Season of Passage, The (62 page)

'Is this stuff real?' she asked when he was done.

'Who knows? Of course, it's not real. It can't be. But it explains the puzzle. If you're asking whether I believe it, you're asking the wrong person.'

'Who am I supposed to ask? Lorraine?'

'You might.'

'I can't even wake her up.' Kathy paused. 'You don't think she's a vampire, do you? Christ. Why did you tel me al this stuff? You've got to come here.

You've got to rescue me.'

'I can't.

'You keep saying that. Why can't you?'

'I have to rescue Lauren first,' he said.

'No! If what you said is true, she'l kil you.'

Terry took a breath. 'I have to see her. I love her. It's funny in a way: after al I've seen and read, I can't imagine her hurting me.'

He was lying, natural y, but not entirely. He firmly believed Lauren was capable of kil ing him, or of turning him into a blood-sucker. But he also

believed that, when he confronted her again, the unexpected would happen. Kratine's gate would open up and the planet Mars would swal ow him.

Or else a ray of Chaneen's light would shine down from heaven and he would float into the stars. The feeling was so strong it could have been a

premonition.

'Don't worry about me,' he continued. 'You have to take care of yourself. Listen to me. Get out of the house. Gary knows where you live. Go

somewhere else. Go to a hotel. Buy some candles. They're afraid of fire. Light the candles and put them in the windows of your hotel room. Put a

few by the door. Don't let anyone in after dark.'

'What about Lorraine? What if Gary comes back for her?'

He didn't want her taking Lorraine along; the witch might help Gary find Kathy. 'Gary's not interested in Lorraine. He was only interested in you

before he went to Mars. Whatever's inside him, it stil reacts to Gary's memories.'

She didn't believe him. 'What about my mother?'

He rested his tired head against the door of the phone booth. 'I don't know. I just want you to be safe. Promise me you'l leave.'

'Promise me you'l stay away from Lauren. You won't, I know it. I don't know what I'l do. I might go to the police.'

'Good luck,' Terry said.

Kathy considered. 'What was Jennifer like? I mean, you told me about her before, but could she real y have been magical?'

That was one thing he did know. 'Yes. Jenny was magic. She was wonderful.'

The airport speakers announced his flight. He told Kathy he had to go. They agreed to talk the fol owing day, if they could. Kathy told him she loved

him before she hung up. He told her he loved her. He had to have someone left to love.

Disguising his voice and using the same phone - once again, with only the audio engaged - he cal ed Herbert Fry's parents. Herb's mother

answered.

'Hel o?'

'Hel o. Mrs Fry?'

She sniffled. 'Yes.'

'Mrs Fry, please listen to what I have to say. Do not hang up. For reasons I cannot explain right now, I can't identify myself. But I have something

important to tel you about your son's death. Herb did not commit suicide. He was murdered. Someone forced him to swal ow those pil s. That is a

fact. Do not believe the police, no matter what

they tel you. They don't know what's going on. The person who murdered Herb is stil at large. But this murderer is not to be blamed. She's sick. It's

important that you understand that, so that you wil not feel bitter toward her. It is my responsibility to find her. I wil find her. I wil see that she

receives help. I'm sorry I can't elaborate. This is a matter of high national security.'

'My boy didn't kil himself?'

'No. Once again, I know that for a fact. He was murdered.'

'But who is this?'

'I was a friend of your son. Please don't ask me anything else. You can stil be proud of your son, Mrs Fry. He was a brave man. He was a good

person.'

Terry hung up before she could ask more. The speakers cal ed his flight for the second time, but he stil had a few minutes. He ran out to the parking

lot and got his shotgun and case, and his bag of Catholic goodies. He had no trouble checking his gun, once they had punched his name into a

computer and seen that he had no felonies on his record. Hurrying to the boarding gate, he saw white roses on sale in the airport shop. He

remembered that Pastel had given Chaneen a bouquet of white roses. Vampires were supposed to be afraid of them. He swung into the shop and

bought a dozen. The salesgirl wrapped the stems in moist paper towels, which she surrounded with snug-fitting plastic. She wanted them to stay

fresh. She asked who they were for.

'My fianc6e,'he said.

The girl smiled. 'That's sweet.'

Terry boarded the jet with the flowers in his arms. The flight was half empty, and not long after lift-off he was able to stretch out on three empty seats.

He was exhausted. He fel immediately into a deep dreamless sleep. He awoke

only when the jet was preparing to land in Casper, Wyoming - just in time to see the sun sink below the horizon.

FORTY

Seventeen-year-old Daniel Floyd knelt in the thick grass of the cemetery beside the tombstone bearing the inscription: Jennifer wagner, 1992-

2005. He set down his tools on the ground. The sun had just set. The western sky was a dul orange, shot through with tunnels of violet. A ful moon

was rising in the east, touching the tops of the trees that lined the cemetery with a silver glow. There was enough light to work by.

Daniel assembled his tools: a steel file, a water-fil ed canteen stolen from the personal belongings of the late Professor James Ranoth, an ancient

crossbow from Daniel's own col ection of exotic weapons, and a single shaft of rock-hard cedar wood. He stared at the latter. There would only be

time for one shot.

He remembered Jennifer's last instructions.

Daniel uncorked the canteen and wetted the wooden shaft with the water James Ranoth had brought from deep beneath the Himalayas. Jennifer

had taken it from Ranoth's place while the Nova was stil on its way to Mars. Using the file, he began to sharpen the tip. The wood was hard as

steel; sweat sprung on his wel -muscled chest as he worked. Three times he was forced to stop and rest. But each time he stopped it was darker,

which made him want to work al the harder. When the first stars appeared

overhead, he set aside the file and leaned closer to the tombstone. He began to scrape the shaft at sharp angles over the rough granite, until the tip

turned to a fine point. Again he wet the wood with the water in the canteen. Then I he took the crossbow, pul ed back the taut wire, and set the shaft

in place.

The last traces of sunlight were gone, but the moon continued to rise, bathing the forest in a false romantic serenity. A warm breeze stirred the

leaves. Daniel tested the tip of the shaft careful y. He had done his work wel . His delicate pressure was enough to prick his finger. A single dark

drop of blood fel from his hand and was lost in the flowers and grass that covered the grave. The stake was sharp as a sword. Nothing could stand

in its way and live.

But he thought of Dr Lauren Wagner.

Daniel gathered his tools and hurried from the cemetery.

FORTY-ONE

At the end of Rattlesnake Range, Terry Hayes pul ed his rented car onto the shoulder of the road. He left the engine idling and climbed out, looking

down upon the twinkling lights in the wide val ey below - the city of Mobile. It was 10:14 p.m. The rental car company had taken a half hour to deliver

his car. He had looked a fine sight, waiting for it in the airport lobby with his gun case and white roses in his hands.

Overhead, the night sky was ablaze with the moon. He thought it appropriate. A hard warm wind blew from the south, the direction of his cabin. He

leaned over and stretched his legs and his back; it felt good - that's why he'd stopped. His muscles had been cramping for the last ten minutes. The

reason was not complicated. He was scared shitless.

Terry was stepping back to his car when the wind abruptly shifted, coming out of the east instead. He was instantly alert to a change in the quality of

the air. It seemed somehow thicker, and tainted with an odor of decay. He stopped, troubled. The smel was coming from the city, not from the

direction of his cabin. Had Lauren taken a minor detour for a late-night snack? If that were true where was he to search? Should he waste the time?

Then he remembered the last thing Lauren had said to him at Edwards.

'Goodbye, lover. We'l meet again, maybe, and we'l dine together in our favorite place.'

They had never had a favorite restaurant. He had never understood her comment. But now that he was not far from his cabin, he figured if they had

to name a restaurant, it would have been Mr Russo's. And hadn't Lauren promised the gentleman that she would have dinner at his establishment to

celebrate her return?

Terry got in his car and headed toward the restaurant. It lay on the eastern outskirts of Mobile, sheltered by an outstretched arm of the forest. It was

Thursday. They had probably just closed. Mr Russo and his son Michael were probably cleaning up.

Terry arrived half an hour later. Her smel was strong. The restaurant parking lot was empty, except for Mr Russo's cream-colored Volvo. The

building's lights were out. Terry took the flare from the glove compartment. He draped his rosary around his neck and jammed the vial of holy water

in his back pocket. Then he opened the gun case. He loaded the shel s without difficulty - five shots. He wondered whether he would have time to

get one off. He pumped a shel into the chamber. He got out of the car and headed for the front door.

He found Mr Russo a moment later. The man sat on the ground with his back against the closed door, his head slumped to his chest. At first Terry

thought Mr Russo was dead. But when Terry shook him, he looked up. His eyes were vacant, and his face even al owing for the moonlight -was as

pale as a bleached ghost's. He appeared to be in shock.

'Terry?' he said softly. 'Have you come for dinner?'

Terry glanced uneasily around and knelt by Mr Russo's outstretched legs. 'Has Lauren been here?' he asked.

'Does she want dinner, Terry?'

Terry gripped his shoulders and shook him. 'Tel me if Lauren has been here!'

Mr Russo blinked. 'We should be closing.'

'Where's your son? Where's Michael?'

'Michael,' Mr Russo mumbled. A faint smile touched his lips. 'He's a good boy. He makes his Papa proud.'

Terry slapped him across the face. 'Has she been here, damnit?'

Mr Russo's head rol ed with the blow. Then he frowned, puzzled. 'She came with you. We were closing and she said that your car had stal ed on the

hil . I went to check on it...' He trailed off, lost.

'Where is your son now?' Terry asked anxiously.

Mr Russo nodded pleasantly. 'Talking to Lauren. They were talking about Mars when I left...' His voice trailed off again. But then his face suddenly

contorted into a lump of pain. He began to weep pitiful y. 'She put Michael inside. She put my boy in with the meat.'

He would say no more. Lighting the flare, Terry pushed him gently to the side and opened the front door. He stepped inside, into the dark. It pressed

down upon him like a heavy blanket. He tried the light switch. Nothing happened. He held the flare out before him with his left hand, carrying the

shotgun in his right. The flare wasn't very bright. It seemed to make more shadows than it dissipated. He wished it didn't burn with a red light. It

reminded him of Mars, and he had never even been there.

The dining room was unoccupied. Terry crept toward the closed kitchen door. He knew he was making the mistake of his life. He hoped to God

Lauren hadn't felt this way on Mars. It must have been worse, of course - although

honestly speaking, he couldn't imagine how it could have been. The reason his flare was causing every shadow in the room to jump at him was

because his hands were shaking so badly.

Terry reached the door and pressed his ear to it. Al he could hear was the roar of his own blood in his ears. Putting a finger on the trigger of his

shotgun, he opened the door.

The smel was extremely bad. He could have just broken the seal of a tomb ful of black-plague victims. He wished he had brought incense along

with his rosary. He tried holding his breath, but he began to cough. Fortunately the effect of the smel on him was purely physical. He had no sudden

desire to rape a pig. He relaxed slightly, very slightly. He told himself Lauren mustn't be around.

He tried another light switch, and got the same result as before. He made his way around the central butcher's table. It was then he stepped through

a layer of cold air. He pointed the flare to the right: the shiny steel freezer door was lying wide open. In with the meat you say, Mr Russo.

Terry knew Lauren could be in there, too. She could probably turn on and off her perverted psychic overload switch at wil , the cold-blooded lizard.

But what the hel , he thought. He'd already paid the plane fare. He said a silent Hail Mary and stepped into the giant icebox.

Fat slabs of beef hung in his burning light. The stink wasn't getting any better. Steam poured off the tip of his flare. Al he needed now was to fog the

whole freezer. Vampires loved to attack in the fog. He stepped deeper into the icebox. Mr Russo must have bought his meat in huge wholesale

blocks; there was enough of it. He could have been walking through Kratine's pit.

In more ways than one.

At the back of the freezer, hanging between two bloody carcasses, he caught sight of a human leg.