Night & Demons (64 page)

“Keep a low profile, sarge,” Lorne murmured, but even had he screamed, his words would have been lost in the boom of exhaust as Ben cramped the car around in the street, the left wheels bumping over the far curb. Then the accelerator flattened and the big car shot toward the rendezvous.

In Viet Nam, Lorne had kept his death wish under control during shelling by digging in and keeping his head down. Now he stood and went inside to his room. After a time, he slept. If his dreams were bright and tortured, then they always were. . . .

“Sure, you knew Jackson,” Ben explained, the
poom-poom-poom
of his engine a live thing in the night. “He’s the blond shit who . . . didn’t believe you’d broken your neck. Yesterday morning.”

“Small loss, then,” Lorne grinned. “But you watch your own ass, hear? If there’s nobody out but cops, there’s going to be more cops than just Jackson disappearing.”

“Cops and damned fools,” Ben grumbled. “When I didn’t see you out here on my first pass, I thought maybe you’d gotten sense enough to stay inside.”

“I was going to. Decided . . . oh, hell. What’s the box score now?”

“Seven gone. Seven for sure,” the patrolman corrected himself. “One got grabbed in the time he took to walk from his girl’s front porch back to his car. That bastard’s lucky, but he’s crazy as hell if he thinks he’ll stay that lucky.”

“He’s crazy as hell,” Lorne agreed. A spring whispered from Jenkins’s porch and Lorne bobbed the tip of his cigarette at the noise. “She’s not doing so good either. All last night she was staring at me, and now she’s at it again.”

“Christ,” Ben muttered. “Yeah, Major Hooseman talked to her this morning. You’re about the baddest man ever, leading po’ George into smoking and drinking and late hours before you killed him.”

“Never did get him to smoke,” Lorne said, lighting Ben’s cigarette and another for himself. “Say, did Jackson smoke?”

“Huh? No.” Ben frowned, staring at the closed passenger-side windows and their reflections of his instruments. “Yeah, come to think, he did. But never in uniform, he had some sort of thing about that.”

“He sheered off last night when I lit a cigarette,” Lorne said. “No, not Jackson—the other one. I just wondered . . . .”

“You saw him?” Ben’s voice was suddenly sharp, the hunter scenting prey.

Lorne shook his head. “I just felt him. But he was there, baby.”

“Just like before they shot us down,” the policeman said quietly. “You squeezing my arm and shouting over the damn engines ‘They’re waiting for us, they’re waiting for us!’ And not a fucking thing I could do—I didn’t order the assault and the captain sure wasn’t going to call it off because my machine gunner said to. But you were right, snake.”

“The flames . . .” Lorne whispered, his eyes unfocused.

“And you’re a dumb bastard to have done it, but you carried me out of them. It never helped us a bit that you knew when the shit was about to hit the fan. But you’re a damn good man to have along when it does.”

Lorne’s muscles trembled with memory. Then he stood and laughed into the night. “You know, sarge, in twenty-seven years I’ve only found one job I was any good at. I didn’t much like that one, and anyhow—the world doesn’t seem to need killers.”

“They’ll always need us, snake,” Ben said quietly. “Some times they won’t admit it.” Then, “Well, I think I’ll waste some more gas.”

“Sarge—” The word hung in the empty darkness. There was engine noise and the tires hissing in the near distance and—nothing else. “Sarge, Mrs. Purefoy was on her porch a minute ago and she didn’t go inside. But she’s not there now.”

Ben’s five-cell flashlight slid its narrow beam across the porch: the glider, the wing-back chair. On the far railing, a row of potted violets with a gap for the one now spilled on the boards as if by someone vaulting the rail but dragging one heel . . . .

“Didn’t hear it fall,” the policeman muttered, clacking open the car door. The dome light spilled a startling yellow pool across the two men. As it did so, white motion trembled half a block down Rankin Street.

“Fucker!” Ben said. “He couldn’t jump across the street, he threw something so it flashed.” Ben was back in the car.

Lorne squinted, furious at being blinded at the critical instant. “Sarge, I’ll swear to God he headed for the church.” Lorne strode stiffly around the front of the vehicle and got in on the passenger side.

“Mother
fuck!”
the stocky policeman snarled, dropping the microphone that had three times failed to get him a response. He reached for the shift lever, looked suddenly at Lorne as the slender man unclipped the shotgun. “Where d’ye think
you’re
going?”

“With you.”

Ben slipped the transmission into Drive and hung a shrieking U-turn in the empty street. “The first one’s birdshot, the next four are double-ought buck,” he said flatly.

Lorne jacked the slide twice, chambering the first round and then shucking it out the ejector. It gleamed palely in the instrument light. “Don’t think we’re going after birds,” he explained.

Ben twisted across the street and bounced over the driveway cut. The car slammed to a halt in the small lot behind and shielded by the bulk of the old church. It was a high, narrow building with two levels of boarded windows the length of the east and west sides; the square tower stood at the south end. At some time after its construction, the church had been faced with artificial stone. It was dingy, a gray mass in the night with a darkness about it that the night alone did not explain.

Ben slid out of the car. His flash touched the small door to the right of the tower. “Nothing wrong with the padlock,” Lorne said. It was a formidable one, set in a patinaed hasp to close the church against vandals and derelicts.

“They were all locked tight yesterday, too,” the patrolman said. “He could still be getting in one of those windows. We’ll see.” He turned to the trunk of the car and opened it, holding his flashlight in the crook of his arm so his right hand could be free for his drawn revolver.

Lorne’s quick eyes scanned the wall above them. He bent back at the waist instead of tilting his head alone. “Got the key?” he asked.

The stocky man chuckled, raising a pair of folding shovels, army surplus entrenching tools. “Keep that corn-sheller ready,” he directed, holstering his own weapon. He locked the blade of one shovel at 90° to the shaft and set it on top of the padlock. The other, still folded, cracked loudly against the head of the first and popped the lock open neatly. “Field expedients, snake,” Ben laughed. “If we don’t find anything, we can just shut the place up again and nobody’ll know the difference.”

He tossed the shovels aside and swung open the door. The air that puffed out had the expected mustiness of a long-closed structure with a sweetish overtone that neither man could have identified. Lorne glanced around the outside once more, then followed the patrolman within. The flames in his mind were very close.

“Looks about like it did last night,” Ben said.

“And last year, I’d guess.” The wavering oval of the flashlight picked over the floor. The hardwood was warping, pocked at frequent intervals by holes.

“They unbolted the old pews when they moved,” Ben explained. “Took the stained glass, too, since the place was going to be torn down.”

The nave was a single narrow room running from the chancel in the north to the tower which had held the organ pipes and, above, the chimes. The main entrance was by a side aisle, through double doors in the middle of the west wall. The interior looked a gutted ruin.

“You checked the whole building?” Lorne asked. The pulpit had been ripped away. The chancel rail remained though half-splintered, apparently to pass the organ and altar. Fragments of wood, crumpled boxes, and glass littered the big room.

“The main part. We didn’t have the key to the tower and the major didn’t want to bust in.” Ben took another step into the nave and kicked at a stack of old bulletins.

White heat, white fire—
“Ben, did you check the ceiling when you were here last night?”

“Huh?” The narrow Gothic vault was blackness forty feet above the ground. Ben’s flashlight knifed upward across painted plaster to the ribbed and paneled ceiling that sloped to the main beam. And—”Jesus!”

A large cocoon was tight against the roof peak. It shimmered palely azure, but the powerful light thrust through to the human outline within. Long shadows quivered on the wood, magnifying the trembling of the policeman’s wrist as the beam moved from the cocoon to another beside it, to the third—

“Seven of the fuckers!” Ben cried, taking another step and slashing the light to the near end of the room where the south wall closed the inverted V of the ceiling. Above the door to the tower was the baize screen of the pipe loft. The cloth fluttered behind Mrs. Purefoy, who stood stiffly upright twenty feet in the air. Her face was locked in horror, framed by her tousled white hair. Both arms were slightly extended but were stone-rigid within the lace-fringed sleeves of her dress.

“She—” Lorne began, but as he spoke and Ben’s hand fell to the butt of his revolver, Mrs. Purefoy began to fall, tilting a little in a rustle of skirts. Beneath the crumpled edge of the baize curtain, spiked on the beam of Ben’s flashlight, gleamed the head and foreclaws of what had been clutching the woman.

The eyes glared like six-inch opals, fierce and hot in a dead-white exoskeleton.

The foreclaws clicked sideways. As though they had cocked a spring, the whole flat torso shot down at Ben.

An inch long and scuttling under a rock, it might have passed for a scorpion, but this lunging monster was six feet long without counting the length of the tail arced back across its body. Flashing legs, flashing body armor, and the fluid-jeweled sting that winked as Lorne’s finger twitched in its killer’s reflex—

Lorne’s body screamed at the recoil of the heavy charge. The creature spun as if kicked in midair, smashing into the floor a yard from Ben instead of on top of the policeman. The revolver blasted, a huge yellow bottle-shape flaring from the muzzle. The bullet ripped away a window shutter because a six-inch pincer had locked Ben’s wrist. The creature reared onto the back two pairs of its eight jointed legs. Lorne stepped sideways for a clear shot, the slide of his weapon slick-snacking another round into the chamber. On the creature’s white belly was a smeared asterisk—the load of buckshot had ricocheted off, leaving a trail like wax on glass.

Ben clubbed his flashlight. It cracked harmlessly between the glowing eyes and sprang from his hand. The other claw flashed to Ben’s face and trapped it, not crushingly but hard enough to immobilize and start blood-trails down both cheeks. The blades of the pincer ran from nose to hairline on each side.

Lorne thrust his shotgun over Ben’s right shoulder and fired point-blank. The creature rocked back, jerking a scream from the policeman as the claws tightened. The lead struck the huge left eye and splashed away, dulling the opal shine. The flashlight still glaring from the floor behind the creature silhouetted its sectioned tail as it arched above the policeman’s head. The armed tip plunged into the base of his neck. Ben stiffened.

Lorne shouted and emptied his shotgun. The second dense red bloom caught like a strobe light the dotted line of blood droplets joining Ben’s neck to the withdrawn injector. A claw seized Lorne’s waist in the rolling echo of the shotgun blasts. His gunbutt cracked on the creature’s armor, steel sparking as it slid off. The extending pincer brushed the shotgun aside and clamped over Lorne’s face, half-shielding from him the sight of the rising sting.

Then it smashed on Lorne’s neck brace, and darkness exploded over him in a flare of coruscant pain.

The oozing ruin of Mrs. Purefoy’s face stared at Lorne through its remaining eye when he awoke. Everything swam in blue darkness except for one bright blur. He blinked and the blur suddenly resolved into a streetlight glaring up through a shattered board. Lorne’s lungs burned and his stiffness seemed more than even unconsciousness and the pain skidding through his nerve paths could explain. He moved his arm and something clung to its surface; the world quivered.

Lorne was hanging from the roof of the church in a thin, transparent sheath. Mrs. Purefoy was a yard away, multiple wrappings shrouding her corpse more completely. With a strength not far from panic, Lorne forced his right fist into the bubble around him. The material, extruded in broad swathes by the creature rather than as a loom of threads, sagged but did not tear. The clear azure turned milky under stress and sucked in around Lorne’s wrist.

He withdrew his hand. The membrane passed some oxygen but not enough for an active man. Lorne’s hands patted the outside of his pockets finding, as he had expected, nothing with a sharp edge. He had not recently bitten off his thumbnails. Thrusting against the fire in his chest, he brought his left hand in front of his body. With a fold of the cocoon between each thumb and index finger, he thrust his hands apart. A rip started in the white opacity beneath his right thumb. Air, clean and cool, jetted in.

“Oh, Jesus,” Lorne muttered, even the pain in his body forgotten as he widened the tear upwards to his face. The cocoon was bobbing on a short lead, rotating as the rip changed its balance. Lorne could see that he had become ninth in the line of hanging bodies, saved from their paralysis by the chance of his neck brace. Ben, his face blurred by the membrane holding him next to Lorne, had been less fortunate.

Ten yards from where Lorne hung and twenty feet below the roof beam, the baize curtain of the pipe loft twitched. Lorne froze in fearful immobility.

The creature had been able to leap the width of a street carrying the weight of an adult; its strength must be as awesome as was the rigidity of its armor. Whether or not it could drive its sting through Lorne’s brace, it could assuredly rip him to collops if it realized he was awake.

The curtain moved again, the narrow ivory tip of a pincer lifting it slightly. The creature was watching Lorne.

Ben carried three armor-piercing rounds in his .357 Magnum for punching through car doors. Lorne tried to remember whether the revolver had remained in Ben’s hand as he fell. There was no image of that in Lorne’s mind, only the torchlike muzzle blasts of his own shotgun. Slim as it was, his only hope was that the jacketed bullets would penetrate the creature’s exoskeleton though the soft buckshot had not.