Night Of The Beast (14 page)

Bates drank, and because of the drinking he doubted his manhood. He suffered through night terrors that refused to be blotted out. Liquor kept him going, helped him stay halfway glued together.

Little Ngo had been his only friend, after all.

Ngo: "I nose Charley. He cook fish. Two klicks, maybe. This nummah one day meet VC, Bates. Nummah one."

He was right.

Fuck it. Let it be, will you?
Bates, back in the present, began to lecture himself.
Want to think about the service? What about discipline, the pride and loyalty it molded — men confronting violence together as one unit, a team? Discipline is salvation. You're under fire, he thought. You need mental toughness and emotional discipline. Now more than ever.

He would escape. There would be a new job, another chance. Bates had long ago submitted applications to the police departments in several Nevada cities. He'd just have to be more persistent. It would come. There would always be a need for experienced, dedicated law enforcement officers.

When you get right down to it, Bates reasoned, the bottom line is always discipline. He put the gun away, started the engine and drove home to sleep off the booze.

Edith, friend to telephone operator Gladys Pierson, was a gaunt, stern-looking old woman who generally wore a black dress and flat black shoes. She stared intently at the cards on the table before her; eyes wide, expression serene. The cards were from an antique Tarot deck. Edith was about to take a peek into the future. Her black dress rippled as she placed her first choice, indicating present position, in the center. Sideways, across the first, she placed another. This second card would indicate the house having the most immediate influence.

She slowly worked her way through the ritual. Three for destiny. Four for the distant past. Five for the recent past. Six led into the future. Seven: the question. Eight would indicate environmental factors, and nine the relevant inner emotions. Ten, the last, would show the probable result of any considered action.

She began to read. Within moments she frowned, puzzled. This pattern was unlike any she had ever drawn before. Its most likely interpretation was ominous, rather exciting.

Death.

The old woman shuffled the deck and began again. She created the proper pattern, concentrated, and flipped the cards in their new sequence. Her heart began to pound. There was absolutely no doubt. Some wild destiny was approaching, and at a rapid pace. The Tarot had spoken, and its message chilled her blood.

The Devil threatened violence, rage and bondage. The Tower sang of calamity — a great disturbance. The Hanged Man meant a terrible sacrifice. The card of Strength: mind over matter. There would certainly be death — and, for someone, a strong test demanding great courage.

Edith shuffled again, paused to catch her breath, then drew a final time. Once more, on behalf of the little town of Two Trees and its rapidly shrinking population.

Death.

She dropped the card as if it had caught on fire, her fingers twitching in shock and dismay. The odds against such a thing happening three times in a row were astronomical. This was no accident, it was a warning. She began to pace, her old bones creaking like the ancient boards in the hardwood floor.

What were the dead trying to tell her?

Peter had spotted the Baxters' familiar RV from the highway just as he was about to leave the main road and turn off into the mountains toward his cabin. He'd rolled the wheel and started in their direction, gunning his engine to climb to the top of the grassy knoll. Timmy had been overjoyed to see Rourke show up again. A kid could trust a guy who kept his promises. And now he'd spent the whole day with them, playing croquet and throwing a football.

As the afternoon faded, Peter seemed to be enjoying their company. Timmy made up his mind. He had to find some way to get Peter Rourke to be his dad. Although he couldn't have explained it, the boy knew instinctively that what needed to happen between Rourke and his mother wasn't going to happen. He'd have to think of something on his own.

Rourke had now spent hours with Timmy, taught him to play a chord on the guitar, make his own fishing pole and some real neat secrets about the woods — how to find north and stuff like that. Rourke was tall and strong — kind of a cowboy, and real smart. He made up whole songs all by himself. Jeez, the guy was perfect! Timmy concentrated fiercely, determined to figure an angle. Heck, he just couldn't let a chance like this slip away.

Rourke had tried to leave earlier, saying that he wanted to get to his cabin before dark, but they'd all ganged up on him and talked him into staying for supper. Then to sing a couple of tunes. Afterwards the four gathered around the comfort of a blazing fire. They stuck marshmallows on straightened coat hangers and chatted as they nibbled.

Timmy wedged himself in between Rourke and his dog Monday. He sat quietly, petting the dog; feeling safe, warm and protected. His mother lit another cigarette.

"Paula," Rourke said, "you're absolutely right. You smoke too much."

"I know," she sighed. "They say that's half the battle — admitting you've got a problem."

Peter winked. "I understand more than you'll ever know. Unfortunately, they also don't tell you it's the easy half."

Timmy patted the dog and reached up to tug on the sleeve of Rourke's thick hunting jacket. "Peter, can I ask you somethin' important?"

"Sure you can."

"I know you wouldn't lie to me, not on purpose, but is there any chance you're wrong?"

"About what, Timmy?"

"You know," the boy mumbled. He seemed embarrassed.

"I do?"

"Yeah. Well, about there bein' any vampers in the woods and stuff. Could you be wrong, even a little bit?"

Paula groaned. "Damn it, Timmy! Peter, I'm sorry about this foolishness. It's those horror comics."

Julie was making faces and giggling. The boy ignored both his sister and mother. He locked eyes with Rourke. He was serious, and he wanted a serious answer.

Peter remembered the feeling from his own childhood. He spoke to Paula first, without turning his head or looking at Timmy.

"No, relax," he said. "I don't mind. We've all got our own special monster, Timmy."

"Really?"

"Really. Now, here is the truth. I've spent most of my life in the high desert and these mountains. I've hiked alone, sometimes for days at a time. I have never once seen a vampire, or talked to anybody who claimed to have seen one. Never heard so much as a rumor. Cross my heart."

Timmy sighed with relief and snuggled closer. "Okay, sir," he said. "Thank you."

Julie stuck out her tongue and jumped up. "I gotta go," she announced, walking away towards the tree line. Paula, puzzled, called: "Julie? Use the toilet in the camper, honey. It's pitch black out there."

"No," her daughter replied. "It stinks, mother. Take it easy. I'll be right back."

"Kids," Paula grinned. She yawned, stretched and started to light another cigarette but stopped in the nick of time. She and Rourke exchanged smiles.

Timmy adores him, Paula thought. He needs a father figure, somebody very much like Peter. Well, maybe a bit older. Hell, Paula, she told herself, you could use a man too. Handy item to have on a cold night. I'll bet you'd be able to cut down on the smoking then, space case. Too bad there's nothing going on between us. Aww, that would be robbing the cradle.

Her son had closed weary eyes and fallen asleep with his head resting on Rourke's leg. Peter seemed oblivious; he was staring at the fire, lost in thought. Paula pierced another marshmallow and held it high above the leaping flames. She wandered, too. A thousand nagging questions filled her mind. She wondered how long it would take for the hurt to heal with Karl gone. Whether she'd ever be able to allow someone to get that close again. She began to feel drowsy. She popped the marshmallow into her mouth, closed her eyes and dozed.

It was Timmy who broke the spell. He woke up with a huge yawn and looked around.

"Mom, where's Julie?"

Paula and Peter jumped to their feet, suddenly aware that the fire had burned down near embers. Far too much time had passed. Something had to be wrong. Rourke ran over to his car, opened the trunk and dug around.

Monday sensed trouble brewing. He growled low and began to pace the clearing in a near perfect circle. An occasional questioning whine interrupted his fierce, throaty threats to the unseen enemy. Rourke clipped a leash onto his collar and started tugging.

Paula had stationed herself by the small path leading off into the trees. Her heart was thudding with alarm. She cupped her hands.

"Julie? Are you all right, Julie?"

Bleak, tormenting quiet.

Rourke joined her, carrying a tire iron and a red plastic lantern. He ordered Monday to sit, gave the leash to Paula, then sent a beam of light forward to scan the night. A thin ribbon of dried pine needles crisscrossing the trail seemed to sag from what could have been footprints. It was a place to start. Paula choked back a sob.

Peter squeezed her hand. "Keep Monday here with you," he said. "Call her name and look after the boy. I'll work my way up the path in figure eights. Your voice will be giving Julie her beacon, Paula, so don't break down."

He faded into the shadows before she could say a word.

Paula motioned Timmy to her side. She gave him the leash and control of the big, sweet-tempered dog. "We're going to take turns," she said, fighting back the tears.

Her son nodded gravely. He imitated his mother, cupped his palms and shouted.

"Julie!"

Peter thought he heard something moving through the woods. Seconds crawled by as he held his breath. Nothing, just leaves rustling in the breeze. He moved lengthwise up the hill, eyes searching.

The blackness attacked, began to close in from every angle. It turned shallow gullies into steep cliffs; transformed a harmless mound of boulders into a crazed ax murderer. Suddenly Rourke, only a short distance from camp, was completely lost. He felt isolated and trapped, as if he were picking his way across the floor of some gigantic, deep cavern. He moved quietly, every fiber of his being on red alert. He knew he should have been making as much noise as possible — to help the girl relocate the trail, in case she'd only gotten lost — but he couldn't convince himself to be loud. He was suddenly far too frightened.

His talent awakened and began to probe. The sensation caught him off guard and the talent broke free long enough to implant a few murky images; disconnected scraps of sound and shadow that further disturbed him and fed his growing anxiety. He dropped to one knee and sprayed the beam of light along the path, then out to explore a clump of brush and pine.

Something white, like the girl's blouse?

A small piece of fabric, probably ripped away by thorns. As Peter moved higher to examine it, he became conscious of the worried voices coming from below: Paula and Timmy, calling for Julie. They were starting to panic. He checked the area carefully, trying to guess what might have happened to the child, and edged a little further from the trail.

Soft earth gave beneath the toe of his boot.

He managed to step back before losing his balance and used the flashlight. It was a sheer drop, perhaps ten feet, with loose dirt near the rim. The perfect way for a confused child to knock herself unconscious. He slid to the bottom of the short cliff, tire iron at the ready, and listened.

A soft moan, the sound almost lost in the wailing echo of Paula's latest cry. He crouched low and peered into the woods.

There, right in front of him. No more than a few yards away. Julie, sprawled face down in a pile of leaves and neatly camouflaged. Rourke would probably have missed her if she'd remained silent.

The girl was bruised and dazed. She seemed to be coming around. Her eyelids fluttered and she looked right at him, but couldn't focus.

Rourke gently moved her limbs. Satisfied that Julie hadn't broken any bones, he gathered her up in his arms and started back. He noticed that her right wrist was bleeding slightly and paused to tie his hanky around it.

A tingle — his talent again.
Danger?
Jesus Christ, no doubt about it. Something was coming right at him; steady as hell and closing fast. It sounded large and low to the ground; sleek, like a big cat, with a smooth and even stride.

In seconds, Peter duck-walked around the girl to put himself squarely in the way and screen her off.
What the hell is that?
He experimented quietly with the tire iron, knees shaking, and tried to keep his muscles loose and free.
Goddamn it
, he grimaced.
Now, when I could really use a little help, my talent takes a fucking coffee break.

The stalker slowed, then stopped as if to observe him. Hot rush of alarm: Had it moved, had he lost it? Jesus, if he'd allowed it to outflank him, he and Julie were in deep trouble.

Something burst from hiding and charged.

Peter swung the iron rod in a vicious arc. He put everything behind the blow, for he knew he might not get a second chance. He nearly went through with it, but somehow managed to twist himself to one side at the last second. He dropped the tire iron, swearing, and reached down. No collar. Monday had been so determined to follow Peter into the woods he'd slipped free of his leash.

"Idiot," Rourke whispered. "Don't ever do that again." He looked around. "Come to think of it, let's both never do this again."