F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (39 page)

 
          
There.
An open doorway with a red plaque saying something about AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
ONLY—ALARM WILL SOUND. No, it won't. It needed electricity for that. And
besides, the door was already open.

 
          
Joe
played his beam along the concrete steps within. They ran one way: up. To the
roof. The scratching sound was louder here. Definitely coming from the top of
the empty stairwell. Someone was scratching on the other side of the roof door.

 
          
"Lacey?"
he called as he took the steps two at a time. "Lacey, is that you?"

 
          
He
hesitated at the door, hand on the knob, afraid to turn it, afraid to see what
was on the other side, afraid it might be Lacey, horribly injured. And afraid
it might not be Lacey. Might be one of them, lying in wait for a victim.

 
          
He'd
hung his big silver cross around his neck before leaving tonight. He unslung it
and held it ready, to wield as either club or firebrand. But still he
hesitated. This was foolish. He should call for the others, go out there as a
group.

 
          
He
turned and was about to call them when he heard the voice, a faint, agonized
rasp.

 
          
"Help
me . . . please. . . help''

 
          
"Lacey!"

 
          
Joe
shoved the door open and stepped up onto the moonlit roof. Something heavy
struck him at the base of his neck, sending shockwaves of pain down his arms
and driving him to his knees. He lost his grip on the cross. Then a thick
quilted blanket was thrown over him. Before he could react he was knocked flat,
rolled, and trussed up like an Oriental rug. Panicked, he kicked and twisted,
but he was helpless. He shouted for the others but knew his cries were too
muffled by the fabric to be heard.

 
          
Joe
felt himself lifted by his feet, dragged along the roof, and then he was
falling. They'd thrown him off the roof!

 
          
No.
The cold, steely grip never released his ankles. And now he was rising instead
of falling, being carried through the air.

 
          
But
to where?

 
          
TWILIGHT
MAN

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Joe
had lost all track of time during the seemingly endless flight. But he knew
when it ended: the cold fingers released their grip on his ankles and he fell.
Before he could cry out his terror, he hit hard, head first. Only the
multi-layered padding of his blanket cocoon kept him from cracking his skull.

 
          
"This
is the priest," said a harsh voice. "Search him and take him
upstairs. Franco is waiting for him."

 
          
Joe
was then rolled over—kicked over was more like it. As he felt the ropes binding
him loosen, he tightened his fists and prepared to fight. But when the blanket
was pulled away from his face he found himself blinded by light.

 
          
Fluorescent
light. Somebody had electricity.

 
          
As
he blinked in the brightness he was kicked again, in the ribs this time. He
struggled to a sitting position and felt something cold and hard as steel slam
against the side of his head.

 
          
"Easy,
god-boy," said a new voice to his left, and someone on his right brayed a
harsh laugh.

 
          
Joe
groaned with the pain and clutched his stinging scalp. He blinked again, and
finally he could see.

 
          
He
sat on a sidewalk in a pool of light outside the brass and glass revolving
doors of a massive granite building. The rest of the world around him lay dark
and quiet. A red canopy blocked out much of his view above. He did notice the
number 350 above the revolving doors. Surrounding him were half a dozen men
wearing earrings he knew too well. The nearest held a huge revolver; most likely
its long barrel was what had slammed against his head.

 
          
Vichy
.

 
          
The
one next to the gun-toter was playing with a knife with a nasty reverse-curve
blade, twirling it on a fingertip as he said, "This supposed to be one of
them vigilantes from down the shore, huh? The guy that killed Gregor?" He
kicked Joe's thigh. "Don't look so tough. Hey, Barrett. What say we soften
him up before passin him on to Franco?"

 
          
Vigilante?
Joe thought. Zev had mentioned something about a group that was killing off the
local
Vichy
. Was that why he'd been brought here—
wherever it was?

 
          
"Not
on my watch," said the one with the gun. Barrett. The same voice that had
called him god-boy. He was dressed in a tan silk Armani suit with a white shirt
open at the collar. It looked tailor-made for him. "He won't want damaged
goods. When the damage gets done, Franco will want to do it."

 
          
Joe
looked around. "Where am I?"

 
          
"In
big trouble," said Barrett.

 
          
The
one with the knife, bearded and denimed, brayed again. "Yeah. Big trouble!
Wouldn't wanna be you no-how."

 
          
"Drag
him up to the office," said Barrett. "We'll search him there."

 
          
A
pair of the
Vichy
grabbed him under the arms and roughly
hauled him through a glass door set beside the revolving door. They entered a
vaulted lobby of polished gray-beige marble. At the opposite end, floor to
ceiling in chrome and marble, was a bas relief image of a building known the
world over.

 
          
The
Empire
State
Building
. I'm in
New York
.

 
          
They'd
kidnapped him and flown him to
Manhattan
. For what purpose?

 
          
And
then he remembered . . . Franco is waiting. . .

 
          
The
old Saturday Night Live running gag about General Franco still being alive
flashed through his brain, then fled in terror.

 
          
When
the damage gets done, Franco will want to do it. . .

 
          
A
two-way radio squawked. Joe saw Barrett unclip it from his belt. He turned away
and spoke into it. Joe looked around for an escape route, but even if he could
break away from the pair who held him, the lobby area was acrawl with
Vichy
.

 
          
After
Barrett finished his call, they led him past the remnants of metal detectors
that had been kicked down and smashed, past a newsstand with outdated papers
and magazines, a ruined souvenir shop, a deserted Au Bon Pain, then to a bank
of elevators with black and chrome doors. Only two cars seemed to be working.
The others stood open, dark, and empty. After a short ride with the suit, the
beard, and two others to the third floor, Joe was propelled down a hallway to a
large, desk-filled room lined with computers and monitors. A few scurvy
Vichy
lounged around, but three other men, older,
more conventionally dressed, worked the equipment. They appeared to be under
guard.

 
          
"Search
him," Barrett said. "And I don't mean just pat him down. Search him.
Confiscate any contraband here and dispose of it."

 
          
He
was hiding nothing, of course. He'd been armed with his silver cross back in
Lakewood
but that had been stripped from him and
left behind.

 
          
Barrett's
words filtered through to his muddled brain. Confiscate? Contraband? Barrett
didn't fit the typical
Vichy
mold. He dressed like a Wall Street broker and spoke like an educated
man. What was he doing here?

 
          
BARRETT
. . .

 
          
James
Barrett watched Neal search the priest, making sure he didn't miss anything.
Neal was not the brightest bulb in the box.

 
          
But
he did a good job this time, turning all the priest's pockets inside out,
removing his socks and shoes.

 
          
"He's
clean," Neal said.

 
          
"You'd
better be sure."

 
          
"I'm
sure."

 
          
They
hustled him back down to the first floor for a swift, ear-popping ride toward
the top of the building. The red numbers on the readout counted the passing
floors by leaps of ten. Barrett had always liked that. It was the way he'd
planned his career at Bear Stearns to go: to the top by leaps and bounds. But
being a hotshot investment banker these days was like being a poster boy for
obsolescence.

 
          
He
heard Neal chuckle. He was grinning through his beard at the priest and shaking
his head. "I'm glad I ain't you. Holy shit, am I glad I ain't you. I don't
know what Franco's got planned but it ain't gonna be pretty, I can tell you
that."

 
          
Barrett
watched the priest clench his fists. He was scared. Doing a decent job of
hiding it, but not perfect. He looked like he wanted to ask who Franco was but
said nothing. Probably afraid his voice would crack or waver and betray his
terror.

 
          
When
the elevator stopped on the eightieth floor, Neal shoved him out.

 
          
"Come
on, god-boy," Barrett said. "Still one more leg to go."

 
          
They
guided him around a corner to the other bank. This ride was short— only six
floors. At the eighty-sixth they pushed him out into the green marble atrium.

 
          
"Hold
it right there!" said a voice.

 
          
The
atrium held half a dozen undead. One of them stepped toward them.

 
          
"Ah,
shit," Neal muttered. "Fuckin Artemis."

 
          
"Who's
this?" said the vampire, tall and lean with a ruined left eye that was
little more than a lump of scar tissue.

 
          
Artemis
was head honcho of Franco's security and no one—at least no one living—knew
what had happened to that eye. Whatever it was, Barrett hoped it had hurt.
Artemis was a grandstanding prick.

 
          
"It's
the one Franco's been waiting for," Barrett told him.

 
          
Artemis's
face contorted in fury. "The vigilante priest?" he shouted. "And
you bring him here like this?"

 
          
"He's
been searched, and Franco—"

 
          
"I
don't give a damn if he's been searched! You don't bring a terrorist up here
and leave him a single place to hide anything! Here's how you bring a terrorist
to Franco!"

 
          
And
with that he began tearing at the priest's clothing, ripping it off him. The
priest tried to fend him off but Artemis was too strong. Less than a minute
later he stood naked in the atrium.

 
          
Barrett
admired the priest's musculature. Especially his low back. Lots of good meat
there. Big filets.

 
          
Artemis
tossed the shredded clothing at Barrett.

 
          
"Now
he can see Franco! I'll take it from here. You two get back to your
posts."

 
          
"We
want him when Franco's through with him," Neal said.

 
          
Artemis
laughed. "Oh, I doubt that. Not in the condition he'll be in."

 
          
"Shit,"
said Neal as the doors pincered closed. "I hate that fuck."

 
          
Barrett
said nothing. Who knew if the elevator camera was on and this little scene was
being taped. Say or do the wrong thing now and you could face repercussions
later.

 
          
Neal
banged his fist against the side wall of the elevator car. "And I hate
takin his shit."

 
          
So
did Barrett. But sometimes that was what you had to put up with to get where
you wanted to go. And Barrett knew where he wanted to go: to the top. He'd been
on the fast track for advancement at Bear Stearns and he was looking for a way
to fast-track himself with the undead. He needed a lever to convince Franco to
turn him now instead of later.

 
          
He
glanced at Neal. Just like the rest of the cowboys. Never a thought past his
next meal and his next trip out to one of the cattle farms where he could screw
anything in sight. Maybe he occasionally thought of someday, ten years from
now, being turned and joining the ranks of the undead.

 
          
But
ten years was too long for Barrett. He wanted an express route to undeadland.
Once he was one of them he knew he could rocket through the ranks. They were
all lazy sons of bitches. He'd show them how to get things done. If he could
get himself turned, he'd have Franco's job within a year. He knew it.

 
          
"Treats
us like fuckin dogs," Neal said.

 
          
No
argument there. But that didn't mean you had to live in a kennel and eat dog
food.