeth when he saw the
bear trap attached to his leg. Its sharp, massive steel teeth had sunk
themselves deep into the flesh of his lower leg.

 
          
But
fear began to worm through the all-enveloping haze of his agony.

 
          
The
bitch set me up!

 
          
Kenny
had wanted to find the guys who were killing the cowboys. But now Al had done
just that, and it scared him shitless. What a dumbass he was. Baited by a broad—the
oldest trick in the book.

 
          
Gotta
get outta here!

 
          
He
lunged for the door but the chain caught and brought him up short with a
blinding blaze of agony so intense his scream damn near shredded his vocal
cords. He toppled to the floor and lay there whimpering like a kicked dog until
the pain became bearable again.

 
          
Where
were they? Where were the rest of the cowboy killers? Upstairs, laughing as
they listened to him howl? Waiting until he wore himself out so he'd be easy
pickings?

 
          
He'd
show them.

 
          
Al
pulled himself to a sitting position and reached for the trap. He tried to
spread its jaws but they were locked tight on his leg. He wrapped his hand
around the chain and tried to yank it free from where it was fastened below but
it wouldn't budge.

 
          
Panic
began to grip him now. Its icy fingers were tightening on his throat when he
heard a sound on the stairs. He looked up and saw her.

 
          
A
nun.

 
          
He
blinked and looked again.

 
          
Still
a nun. He squinted and saw that it was the broad who'd led him in here. She was
wearing a bulky sweater and loose slacks, and all the makeup had been scrubbed
off her face, but he knew she was a nun by the thing she wore on her head: a
white band up front with a black veil trailing behind.

 
          
And
suddenly, amid the pain and panic, Al was back in grammar school, back in St.
Mary's before he got expelled, and Sister Margaret was coming at him with her
ruler, only this nun was a lot younger than Sister Margaret, and that was no
ruler she was carrying, that was a baseball bat—an aluminum baseball bat.

 
          
He
looked around. Nobody else, just him and the nun.

 
          
"Where's
the rest of you?"

 
          
"Rest?"
she said.

 
          
"Yeah.
The others in your gang. Where are they?"

 
          
"There's
only me."

 
          
She
was lying. Had to be. One crazy nun killing all those cowboys? No way! But
still he had to get out of here. He tried to crawl across the floor but the
fucking chain wouldn't let him.

 
          
"You're
makin a mistake!" he cried. "I ain't one a them!"

 
          
"Oh,
but you are," she said, coming down the stairs.

 
          
"No.
Really. See?" He touched his right ear lobe. "No earring."

 
          
"Maybe
not now, but you had one earlier." She stepped over the gaping opening of
the phony tread and circled to his left.

 
          
"When?
When?"

 
          
"When
you drove by earlier today. You told me so yourself."

 
          
"I
lied!"

 
          
"No,
you didn't. But I lied. I wasn't in the basement. I was watching through the
window. I saw you and your three friends in that car." Her voice suddenly
became cold and brittle and sharp as a straight razor. "And I saw that
poor woman you had with you. Where is she now? What did you do with her?"

 
          
She
was talking through her teeth now, and the look in her eyes, the strained
pallor of her face had Al ready to pee his pants. He wrapped his arms around
his head as she stepped closer with the bat.

 
          
"Please!"
he wailed.

 
          
"What
did you do with them?"

 
          
"Nothin!"

 
          
"Lie!"

 
          
She
swung the bat, but not at his head. Instead she slammed it with a heavy
metallic clank against the jaws of the trap. As he screamed with the renewed
agony and his hands automatically reached for his injured leg, Al realized that
she must have done this sort of thing before. Because now his head was
completely unprotected and she was already into a second swing. And this one
was aimed much higher.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .