F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (35 page)

 
          
"That
makes two of us," Sister Carole said.

 
          
She
didn't want to go out again tonight but knew she had to.

 
          
Her
only solace was the certainty that sooner or later it going to end—for her.

 
          
She
set a few more wires, ran a few more strings, then headed up to the bedroom to
change into her padded bra, her red blouse, her black leather skirt.

 
          
again! When is it going to END, Carole? When is this going to STOP?>

 
          
"When
they're all dead and gone," Sister Carole said aloud to the stranger in
the bedroom mirror. "Or when I am. Whichever comes first."

 
          
GREGOR...

 
          
Gregor
frowned as he smeared makeup on his face to hide his pallor. He hoped it looked
all right. Since he couldn't use a mirror he had to go by feel. It would have
made more sense to have one of his get apply it, but he wanted to keep his plan
to himself.

 
          
He
sprayed himself with Obsession cologne. The living said the undead carried an
unmistakable odor. He couldn't detect it himself, but this should mask it. He
rose and looked down at himself. A long-sleeved work shirt, scruffy jeans, a
crescent-on-a-chain earring, and now, a passably—he hoped—ruddy complexion.

 
          
"Hey
there," he said in the drawl he'd been practicing since sundown, hoping to
disguise his own accent with another. "Ahm new in these here parts."

 
          
He
slipped a cowboy hat onto his head to complete the picture.

 
          
A
good enough picture, he hoped, to decoy these vigilantes into picking on him as
their next cowboy victim.

 
          
Gregor
smiled, baring his teeth. Then they'd be in for a surprise.

 
          
He
could have sent someone else, could have sent out a number of decoys, but he
wanted this hunt for himself. After all, Franco had his eye on the situation,
and that mandated bold and extraordinary measures. Gregor needed to prove
without a doubt that the vigilantes were separate from the insurgents in the
church.

 
          
He
stepped over the drained, beheaded corpse of the old man who'd been brought to
him earlier—what had happened to all the young catde?—and checked the map one
last time. He'd marked all six places where the dead cowboys had been found.
The X's formed a rough circle. Gregor's plan was to wander the streets within
that circle. Alone.

 
          
An
hour ago he'd sent his get-guards upstairs to the main floor of the synagogue,
telling them he wanted to sup alone and be left undisturbed here in the
basement while he planned the night's sortie. Now he crept up the steps and let
himself out a side door and into the dark.

 
          
Gregor
took a deep, shuddering breath of the night air. Too long since he'd done this.
Not since he'd migrated out of
Eastern Europe
with the others. It felt wonderful to be on the hunt again.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Joe
realized with a start that he hadn't seen Lacey since this morning.

 
          
"Has
anybody seen my niece?" he said to a group of men standing guard on the
front steps.

 
          
"Niece?"
one of them said, a big black man with gray stubble on his cheeks. "I
didn't know you had one. What's she look like, Father?"

 
          
"Dark
hair, tattoo on her arm about here, and she's—"

 
          
"Sure,"
said another fellow. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "She was with us
back there across the street in the office building most of the day. Some kinda
worker, that girl."

 
          
"That
she is," Joe said, trying not to sound too obviously proud. "But when
did you last see her? "

 
          
"Late
afternoon," said a big, red-faced man. "Said she was coming back here
to see you about something."

 
          
A
jolt of alarm lanced though Joe. "I haven't seen her. She never got to
me!"

 
          
He
tore back into the church, scanning expectant faces as he hurried through the
nave—expectant because he was supposed to start saying evening Mass just about
now. He ducked through the sanctuary and into the sacristy where he found Carl,
getting ready for his altar boy duties.

 
          
"Carl!
Have you seen Lacey?"

 
          
He
shook his head. "No, Fadda. Something wrong?"

 
          
"She's
missing. Gone." Joe's gut crawled. "Get your gun and a couple of the
men. We've got to find her."

 
          
"But
what about Mass?"

 
          
"Forget
about that. Lacey comes first."

 
          
"Y'gotta
say Mass, Fadda. Everyone's out there waiting for you." He stepped to the
door and looked out into the nave. "Let's do this: I'll tell some of the
non-Catholic guys to look for her during
Mass.
They can look just as good as us. They'll
find her. Chances are she's probably conked out in the convent or rectory
catching up on her sleep."

 
          
Joe
prayed that was true. It seemed logical. Lacey could take care of herself,
probably better than most of the men. She'd made it all the way down here from
New York
on her own, hadn't she?

 
          
Still.
. . not knowing where she was gnawed at him.

 
          
GREGOR
. . .

 
          
Where
are you? Gregor wanted to shout. I'm right here in your kill zone. Come and get
me!

 
          
He
had been walking these empty streets for what seemed like hours. It hadn't been
nearly that long, but his gnawing impatience made it feel that way. He'd seen
no one, living or undead. He fought the discouragement he sensed creeping up on
him, preparing to pounce on his back. He would not give up. He refused to
return empty handed again.

 
          
He
was wondering if perhaps he should set himself up as bait in another area when
he heard a woman's voice call from the shadows.

 
          
"Hey,
mister. Got any food?"

 
          
He
jumped, not having to fake his surprise. How had she sneaked up on him like
that? She was downwind, he realized, and had been hiding behind a thick tree
trunk. Still, he should have sensed her presence.

 
          
His
senses were on full alert now. Were the prey taking the bait? Was this woman
bait herself, placed here to lure an unsuspecting cowboy into a trap?

 
          
He
saw her clearly—a young woman in provocative clothes. Not that it provoked him.
Only one thing could do that, and it wasn't made of cloth. It was red and warm
and flowed and spurted.

 
          
Gregor
made a show of squinting into the darkness. No sense in giving his night vision
away and scaring off her backup—if indeed she had backup. He sensed no other
living human nearby.

 
          
"Come
on out where ah can see you, honey," he said, remembering to add the
drawl.

 
          
The
cow stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight.

 
          
"My,
my, you sure are a purty one. What you doin out here alone?"

 
          
"L-looking
for some food. You got any you can spare?"

 
          
"I
might. What's in it for me?" Didn't want to sound too anxious.

 
          
"What
do you think?" the woman said.

 
          
Gregor
nodded. "I guess that's fair. Where do we make the trade?"

 
          
He
felt his excitement fading. This was sounding more and more like some tawdry
little sex-for-food deal. Not at all what he was looking for. Where were those
vigilantes? Damn them!

 
          
"Anywhere
you want," the cow said. "I just have to check on my little girl
first."

 
          
Little
girl? That renewed Gregor's interest. If it were true, well, he hadn't had
really young blood in too long. And if it was a lie to entice some hapless
cowboy looking to earn some bonus points, that was fine too. That was why he
was here.

 
          
"I'll
follow you home, then we'll go to my place."

 
          
Her
house was only a block and a half away. Gregor felt his tension mount as she
led him up the front steps to the door. He wouldn't be able to cross the
threshold uninvited. If he hesitated too long, she'd guess the truth.

 
          
He
waited until she'd opened the door. As soon as she stepped inside he said,
"This ain't some kinda trap, is it?"

 
          
She
turned and faced him. "What do you mean?"

 
          
"Well,
guys like me been dyin left and right lately. I don't wanna step through that
door and get jumped."

 
          
"Stop
being silly and come in."

 
          
Gregor
stifled a laugh as he stepped forward. Stupid cow.

 
          
She
was already heading for the stairs when he crossed the threshold.

 
          
"Let
me just take a quick peek," she said as she bounded up the steps,
"and then we can get going."

 
          
Gregor
watched her go, then closed his eyes, trying to sense other living presences.
He found none. His disappointment mounted. This cow wasn't connected to the
vigilantes. She was here alone.

 
          
Wait.
Alone? What about the daughter she'd mentioned? Why didn't he sense her?

 
          
Curious,
Gregor moved toward the stairs.

 
          
OLIVIA
. . .

 
          
Olivia
stared at the woman captured near the church and wanted to scream. If they
weren't so short of serfs she would have bled out the three who'd brought her
here.

 
          
Look
at her. Crumbled in the corner like a discarded mannequin. Naked, battered,
bleeding from the mouth, nose, vagina, and rectum. And worst of all, unconscious.
How could she get any information from this cow if she couldn't speak? Had they
beaten her into a coma? What if she never woke up? Olivia would then have to
wait until they picked up another. And that would be much harder now because
the church fold would be watching for it.