Creepers (21 page)

Corelli's eyes were drawn to them for an instant, causing his determination to waver. "Stop with the tit show," he said angrily, "it won't do any good." He pulled on his Jockey shorts and turned away from her.

Louise leaped off the bed and stepped into her panties. "If you think I'm the kind of woman you can screw and forget, you've got another think coming."

"And if you think I'm the kind of guy who'd do that . . . Oh, never mind." Making love to Louise had revitalized him. The ancient burden of Jean's death was actually lifting, he was beginning to live in the present and not be a prisoner of the past. And it was all because of Louise Hill. Still, he didn't want her in any more danger than was necessary.

"Then it's settled," she said obstinately. "We're two of a kind. And that means where you go, I go." She slipped into her dress and turned her back on him. "Help me with this zipper, will you, Detective Corelli?"

He sighed, but acquiesced. Hell, one minute they were running from two thugs, and the next minute they were elbow-deep in a domestic scene played out daily in any quiet suburb. Which was reality? "I've already told you; it'll be tough enough for me to get into the hospital without having some half-witted female along playing detective." He angrily buttoned his shirt, beginning to suspect that eventually he'd give in to her insane demand that she accompany him. "Remember, Mrs. Hill, that I'm going to the morgue. Where they keep dead people."

Louise ignored the snipe, but she couldn't let her intelligence be questioned. "I resent being called half-witted. Besides, what's the difference if there are two of us?"

"That's twice as much chance we'll get caught." He pulled on his trousers, tucked in his shirt, and zipped up his fly. "I told Willie Hoyte that his friend Bimbo Calhoun should expect one visitor, not two. He's taking a big chance sneaking me in on his lunch break."

"Who eats lunch at one o'clock in the morning?" she asked.

"Don't change the subject. This is dangerous. Besides, I bet you faint at the sight of dead people."

Now there was silence. He turned to Louise and saw she was thinking of Lisa. He hadn't meant it that way, but he might as well let the faux pas stand. It might serve to dissuade her.

"I'll admit I don't make a habit of consorting with the dead, but in this case I'll make an exception. Come on, Frankie, what do you say?" She scooted over to him and rubbed against him seductively.

"Stop acting like some adolescent nympho, Louise. This isn't daytime television. And my answer is still no."

She pushed him away with enough force to knock him off balance. "Then let me lay it on the line: if you don't let me go with you, the moment you're out the door I'll call the police."

"You wouldn't--"

"Yes, I would," she said defiantly. "You have the nasty habit of forgetting that my daughter is out there somewhere--in the subway with those creatures, to hear you tell it. She needs my help. Sure, you can be cavalier and play cops and robbers and screw the helpless heroine, but what about me? Frank, Lisa is all I've got in the world." She sat down on the bed and watched him angrily.

Corelli sank down next to her. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I just don't want you to get hurt, that's all."

"Let me worry about me, okay?" He shrugged. "Then you'll let me go?"

"Do I really have any choice?"

"No, so let's get going." She rose from the bed, wiped away her tears, and finished dressing.

At the front door Corelli took Louise in his arms. She felt good there, molding against him in all the right places as she gave in to his protection.

"There's one thing I have to say before we leave: you said earlier that Lisa was the only thing you've got in the world. Well, Mrs. Hill, you're wrong. Like it or not, you've also got me." He kissed her forehead, then her mouth.

"I like that," she whispered. "I've liked it from the start."

Corelli gave her a final peck on the cheek, turned off the lights, and led her down to the car.

September 7

Friday

Chapter 11

12:01 A.M.-12:16 A.M.

Ben Mason had been a TA motorman for thirty years and he still loved every minute of it. Each time he moved his train into action, he felt a surge of power that was like no other. He, and he alone, commanded this mechanical monster with its belly full of passengers. And when he set it in motion he was always reminded of his first time. He was only twenty then and the train jerked and bucked and finally halted with a thud. The TA inspector who was overseeing this novice's first trip was thrown to the ground. Ben still smiled when he thought of that bastard banging on the door of the cab, cursing him for ever being born. But times had changed. Ben Mason could do anything with ten cars now except make them fly.

He got the "go" signal from the conductor--all doors were closed--four cars away and started the train moving. Ben had worked all the different subway lines in his time, but he most loved the long, exhilarating trips from the far reaches of the Bronx to the outlands of Brooklyn. The trip gave Ben time to think. When he was at home with his wife, Martha, privacy was at a premium. Not that Martha wasn't a good wife--she was--it was just that when he was around she demanded his undivided attention. So Ben reveled in his workday in the subway like other men take to a vacation. He was a good motorman and he knew it. Although he let his mind wander frequently, Ben's reflexes were coiled, waiting to strike, if need be. Sometimes he worried that in a real emergency he might not be ready, but then he remembered his perfect record and pushed aside any self-doubt. Nothing was going to happen to Ben Mason or his passengers.

Ben was getting older. The pains that often plagued his joints were diagnosed as the first stages of arthritis. Because he was too young to retire, and too proud to leave his job for a desk job, he kept the doctor's bad news to himself for the moment. It wouldn't be long before he'd make himself 'fess up--his passengers' safety was at stake, and that would always take precedence over anything personal. In the meantime, Ben was happily running a short-route AA train from Washington Heights down to the Chambers Street terminal. It wasn't like the old days, but it was still being a motorman.

As the train approached Canal Street, Ben eased up on the power, then slowed into the station, stopping so gently it wouldn't have shaken a bowl of Jell-O. He smiled proudly to himself; that was perfection. While the conductor opened the door, Ben waited, thinking of his and Martha's anniversary. Twenty-seven years next week, and he still hadn't bought his blushing bride a gift. Hell, she had everything any woman could need; she still wanted one thing, though. For weeks she'd been hinting about a microwave oven, if you could call leaving a mountain of brochures and magazines on the subject all over the house hinting.

The conductor signaled, and Ben started the train. The run between Canal Street and Chambers Street was fairly long, so he settled back to consider the idea of the microwave for Martha. His eyes instinctively, automatically darted from the power level in his hand to the pulsing control dials, then to the roadbed itself. All signals were still go. As usual the only complaint Mason had ever made to himself about this job as a motorman was that sometimes, when he got caught off-guard and his mind focused on the endless miles of track before him, the work got boring. But right now Ben Mason wasn't bored, because not more than fifty feet away, something was lying across the tracks.

The tunnel signal lights were green; that meant Control Central knew nothing of this obstruction. Mason automatically slowed the train and peered into the darkness. Lots of shit got sucked down into the tunnels and landed on the tracks. It was usually small stuff, though. This was large. As the train's lights swept over it, Mason sucked in his breath. This wasn't a something, it was a someone...lying on his--or her--side, face away from the lights, knees drawn up to the chest, one arm thrown back, exposing a ragged hand.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Mason exclaimed as he cut power and jolted the train to a teeth-grinding halt reminiscent of twenty years before. After he'd caught his breath, he called Jim Lyons, the conductor, and instructed him to come up front. It would take him a minute or so; these subway cars were a new breed and each one was locked fore and aft; only someone with a key could walk the length of the train.

A minute later Lyons tapped on the cab door. Ben opened it. The conductor was twenty-five and loved the subway as much as Mason, despite its recent bad press. "What's up?" Lyons' voice was calm. There were a thousand reasons to stop the tram.

"There's a body on the tracks," Mason said, feeling his fright for the first time.

"You sure?"

"Take a look yourself." He pointed out the window.

Lyons stuck his head into the crowded space of the motorman's cab so as not to alarm the four passengers sitting complacently in the first car. There was no doubt about it, someone was lying on the tracks. "So, what'll we do?"

"Ill call control. You go down and take a look." And suddenly Ben Mason's peaceful train trip vanished; they were in an emergency situation. The men watching the board at the command center already knew his AA train had made an unscheduled stop. What they didn't know was why they'd stopped.

When Lyons left, Ben hooked the latch-lock on his door and called in to explain the situation. Over the sounds of the flabbergasted dispatcher he heard Lyons explaining to the passengers over the PA system that there'd be a short delay. Power was cut on that section of the track and Ben peered out into the darkened train, caught Lyons' attention, and gave him the "go-ahead" signal.

A few seconds later, he'd opened the car door and was out on the roadbed in a shallow puddle of light cast by his pocket flashlight Lyons approached the motionless body very carefully. He'd been with the TA long enough to know the damage a speeding train could inflict on a human body; most often it was like running veal through a garbage disposal. As he got closer, he noticed the body's small size. Jesus, he thought, it looks like a kid all bundled up. There were no obvious signs of blood--that might be a good sign. Jim hated blood and had once fainted over a badly cut finger. But Ben Mason was watching, and that meant he couldn't faint; Mason would never let him live it down if he did.

When Lyons was right over the body, he aimed his flashlight down and stared. It was easy to see now that it was a man, not a child. He bent over to take a closer look.

From inside the cab Mason saw the body move at exactly the same time Jim Lyons did, only Ben was twenty feet away and safe when the body on the tracks suddenly sprang to life. Even though the "body" leaped to its feet and straightened up, it was a good two feet shorter than Lyons; not more than four feet, tops. From the way it was dressed--in tatters--it looked like a man, a garden-variety bum, in fact. But even without seeing its face, Mason knew in his gut this thing was no man. Its twisted form radiated evil.

As if to prove Mason's intuition right, the creature began clawing its way up the front of the conductor until it had a firm grip on his throat. Lyons' terrified scream shattered the ominous silence of the tunnel as their combined weight pulled Jim down to his knees. He was still screaming for help when the thing pushed him over onto his back, flicked open a switchblade knife, and cut his throat from ear to ear.

"What the fuck is going on down there?" The dispatcher's voice exploded into the cab. Mason wanted to tell him that the body on the tracks had come to life, that it was some kind of monster, that it was cutting Jim Lyons to shreds . . . and eating him! But Ben couldn't move. The microphone fell from his hand, and despite the continued imprecations from TA headquarters, he remained silent, unable to speak.

A new sound filled his ears: people screaming. People nearby, yelling for help. Had the passengers in the first car been so stupid that they'd looked out the front window and seen Lyons' horrible death? Ben wondered. They'd been told to stay in their places. He craned his head around and peered out through the partially open door into the train. The passengers were no longer alone. Six, eight, maybe ten of the creatures were swarming into the car, making their way in the darkness.

A middle-aged woman in a designer print dress carrying an expensive briefcase stood on the seat with her back against the windows as two of the creatures loped toward her. She looked ready to fight, but she didn't see the third monster outside. It leaped up to the window, reached its long, slithery arm through the narrow window opening, and grabbed her around the throat, immobilizing her. The other two things acted quickly--they unsheathed their knives and tore into the soft parts of her legs and abdomen, spilling intestines and viscera out into the car.

The other passengers were dispatched as quickly and as easily. A sudden silence told Ben they were dead also. Dead like Lyons. Dead like the woman in the print dress. And he was the only one left. The doors to the other cars were locked. He was next!

He stayed in the cab, unable to move. Every muscle in his body was knotted with tension, and his clothes were soaked with sweat. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, afraid that the air passing through his nostrils might alert those things that there was still one person left alive. In the cab. He keened his ears for some sound, some indication of what was happening in the car. As the buzz of his fear faded from his brain, it was replaced with another sound--a slurping . . . grinding . . . tearing. Without looking, Ben knew what it was. The bile rose in his throat, and with loud and horrifying velocity he vomited into the cab, fouling himself and the controls, at the same time obstructing the grotesque scene of the creature outside feasting on Jim Lyons' body.