Prowlers - 1 (12 page)

He laughed at that, but it wasn't a nice laugh. It was a sad, ironic, cynical laugh, at some private joke. Molly did not get the joke and was not at all sure she wanted to.

'Are you all right?" she asked.

Jack winced and suddenly seemed even more tired. "Not even close. I'm also the one who's supposed to be asking you that. Since your mom . . . couldn't make it, why don't you come back to the pub? Courtney and Bill

have to open up soon, but I thought maybe you and I could walk a bit, y'know?"

Molly had felt lost ever since she heard that Artie was dead. Now she saw that Jack seemed even more lost. It would be good to spend some time together, to walk off some of their hurt. To tame their pain.

"Sure," she agreed. "Only ... do you think Courtney would lend me some sweats or something? I don't want to walk around in this."

Jack smiled thinly, his eyes seeming to focus on her for the first time. "Yeah. We'll find you something to wear."

Artie left them alone.

As Jack and Molly walked through Quincy Market, then up to the Common and across to Newbury Street—where they strolled alongside hip young twenty-somethings for whom money was rarely an issue—Jack could not help but look over his shoulder and glance at each street corner. Artie had left him after more than an hour of conversation the night before, fading into an insubstantial mist and then disappearing altogether.

This morning, when he woke, Jack had tried to tell himself that he had, in his grief, imagined the whole episode. But that lasted about thirty seconds. It was crap, and he knew it. He really had seen Artie, spoken with him. His best friend was dead, but his spirit lingered in this world. As he dressed and ate breakfast and while Bill drove him and Courtney to church, he had

been distracted by the thought that Artie might appear at any time. Courtney had been concerned for him, but Jack had barely registered it.

No Artie at the pub. No Artie in the car. No Artie at the church.

He was waiting for them at the cemetery. As they pulled in behind the other cars in the funeral procession, Jack glanced out at the grave with the tarp-covered dirt and the gleaming casket and saw Artie standing beside the priest, crying for the loss of his life.

Jack felt like a ghost himself, walking up to the grave with Bill and Courtney. His entire body felt numb. He stared at Artie, at this apparition no one else could see, a gossamer specter who wiped phantom tears from his eyes. The mourners had gathered around Artie's family. Molly stood with them and cried endlessly.

The ghost glanced at Jack, composed itself—himself—and smiled sadly before dissipating into thin air. A moment later Artie appeared beside him.

"You okay?" Artie asked in a voice only Jack could hear.

"What the hell do you think?" Jack had muttered in return.

"Don't get snippy with me," Artie replied grimly. "You're not the one who got his face ripped off."

Jack shivered, bile rising in his throat. But then he nodded slowly. "I'm sorry. You're right."

"Don't tell Molly," Artie had warned.

"I said I wouldn't," Jack whispered.

When he glanced up again, Artie was gone and the

priest was saying a final blessing over the grave. As he and Molly returned to the pub and then went for a walk, he kept expecting Artie to appear again, but he didn't. Jack wondered if that was because it pained him too much to see Molly and to know what death had cost him.

For hours they wandered about, Jack only half paying attention. They ate lunch at a small, trendy pizza place on Newbury Street, and looked in the windows of art galleries. Eventually they started back. They were on the Boston Common, just past the entrance to the Park Street Station, when Molly stopped and stared at him.

"What's wrong?" Jack asked.

"Who are you looking for?" Molly demanded.

A chill ran through him, but he frowned. "What? I mean nobody. What do you mean?"

Molly stared at him a moment longer and then glanced away. Her eyes filled with moisture, but she wiped them once and no tears fell.

"Hey," Jack said gently. "Molly, what is it? I'm sorry if I seem distracted, but ... I keep thinking about Artie."

"Yeah, me too." Molly looked up at him. "I'm glad we did this, y'know? Walking around, just talking about him. And about the future. What now, right? High school graduation and college and life in general. It sounds like it'll be hollow without him, but I know that's not true. Life will go on, right?"

Jack closed the distance between them and pulled

her into an embrace. She hesitated a moment and then wrapped her arms around him.

"It will," Jack promised. "I ... I've been thinking about my mother a lot lately, because of Artie. Look at me and Courtney, Mol. Life does go on. The hurt will always be there, like a scar, but it becomes part of you."

"I promised myself I wouldn't cry anymore," she whispered, voice tight as she held back the tears.

Jack let up a little bit, held her away from him so he could look into her eyes. "Maybe that's not such a good idea. You can't not feel what you feel."

"I can't cry all the time."

"How 'bout just once in a while?" Jack suggested.

Molly smiled and hugged him again. "You've been so distracted today, as if you're not all here. But I need you here, Jack. With Artie and Kate gone, and with . . . home ... I need someone I can talk to, someone who understands."

"I do," Jack assured her. "I do."

She whispered then, and her voice sounded like a little girl's. "I thought I saw him, you know. The night he ... Saturday night. I woke up at two in the morning, and I thought I saw him standing in my bedroom. Creepy, huh? The weirdest thing. Like he was saying good-bye. I know how crazy that sounds ..."

Jack stiffened. He could picture it in his head, Artie becoming slowly aware of his death and his spiritual state, standing at Molly's bedside, not knowing how to say good-bye. The image broke his heart all over again.

"It doesn't sound so crazy. I think I see him all the time," Jack told her. "I'm sure he's still... with us."

Molly sighed and gave him a look as though she thought he was just being nice. "You're sweet," she said.

Then together they walked out of the park and headed back toward Bridget's. A short time later Jack escorted Molly to her mother's car, and they hugged again as they said good-bye, made promises to be there for each other. The next day was Kate's wake, after all, and the grief would have a new layer then.

After she drove away Jack turned back toward the pub and found Artie hovering, immaterial and translucent, right behind him.

"Oh, Jesus, Artie," Jack snapped, heart hammering in his chest. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I can't actually help it," Artie told him, smiling mischievously. "But I'll see what I can do."

Jack stood there, trying to figure out what to say next. Artie's smile disappeared and was replaced by an echo of his earlier sadness. It felt like a kind of betrayal to Jack that he could think of nothing to say, but he was at a total loss.

"Casual conversation's a bit difficult with ghosts, huh?" Artie asked.

"You could say that," Jack agreed, though he managed a small chuckle.

"I got the feeling last night that you didn't believe me about the Prowlers."

Jack shuffled his feet.

"It's all right. I'm glad you don't think I'm a figment of your imagination. But listen, I figured you needed proof, so I thought we should get some. I've met some . . . people here, in the Ghostlands. Other victims. They've started to keep track of the Prowlers. If you're going to help me, you've got to believe in them. And to believe, you'll need to see them, to really see them."

"How do I do that?" Jack asked, dumbfounded. He was aware of the traffic going by, of people glancing at him apparently talking to himself in the middle of the street.

"I'm going to guide you. And we're going to find a Prowler."

Atop the bell tower, Owen Tanzer crouched and looked out over Copley Square. The wind ruffled his hair and carried a myriad of scents to him. He gazed down upon the people milling about far below. Even in what little light the stars and sliver moon provided, he could pick out each person and judge him with the gaze of a predator.

A group of young women celebrated something. Couples of all ages moved along in a variety of paths; several of them pushed children in strollers or wore babies in packs strapped over their shoulders. Two loud men exited an expensive bar puffing on cigars. Cars and taxis roared by loudly, exhaling rancid fumes. Dozens went in and out of the mall on the far side of the green that stretched below. Several homeless people lingered

in the shadows around the distant steps of the Boston Public Library.

Prowlers moved among them, unnoticed.

Tanzer closed his eyes and sniffed the air again, the odors of the city below painting vivid pictures upon his mind. This tower had been Eric Carver's home, when Carver had still thought he could continue to pass for human, to be on his own instead of part of a pack. Now the tower was the pack's lair, and Tanzer controlled it all with fang and claw. In the rooms below, the members of the pack rutted and slept and ate and argued. He allowed them human pastimes as well: television, books, films. Tanzer worried that these entertainments might lull his pack into believing themselves human, and so he constantly reminded them of their true nature. They walked the streets like humans. Here in the lair, they could reveal their true selves, and Tanzer encouraged them to do so.

On the tower's roof, however, he retained his human appearance just in case he was spotted. They would not be able to remain in Boston any longer than they had any other city, but he did not want to hasten their exodus any more than necessary. For that reason, only two of the pack were allowed to lead a hunt each night, and even then, their groups had to hunt in different

locations, away from the lair.

The lair must be protected at all costs.

The Prowlers who slipped through the darkness in the square and other places in the area were guards, sentinels put in place to watch for anyone who might

have more than a passing interest in the lair, including police, journalists, and members of other packs. Tanzer's pack had been forced to eliminate all three from time to time. Atlanta. Detroit. Philadelphia. Not Boston, though. Not yet.

In Boston they were just getting started.

The pack moved from city to city, found a lair, and began to hunt. But that was only one of the functions of the pack—the short-term outlook. Tanzer's long-term plans were more ambitious. As they traveled, the pack grew. In small towns and remote areas on the road they found smaller packs of three or four, sometimes just families. In the large cities they found mostly rogues and pretenders, those who needed to be brought back to the wild, like Carver.

By ones and twos and fives the pack grew, until it was the largest pack of Prowlers in America since before the Civil War. At the moment there were fifty-seven, if Tanzer counted himself. Fifty-seven Prowlers roaming the narrow alleys and parks and posh neighborhoods of Boston.

Crouched on the stone parapet atop the deserted bell tower, thoughts only slightly interrupted by the rumble of a large truck rolling by, Tanzer sniffed the air again and relished the aroma that drifted up to him.

Fear.

By his count, the pack had slain thirty-two people since their arrival in Boston. Homeless people, prostitutes, a would-be car thief, young runaways, two taxi drivers, several couples starry-eyed with romance, a

baby whose young mother left it on the steps of a church in the North End, and a handful of others. Some had been properly disposed of. Others were left where they died. The police were the only ones who could have put it all together, but they seemed so in love with gang violence as an answer that they had not yet come poking around the lair.

But the fear was there. The police had linked several of the killings, and the media was rife with stories. Newspapers wondered if a serial murderer was on the loose. Others accepted the authorities' talk of gang war as an explanation. But the message to the people of Boston was dear: There was something abroad after dark of late, something to fear.

Tanzer laughed to himself, a low snuffling sound, deep in his throat. He stroked the three white parallel scars on his face, a gift from his father once upon a time, so very long ago. As the wind

whistled across the roof, he sniffed the air again. There.

He lowered his chin, thick lips curling back from his sharp teeth as he sniffed again, his gaze focusing upon two men who moved along the sidewalk as though they owned it. One was tall and broad across the shoulders, with muscles rippling beneath an expensive Italian suit. Perhaps thirty. But Tanzer's attention was on the other man. He was older by fifteen or twenty years, shorter, smaller, almost too thin. And yet he walked two paces ahead of his companion and it was clear he was in control. He walked like a man used to

being obeyed, used to being feared. He walked like a dangerous man.

Finally, here was one worth the hunt.

Tanzer had the scent.

He grabbed hold of the parapet and swung off the roof and into the belfry. The enormous bell was flaked with rust and stood ponderous and silent in the dark alcove at the top of the tower. It had apparently been so for years. Tanzer went around it and loped to the door and bounded down the seven stories to the ground. There were members of the pack on every floor. Two females, Vanessa and Dori, were on the landing at the fifth floor, watching him with expectant, flashing eyes as he leaped from the sixth step to the landing, muscles rippling.

"You go to hunt?" Dori asked.

Vanessa took a step toward him. "May we join you?"

Tanzer pulled up short, glaring at the females. They had been in the pack that merged with Owen's in Philadelphia. With a lightning-fast blow, he struck out at Vanessa. Her nose twisted, and blood spouted from both nostrils as she went down.

"Unless I ask for your company, I hunt alone," Tanzer snarled.