End of Days (7 page)

In New York City, ConEd worked around the clock.

Charlie liked the night shift: no traffic, no gawkers, just the cool, peaceful sewers. His partner Phil liked it, too. Phil was a whiz at paperwork, especially when it came to overtime. Between the two of them, they had it made.

This job seemed simple enough. A manhole had popped a few hours before, most likely a methane buildup in the corridor. But it was too hot for methane. Charlie was sweating profusely minutes after descending into the swampy darkness. His mask filtered the foul odor, but he had no protection against the stifling heat.

Exhausted, Charlie slogged over to the nearby gauge.

“Whatcha got there, Charlie?”

Phil's voice echoed down the sewer tunnel as Charlie peered at the dials.

“I dunno,” Charlie muttered, watching the quivering needle. “Pressure's climbing off the gauge.”

Charlie wasn't really worried. Faulty gauges were common enough. And if the methane buildup went over the top, he always had his mask.

Charlie was an optimist.

A skin-searing flash blinded him—but he never heard the blast. A fiery geyser spewed up through the sewer, incinerating him instantly. Up on the street, Phil ran, but he couldn't escape the second blast directly in front of him. Trapped, he pulled down his mask and ran headlong between the two columns of fire rising up like the gates of hell.

Hell or heaven, he didn't make it. The flames reached out for him and pulled him back.

One after another, the manholes blew, erupting like white-hot volcanoes that consumed Phil's bones and melted glass windows. The roaring pyrotechnics immediately drew a crowd, but not one of the onlookers noticed the opaque shape that slipped through them like an unholy wind.

The time was at hand.

C
HAPTER FIVE

It was more like a ripple than a definite shape. But its cold energy was quite palpable. Pedestrians shivered as it passed, not knowing why. It moved swiftly, drawn by its own yearning to be complete … whole … to fulfill its monstrous destiny.…

The green-eyed man liked to think of himself as a realist.

Not in the best of condition,
he conceded, checking his image in the mirror. But his hand-tailored suit richly enhanced what nature had neglected. The discreet gold Cartier watch and ruby ring hinted at his power. And power was the strongest aphrodisiac.

Stronger than the coke and champagne he was slipping Henry's wife, the man mused, dabbing his face with a paper towel. The man surveyed himself in the men's room mirror. He looked rich, he looked powerful, and he looked like the cold, ruthless son of a bitch he was.

There was a rattling at the bolted door as if someone needed the restroom.
Let them suffer,
the man thought. A restaurant of this quality should have private facilities for its select clientele. He'd have to speak to Pietro about it.

Anyway, after the attempt on his life that morning, he wasn't about to unbolt the door until he was good and ready. The man took a deep breath. It felt good to be alive.

He went over his agenda for the evening. First he would talk a bit of business with Henry over dinner. Then later, he would make love to Henry's wife, Tina.
Essentially fucking Henry twice,
he gloated.

The door rattled slightly.

A shapeless ripple drifted through the door, silently twisting with a deep, yawning hunger.

Still gazing into the mirror, the man didn't see anything but himself.

With incredible force, the ripple snapped the man's spine, lifting his body off the floor and jerking his neck back so that his bulging eyes were gaping at the chandelier.

The violent shock seemed to hold him aloft for an agonizing second, then evaporated, dropping his limp body to the cool black tiles.

*   *   *

Pietro's restaurant had the unmistakable aroma of good food and money.

The elegant leather banquettes were filled with well-groomed diners sporting opulent jewels and lots of arrogance.

The kind of crowd I love,
the green-eyed man exulted as he emerged from the men's room. He stood for a moment and took a deep breath. He felt great.

Henry and Tina both smiled as he approached. Despite a recent lift, Henry looked his sixty-seven years, making his twenty-six-year-old wife seem like a high-school cheerleader.

But the man knew Tina was no cheerleader in bed. There she was an ageless priestess of the sensual arts. And he was suddenly famished for her flesh.

“So tell us—what happened this morning.” Henry asked when he joined them in the booth. “Can't believe somebody tried to shoot you.”

The man ignored Henry. Instead, he leaned over and put his mouth on Tina's surprised lips, kissing her as deeply as she had ever been kissed. At the same time he slid his hand down the front of her dress and cupped her breast.

Some of the diners at nearby tables began to stare.

Tina pulled her head back, breathless. She looked at him, mouth half open. He smiled and caressed her pink nipple.

“Come with me,” the man said softly.

Henry's disbelieving gasp became an animal growl of rage. But as Henry started to rise, the man turned, pale green eyes blank and intense. Slowly, Henry sat down. Tina didn't try to remove the man's hand. Nor did she resist. She gazed at him in rapt silence, as if seeing him for the first time.

The man slowly drew his hand away from her breast. “Your choice.” He sighed regretfully. He picked up his coat and left the booth, ignoring the curious eyes following him to the door. Pietro bowed uncertainly as he passed.

The chill night air was refreshing, the man noted when he stepped outside. He decided to walk around a bit. He hadn't felt this good in years.

When the man reached the corner, he paused to button his coat.

Behind him, Pietro's restaurant suddenly exploded in a white-hot blast of flame that charred the cars parked nearby. The intense fireball consumed everything from the customers to Pietro himself.

Poor, foolish Tina,
the man mused, walking briskly toward Fifth Avenue.
She blew it.

*   *   *

Sometimes Dr. Donald Abel wished he had stayed a priest. Especially when dealing with his fifteen-year-old daughter, Hope.

He had provided Hope with everything a girl in New York could want: a spacious town house, prestigious private school, clothes, generous allowance. But she always managed to make him feel as if he had failed her somehow.

“So now you hate school,” he said patiently. “What's new?”

“No, it's just that I hate the fact they put finals after the holiday. It ruins the whole
meaning
of vacation.”

Abel glanced at his wife, Felice, a still-beautiful woman of forty-five. Felice had been a nun at Our Lady of Mercy when Dr. Abel met her. Now they were an affluent New York couple with a high-spirited daughter.

“I wouldn't worry,” Dr. Abel reassured his daughter. “You always do fine. Besides, a bad grade isn't the end of the world.”

Just then the doorbell rang.

Dr. Abel and his wife exchanged a surprised glance.
Who could that be?
he wondered, moving to the front door. When he peered through the glass and saw who stood there, he hurried to unlock the door.

Feeling slightly dizzy, Dr. Abel stepped back as the green-eyed man entered. Somehow he had expected the arrival to be accompanied by the blare of trumpets, or a cosmic chorus. Instead the man strode into the room and unbuttoned his coat without ceremony.

“It's you,” Dr. Abel blurted out. “I didn't…” He fell silent, his initial shock overcome by a fearful awe.

The man seemed not to notice. “The girl. Where is she?” he asked curtly.

“She's safe,” Dr. Abel reported.

The man caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror and winced slightly in disapproval. Vanity was his strongest currency. “And what of the world?” he inquired.

“Everything is as planned. Our acts go unnoticed, unquestioned. We are everywhere.”

Hope appeared in the hallway. “Daddy, who is it?” She gave the man a shy smile, clearly fascinated.

“Is that your daughter?” the man asked.

Something in his tone alerted Dr. Abel. “Yes.”

The man rubbed his hands together and looked beyond Hope, into the dining room where Felice was sitting. “Is that your wife?”

There was no mistaking the question. Dr. Abel's heart began to boom as he realized it was Judgment Day. His fleeting years of success, luxury, pleasure, and power had all come due at this moment.

It was time to pay the piper his terrible price.

*   *   *

The naked bodies rose and fell in the shadows. The man loomed above the two women, his pale green eyes feverishly bright. He thrust into Felice and kissed her daughter, who responded eagerly.

“Oh God, oh God,” Felice moaned.

“No God,” the man rasped, thrusting violently.
“Me!”

As they writhed and caressed, their bodies started to melt together, one into another. Smooth limbs, sensual bellies and breasts, ecstatic faces; all shifted and merged until the man was making love to one woman.

Christine York.

*   *   *

Her head was thrown back against the pillow, her face glowing with intense passion as she lifted herself to him … Christine's eyes fluttered open and she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror.

She looked up and saw the man's mocking leer. And she knew …

Christine screamed.

She bolted upright in her bed, heart pounding furiously as she continued to scream, arms flailing in primal terror as if being consumed by a predator.

“What's wrong, baby? What's wrong?”

The familiar voice dispersed her panic. Christine looked up and saw Mabel standing at the doorway, with Carson the butler peering over her shoulder.

“It was the dream.”

Mabel came closer, her face lined with worry.

“He came for me tonight,” Christine whispered.

Mabel sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “It was a dream, my angel.” She pulled Christine close and rocked her gently. “Just a dream.”

“It felt … closer,” Christine said with a shiver of revulsion.

Mabel looked up at the shadowy figure by the doorway. Carson nodded slightly. They knew.

He had come.

*   *   *

Jericho studied the photograph he'd taken from Thomas's foul refrigerator. It wasn't enough. He needed more.

He put on his shirt and leather jacket and went outside. After stopping for breakfast, Jericho went to a small photography studio on the Lower East Side.

Dan Farris, the proprietor, was an old friend. He studied the photograph for a few moments, then shrugged. “No problem. We can blow it up, retouch here and there…”

“How long?”

“Two hours, if you need it right away.”

“I need it sooner,” Jericho said ruefully. He was only half joking. A sense of urgency crawled beneath his skin like a double line of ants.

He ate a second breakfast, took a walk, then went back to Dan's shop. The girl's photo had been enlarged, enhanced, and reconstructed by computer. The faded image was now crisp and clear. Jericho saw something on the girl's wrist. “What's that?”

Dan shrugged. “Maybe a tattoo. Or a birthmark.”

Jericho stared at the red question mark on the girl's wrist. Right now, only one person could tell him who she was. And he couldn't speak.

*   *   *

The man strode briskly down the street, enjoying the morning.

His piercing green eyes took in everything along the way: smells, sounds, passersby, shop windows …

When the man reached Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, he strode into the emergency entrance and continued down a long corridor, past the emergency room. A nun shepherding a couple of fifteen-year-old schoolgirls stood near the elevator.

The man paused to admire the lovely young Catholic girls, virginal in their blue blazers and plaid skirts. One of them, a pale-skinned beauty with Celtic blue eyes, flushed when she saw him looking at her. Their eyes locked, and the girl swayed slightly, as if mesmerized.

Glowering at him indignantly, the nun put her hand on the girl's shoulder and pulled her back.

The man smiled. “Almost ripe.”

Still smiling, the man continued to the stairway and went up to the third floor. The uniformed policeman on the second floor didn't stop him, but the cop on the third floor blocked his path.

“Sorry, nobody allowed on this floor,” the cop snapped. His hulking, bushy-browed glare held a trace of menace.

The man looked up, green eyes weighing him like a slab of tainted meat.

“The young boys you seduce have left their scent on you.”

The cop's glare twisted from menace to awe, as he recognized his master.

“Remember who it is you serve,” the man said.

The cop nodded fearfully and stepped back to let him pass.

The man easily found the room he wanted. They had the shooter, Thomas Aquinas, inside an oxygen tent, with tubes snaking from his arms. He seemed catatonic, laid out in a crucifixion position with his wrists strapped to the bed.

The man neared the oxygen tent. “Open your eyes, Thomas,” he crooned. “Take a look at the face that has haunted your dreams for so long…”

Thomas's eyes popped open like a puppet on strings. He gaped up through the plastic cover, limbs writhing against their restraints.

The man lit a cigarette, and inhaled with relish. Smiling, he pressed the tip of his cigarette against the plastic and burned a hole in the cover. Then he pressed his mouth against the opening and exhaled, filling the oxygen tent with smoke.

“They say you can see the future,” the man taunted. “Then you must know what I'm about to do to you.”

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut as the man cut through the plastic and reached through. He tried to pray but the first thrashing spasm of pain was so intense, he snapped the restraints …