Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer (11 page)

But quick as Mike was the stranger was quicker yet. Without seeming to move a muscle, he yet appeared to flow aside, easily avoiding Mike’s reaching hands. And Mike had seen that sinuous, flowing motion before: It belied the little man’s appearance no less than it had once belied that of the brothers Francezci! He was—could only be—their man, their thrall, their watcher!

Mike gasped, snatched a breath, took a pace to the rear and hissed his recognition. Then, sighing his relief, he forced his tense muscles to relax as he searched for something to say. But once again the little man beat him to it, and:

“Aye,” he said, with a curt nod of his head. “Now ye ken me for sure, d’ye no? Mah name’s McGowan. That’s
Mr.
McGowan—but ye can call me Angus for simplicity, though it’s usually a name Ah reserve for mah friends. As for yeresel’: Ah ken yere name well enough, and more than that yere purpose here. But damn me if ye’re no a verra sloppy man, Mike Milazzo! And if ye ask mah opinion, when it’s doon tae the task in hand ye’ve been as slow as bleddy treacle!”

Mike’s mob nature now surfaced, and he wasn’t one to accept insults from anyone, let alone someone of McGowan’s small physical stature. “What’s that?” he said, scowling and studying the other more closely. “I’m sloppy and slow? Big talk, from a fucking midget!”

“Sloppy and slow, aye.” McGowan repeated him. “Not tae mention
forgetful!
Ye might want tae be a wee bit more careful how ye speak tae a body—and in particular
this
body! For Ah’m the one wi’ your life in mah hands, am Ah no?”

The darkness of the alley was nothing to Mike and even less to McGowan, and now close-up they continued to study each other. Mike was young, handsome, well-built if not muscular, and close to six feet in height. While McGowan on the other hand—

—Mike might find him laughable, might even be scornful of him, if he didn’t know he was a vampire thrall of the Francezci brothers. For Angus McGowan was old, gnarled, and shrivelled as a prune, all five foot four or five of him. Only his nature, of which Mike was now completely convinced, loaned him anything of stature, however illusory. Other than that he was like some kind of living caricature: a “canny” old Scotsman…but his rheumy grey eyes—the eyes of a hawk for all that they were misted—missed very little; and the way his quivering, blue-veined nose sniffed at the air, and at Mike, it must surely be as sensitive as a bloodhound’s.

No, Mike finally decided, the Francezcis’ watcher wasn’t at all someone to be ridiculed. If anything he was impressive, and in his attitude a match for Mike himself. More than a match, as long as he held the key to Mike’s future: an extended life or a dreadful death. For as he’d oh-so-correctly pointed out, Mike’s continued existence was indeed in his hands.

And now it was as if McGowan could read his mind, which was something else Mike had experienced before, at Le Manse Madonie: the intuitive, near-telepathic talent of long-term vampires, to glimpse the thoughts of others of their kind. And:

“Oh, dinnae fret yeresel’, Mike,” the little man told him. “Auld Angus has the answer to yere problem sure enough. But Ah cannae gi’ it tae ye until the wee job’s done—which Ah’m sure ye ken. But man, yere time is verra nearly up and ye’re sick as a body can be. Why, Ah can even smell it on ye…and
in
ye! And when Ah call ye sloppy it’s no an insult but a fact.”

“How so?” Mike snarled, not knowing what else to say.

“Because Ah’ve
watched
ye,” the other replied. “And Ah tell ye, what may have served ye well in the past in New York is’nae any damn guid tae ye here! Have ye no heard the phrase: longevity is synonymous wi’ anonymity? Did the Francezcis no tell ye?
Stealth
, man, that’s the word! Now listen:

“Clever men knew it even three hundred and fifty years ago. Aye, and the Francezcis were around even then! Did’nae Descartes hissel’ make it clear? Did’nae he say how in order tae live well a body must live unseen? Damn right he did! It was a different season and there were different reasons—religious reasons—but the inspiration was the same: fear o’ death!”

Feeling browbeaten, Mike scowled and said, “What? Des who?”

“Hah!”
McGowan was scornful. “Sloppy and ignorant too!” And before Mike could reply: “Tae see and no be seen, tae track and no be tracked. Why, ye’ve a’ready been here—what, eight days is it? And achieved what?
Nothin’
of any value! B.J. Mirlu, she kens there’s somethin’ in the wind. Her girls are grown more cautious and are sure tae change their tack; as they’ve done in the past when they’ve sensed a threat. Ye’ll no be catchin’ them out so easy the noo. And after a’ that ye still seem tae think ye have the right tae take offense when Ah call ye sloppy?
Huh!
Mike, Ah’ve been here since long before ye were born, and in a’ that time B.J.’s moon-children may have spied me once or twice, like a shadow on the wall, or a far faint figure in the nicht—but that’s a’. Because Ah watch but Ah’m no watched. Because Ah see but Ah’m no seen. Now d’ye understand?”

Mike had listened in silence; he had heard all and in fact understood all perfectly well. But there was only one thing on his mind, or perhaps two. The first was his horrific condition, and how he must try to find a way not to alienate McGowan, who knew how to alleviate it. And the second was McGowan’s criticism; for irrefutable as it was, it nevertheless rankled and he couldn’t let it go. And so:

“Yeah, sure I understand. What
you
don’t seem to understand is all the shit I’ve been going through! I know this B.J. bitch is dangerous; if she wasn’t the Francezcis would have taken her out long ago, and I wouldn’t be here. That’s why I’ve had to be careful, or ‘slow’ according to you: because she
is
still here. And as for being ‘sloppy’—”

“Ah take it ye’re speakin’ about a couple o’ dead yins, are ye no?” McGowan sneered. “Aye, and one without her head, so tae speak? And a’ this in the papers under glarin’ headlines? So if that’s no sloppy maybe ye’ll tell me what is! And Ah
do
ken the shit ye’ve been goin’ through. Man, ye
stink
o’ it, d’ye no? So now let’s walk and talk. We’re just a wee bit conspicuous standin’ here arguin’ in this place.”

“What?” said Mike, glancing here and there perhaps a little nervously. “But who’s there to see us?”

McGowan likewise peered up and down the alley. And sniffing the night air, he finally nodded his satisfaction; but he nevertheless touched a bony finger to his lips, indicating caution. And then, moving off with Mike alongside: “Aye, who indeed?” he grunted. “But let me remind ye one more time: ye must see, but no be seen. And wi’ B.J.’s boyfriend—who or what the bleddy hell he is—that’s no easy job. He’s like tae appear as if out o’ thin air, then disappear like so much smoke! It pains me tae admit it, but Ah’ve never been able tae track his movements for more than half a mile or so. Oh, he’s a queer yin, that yin—a night owl—yet no one o’ B.J.’s pack; and neither kith nor kin to ye and me, if ye take mah meanin’…”

McGowan paused, scowled and shook his head. “So maybe ye’ve been lucky after a’, Mike, that he’s no been at B.J.’s wine bar this last week or so. But one thing’s sure: he’s back the noo!”

Mike nodded. “The Francezcis told me about him, what little they knew! But with all the years you’ve been here, is that all you’ve got on him?” It was Mike’s turn to sneer. “Maybe I’m not so sloppy after all! But then again, I’m not used to just watching, sneaking about, and doing fuck all else!”

“Oh aye,
verra
clever!” McGowan replied sarcastically. “But ye should ken, Mike, that if Ah’d been telt tae do more than Ah do, be sure Ah’d have taken action long ago, no matter the cost tae mahsel’. For it’s no good idea tae fail the Francezcis, and Ah never have. Mah job here has been and still is tae watch and report, that’s a’. The fact that Ah’m still here doin’ it after a’ these years surely speaks for itsel’, does it no?”

And before Mike could answer: “Now then, if Ah did’nae ken the brothers’ wishes Ah’d no longer be bothered wi’ ye; no not at a’. But Ah
do
so ken their wishes. So, d’ye want mah advice or no? Speak up.”

Did Mike want McGowan’s advice? No, what he really wanted was to take hold of him, bite him, throttle the little bastard and crush his fucking head! But instead he nodded. “Yes, I want your advice. But if I follow it will it work? And will that get me the cure?”

McGowan glared at him. “Do ye no listen tae anythin’ a body tells ye? Have Ah no just this minute said how Ah carry out mah bosses’ orders tae the letter?”

Again Mike nodded. “Okay, so calm down and advise me.”

“Huh!”
McGowan grunted. “No so bleddy thick after a’ then!” And narrowing his eyes: “Verra well, now listen:

“Ye’ve been trackin’ and attackin’ B.J. Mirlu’s girls, have ye no?”

“Yes, of course I have,” Mike replied and gave a shrug. “In order to transmit these fucking diseases!”

“Aye.” And now McGowan nodded. “O’ course ye have. But Mike surely the target ye’re really aimin’ at is B.J. Mirlu hersel’, is she no?”

Mike threw up his hands in frustration.
“What?
Sure she is! You know damn well she is! So fucking what? And what the fuck’s this for advice? I mean, what are you
getting
at?”

McGowan spat on the cobbles and shook his head in mock pity, “Oh, what a poor blind fool ye are! Blind, aye, because ye dinnae see! Bonnie Jean Mirlu is’nae a lesbian! She does’nae kiss, fondle, fuck, or sleep wi’ her girls! She cares for them, aye, but nothin’ more than that. And so contact—this fatal physical contact ye’re plan calls for—is’nae at a’ likely, now is it? Face facts, Mike: there’s no way ye can reach this she-wolf through her lassies. Ah, but then there’s this English lover o’ hers that we’ve been talkin’ about. And—”

Finally Mike saw the logic of it, and barely breathing the words he said: “—And this English guy, this boyfriend?—he
does
sleep with, fondle, and fuck her, right?”

Now McGowan grinned, slowly nodded and replied, “Oh aye, he does a’ that, Ah’m sure o’ it. And there ye have it.”

Mike thought about it, and after a moment frowned and said, “Or maybe not. I mean, if you haven’t been able to get near him—and neither have I—then how the hell…? He let the question trail away, but in any case McGowan had the answer.

“Ye’re still no thinkin’,” he said. “It was never mah intention tae get up close and personal wi’ him, only tae see where he goes, what he does. Well, Ah admit Ah failed at doin’ that, and Ah still dinnae ken just how he does it; but if the Francezcis had telt me tae kill him, then Ah would’nae have been so fussy or leery. Instead o’ hangin’ back, tryin’ tae follow him and learn his story, Ah would have jumped him and made a quick end o’ it. Simple.”

Mike nodded. “I see. But they gave you no such orders.”

“No. Because as Ah’ve telt ye they value me too highly as their sleeper and watcher tae let me give mahsel’ away, jeopardizin’ a position Ah’ve held for a’ these many years. Hah! But is’nae that why they’ve sent ye? Why o’ course it is! And it’s also why they’ve telt me tae advise ye, should ye need it.”

“Go on, then,” said Mike, nodding. “Get on with it. How do you suggest I get close enough to infect this…this
fucking
disappearing trick of a man? How do I go after him, eh?”

McGowan grinned a sly, evil grin. “Ah, but that’s just it. Ye
dinnae
go after him; no, not at a’. Ye set a trap he cannae resist, and let him come tae ye!”

“A trap?”

“Aye. Let him know where and when ye’ll be havin’ yere fun wi’ one o’ B.J.’s girls—and be waitin’ for him when he comes ridin’ tae the rescue!”

“‘Let him know that I’ll…” Mike frowned. Then, baffled, he shook his head. “But how do I do that?”

“What? Did ye never hear o’ the telephone? Listen: What wi’ yere previous failed attacks and what a’, it’s verra possible, indeed likely, that B.J. thinks there’s a madman on the loose, chasin’ her girls. So now let that selfsame madman call B.J.’s bar—the number’s in the book—requestin’ tae speak tae a Mr. Keogh. For that’s his name, Harry Keogh. At least Ah’ve learned that much.”

Mike’s furrowed brow cleared as understanding dawned, lighting up his eyes. “You mean…I get to play some kind of crazy man, right? I talk to this Keogh fuck and threaten one of B.J.’s girls. It will be like I’m calling him out, challenging him. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Ah leave a’ that up tae ye,” McGowan answered, tossing his head in disgust. “What, should Ah do the job for ye mahsel’? Use yere
bleddy
imagination! That’s assumin’ ye have such!”

Suddenly eager, Mike said, “I’ll do it tonight, right now!”

“Now hold!” McGowan cautioned him. “Ah ken how time’s narrowin’ down, but dinnae be in such a panic that ye trip yeresel’ up. Get on back tae yere place and take time tae think it out. Get yere story—everythin’ ye’ll be sayin’ tae him—straight in yere head, and then…tomorrow nicht will be soon enough. Talk tae him durin’ the day, makin’ yere arrangement for tomorrow nicht, aye. And Ah’ll be there when it’s done, tae give ye yere reward…
or maybe not,
dependin’ how it goes.”

“You’ll be there?” said Mike.

“Oh aye. Ah’ll follow ye, but ye likely willnae see me. For ye ken, Mike, that’s how Ah am. It’s what Ah do best.”

“But—”

“No more buts,” said McGowan. “And Ah’ve spent enough time wi’ ye. So Ah’ll be leavin’ now, until tomorrow nicht. Aye…”

They had reached a junction of alleys. Quick and light as a dancer, the small man spun away into shadows that closed on him like a shroud. Mike stared after him, and even with his vampire eyes had difficulty following McGowan’s departure. It was as if the darkness had swallowed him whole; he was there one moment—real and solid as can be—and in another was himself a shadow, merging with those of the narrow alley he flowed into. And like a smudged, shrinking inkblot, McGowan diminished with distance, until finally he flowed vertically up the alley’s canyon wall and was gone…