The Light at the End (14 page)

Night gave way slowly to dawn, the gradual blossoming of daylight into a heavily overcast sky. The city was sleeping, insofar as it ever does; and in the tunnels, even the dead were at rest.

In a small apartment on MacDougal Street, police were just wrapping up their interrogation of a terrified young woman named Claire Cunningham. The body… both parts of it… had recently been taken away.

Detective Brenner of Homicide was less than thrilled with the morning’s events. The girl was in shock. She couldn’t tell him anything. She said that she wasn’t there, and he believed her; she said that she had no idea who Dorian Marlowe was with, and he wasn’t so sure.
But what can I do?
he asked himself rhetorically.
I can’t say a thing, without her bursting into tears.

Brenner left his name and number on the kitchen table, next to the phone. He told her to call him when she’d rested; he wanted to talk with her again. She barely seemed to have heard him. Her eyes were staring off into some dark space beyond. He shrugged, exchanged helpless glances with the remaining patrolmen, and ushered them toward the door.

There were several things about this case that bothered Brenner a lot: the fact that there were no signs of struggle; the staggering brutality of the murder itself; the conspicuous shortage of blood both in and around Dorian Marlowe’s corpse. The fact that she’d been beautiful set off a little private pang, as well; but he’d seen more than his fair share of great-looking stiffs in his seventeen years on the force.

Worst of all was the similarity between Ms. Marlowe’s death and the bag lady’s from the day before… which led him, inescapably, to that whole bit with the “Terror Train.” He knew that he wasn’t the only one who would make that connection, and it worried him. The police commissioner was breathing down his neck, the mayor and the city council were about to shit Tiffany cuff links, the media were blowing it up into mythical proportions… and all Brenner was left with was a growing pile of still-warm corpses, an enormous deadweight that had been laid upon his shoulders.

He paused in the hallway, thumbing through a battered leather notebook. The “Terror Train” conductor was still in Bellevue, still a basket case: constantly slapping at himself while he whimpered and drooled. It was like somebody had taken his brain out, popped it in the microwave for three minutes, and then put it back in, completely cooked. They would never get a word from him, ever again.

Then there was the old man, Hacdorian. He was unhelpful to the point of evasiveness, but Brenner couldn’t really blame him: old people were traditional targets for the vengefully, murderously insane. And checking on his records, it was clear that the poor bastard had already been through enough misery to last him for another two thousand years.

Which left him with Claire Cunningham: a nut case if ever there was one. Her bedroom belonged in next month’s issue of
Better Homes and Coffins
. She was too shook up to talk right now, and he could understand it; but he wondered if she had anything up there to begin with. Bats in the belfry, maybe. Toys in the attic.

Vampires
, he thought, snapping the notebook shut.

Vampires. Sure
. Then he lit a cigarette and stepped out into the street.

The ambulance was just pulling away, replete with Dorian Marlowe’s neatly bundled remains. Brenner scanned the crowd of rubbernecking well-wishers, pushing up against the blue police department barricades. A
News 4
van had arrived on the scene and was wrapping their broadcast. He was glad that he’d told his boys to keep their mouths shut.

“Vampires,” he mused, poking his cigarette at the sweaty hordes. “
Here’s
your goddamn vampires.”

Claire sat alone on the living room couch. It took her a minute to realize that she
was
alone, and the cops were gone. The knowledge didn’t affect her much, one way or the other. She was lost in the dull haze of her thoughts.

Four images in particular were haunting her. Dorian’s head, of course, was first: she would be seeing that picture until the day she died. Second on the list was that guy at St. Mark’s Bar & Grill: the details were unclear, but the overall impression lingered on.

Third was the sight that greeted her when she stumbled into her bedroom, dragging herself off the floor and frantically calling the police. The disorientation had been overwhelming even then, but her eyes had not failed to notice the item that lay sprawled on the floor beside her bed.

Interview With The Vampire
by Anne Rice.

Claire had picked up the book and stared at it for an unknowable length of time. She had tried to read the pages that the book was open to, but the words all ran together before her eyes. It didn’t matter.

After a while, she had closed it and replaced it carefully on her bookcase. Then she had gone back into the living room and waited for the police to come.

It was something that she didn’t mention when they questioned her. Like the guy at the bar. She didn’t know exactly why.

Last, but not least, was the rat.

Fuzzy as it was, her mind had arranged these images into a neat cosmology: one that related back to the other night, and Danny. The vampire was here, in her home. She knew it.

And she knew that it was aware of her now. It had been in her room. It had left her a clue.

And, for some reason, chosen to spare her.

She was starting to nod out now, real sleep placing its demands on her stunned, scattered mind. Her eyes closed, and the world pressed its soft, insistent weight upon her like a mountain of cotton and chloroform.

Once, before she blacked out completely, she got a strong flash of something standing in the room with her. Some presence, powerful and unseen, just waiting for its moment to approach her. She struggled to open her eyes, but she couldn’t. And then, in an instant, it was gone.

I’ve got to see Danny
, she thought in the last second before darkness overcame her.
Maybe he’ll know what to do.

And then she was unconscious. At the table. In her apartment.

Alone.

Joey
…

Joseph was dangling at the edge of a dream, in that halfway state where both the inner and outer worlds have ghostly fingers with which to reach out and pull you. Inside his mind, he was back at Union Square, at the top of the subway stairs. From below: a shuffling, the sound of voices. He turned to Ian, but Ian was gone.

And the shuffling from below was getting closer.

Joey
…

Joseph moved slowly down the staircase, squinting into the darkness at the bottom. Something was moving there: a lone figure, bent and shambling, that wavered painfully at the sunlight’s edge. He took another step forward, crouched down, and peered closely, intently…

That was when he recognized her.

No!
he tried to shout, but no sound would come. He shuddered for a moment, paralyzed, and then started to move forward. But he was too slow, and it was too late…

…and his mother came staggering out of the darkness, her head twisted awkwardly to one side, her withered body jerkily moving beneath her nightgown…

…and her flesh began to sputter and run…

…and she began to scream…

…and suddenly Joseph was alone, in a dark place, moving resolutely forward. Up ahead, in the distance, there was a light. Abruptly, he stopped.

And waited. For the light. To come.

To him.

It came with a rumbling at his feet and in his ears. It came with a violent rush of wind, as if the light were a solid wall racing toward him. It came with such sudden, awesome speed that he almost backed away from it, his arms rising up to shield his face…

…
and then the thing was on him, tearing at him, raking its claws across his arms, his chest, his face. He struggled against it, his hands on its throat, holding back the teeth that now loomed before his eyes, long and sharp and glistening redly
…

…
as the light and the rumbling overwhelmed him
…

…and suddenly Joseph was sitting bolt upright in his chair, the gaping mouth of Bugs Bunny enormous before him on the TV screen, while sunlight streamed through the living room window.

“Balls,” he moaned. It came out garbled. His throat was caked with dried phlegm; his body, weak from lack of rest and extreme dehydration, cried out for water and food. He rubbed one paw across his burning eyes and groaned again.

On the screen, Bugs was nose-to-nose with the Tasmanian Devil. They roared at each other. It hurt Joseph’s ears. He winced, rubbed his eyes again, and dragged himself out of his chair. Behind him, something smashed loudly, and the cartoon monster howled in pain. Joseph jumped, startled, and whirled toward the set.

Jesus Christ! That’s too loud!
he thought, reaching for the volume control.
I’m gonna wake up
…

And then he remembered.

Joseph stared at the television for a long cold moment, oblivious to the action on the screen. In his mind, he went back to the dream for a second: back to the head of the stairs, looking downward. Then he pulled himself out of it, backed away from the set, and just stood there with his arms across his belly.

“You can make all the noise you want,” he informed Daffy Duck, who had suddenly appeared on the screen. “It doesn’t matter any more.”

Daffy and Bugs launched into an argument while the Tasmanian Devil watched them, dimly confused. They argued as to who would make the better, tastier victim. Joseph turned away from them, moving wearily toward the bathroom for a badly needed piss.

On his way, he paused at the doorway of his mother’s old bedroom. The door was wide open; the room was dark. He hung there, hesitating for almost a minute, before he could bring himself to look inside.

At the empty bed, alone in the center of the dark room. At the deep groove that ran down its center, where the mattress had conformed to her shape over the course of endless months. At the clean, freshly laid sheets; at the night table, barren except for one lamp, no longer burning; at the blank walls, the pools of shadow, the shuttered window staring in at nothing like the eye of a corpse.

Then he proceeded once again to the bathroom.

Pausing, only once, to punch the wall.

*

The viewing was held in a small Brooklyn cathedral, not far from Joseph’s apartment. It was done largely for the benefit of his mother’s friends, who assembled in black to weep and prop each other up in front of the open casket.

Joseph sat alone in the back of the cathedral, expressionless. The old women who had given their respects passed by him silently, frightened by his stoniness, on their way out the door.

He waited for all of them to leave.

All during the sermon, while the preacher waxed sanctimonious on the heads of his sorrowful flock, Joseph held it in. It wasn’t easy. The impulse to scream, to rip the pews right out of the floor and hurl them through the stained glass windows, was almost more than he could contain. But he did; it would have been pointless to do otherwise.

So he sat there, thinking
this is so inspirational!
and trying not to show how angry he was, while Father Drucker spewed out platitudes from a leather-bound book. He clenched his fists at the image of Jesus leading Mary Ellen Hunter up the path to glory, surrounded by cherubims soft as bunnies. He hissed through his teeth as the good Father praised God for His mercy, His eternal love and comfort in these, our times of greatest sadness, amen. He swallowed bile at the thought of his mother’s death being used like this: as a plug for some dipshit in a black and white smock, a chance to hype the Church.

And now, as the last mourners filed out of the chapel, Joseph thought about what he’d do if
he
were God, wandering into His house, confronted suddenly with this mealy-mouthed Pillsbury Doughboy of a priest. He saw himself glowering, eyes bright as all the flames of Hell, his head nearly touching the ceiling. He saw Father Drucker, cowering behind the altar, his raiments falling away from the puffy flesh, ash before they hit the floor…

…then Joseph was back in the last row of the cathedral. The mourners were gone. Drucker was alone in the front, extinguishing candles. A replica of Christ hung on a cross of polished metal.

And his mother lay in a temporary box, awaiting the hot kiss of cremation.

Slowly, Joseph Hunter pulled himself to his feet. Slowly, he proceeded down the aisle. Drucker turned at the sound of his footsteps. Joseph scrupulously avoided the man’s gaze, eyes focused on the pale white profile that jutted from the open coffin.

Then he was standing over her, his great hands resting on the coffin’s rim, looking down at the hideous mannequin that the makeup artists had made her up to be. He trembled, a rush of emotion sweeping over him, sudden and unexpected as a snipers first shot.

“I don’t know what God’s will is, Mama,” he heard himself saying, “but it sure as hell ain’t this.” Part of his mind detached, saying
you’re talking to a corpse, man. Cut it out
. But the words continued to come.

“It’s insane,” he said. “It’s insane that you should die like this. It’s not right. I mean…”

“You were a good lady, mama. Not the best, but… Christ, who is? I didn’t always like you. Sometimes I felt like I didn’t even… even
love
you, Mama, but… you were my
mother
, you know? You were my
mother
, and…”

He paused, trying to get a handle on what he was trying to say. He could no longer ignore the tears that were streaming down his face, the chest convulsions that were making it difficult to speak, the round eyes of Father Drucker that peered at him from behind the altar. A high-pitched whine escaped his throat, absurd in a man so huge; after a moment, he abandoned himself to it like a martyr to his fate.

He didn’t hear Father Drucker pad softly up beside him. He didn’t see the pudgy hand reach out to rest gently on his shoulder. He didn’t even feel the contact. Not until the priest’s voice came sliding into his ears did he realize that the man had approached.

“Joseph,” said the priest, all dutiful kindness, “is there anything I can do for you?”

Joseph took a moment to consider it; just long enough to control his breathing.

“Yeah,” he said finally, “You could get the hell out of my face.”

Drucker took a nervous step backwards. “Now, son…” he started to say.

“
Now, son
, my ass.” Joseph had turned now to face the priest. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy and wild. His voice was level, the danger thinly concealed. “I just listened to you talk for half a goddamn hour or more, mister. I think my mother’s name mighta come up two or three times, all told. Remember her? She’s the one in the box.”

Joseph indicated her with a jab of his thumb. Drucker hit the edge of the dais and teetered for a moment in awkward panic, eyes bulging. A grin flashed across Joseph’s features like a switchblade’s sharp flickering to life.

“She used to come out here a lot, didn’t she? Sunday mass, church socials, fund raisers…” Drucker went off the dais now, slowly, as Joseph advanced. “She used to spend a lot of time here, on her knees, listening to the same kind of holy horseshit that you fed us all today. Only today she couldn’t hear it, could she?”

He reached out to poke Drucker in the chest. Drucker backed off, sweat beading up on his smooth forehead.

“Because somebody
killed
her, didn’t they?”

Poking again, harder. The priest, staggering backwards and blubbering slightly.

“But we didn’t
hear
about that today, did we?”

One last prod, forcing Father Drucker onto his ample behind in the first row of pews.

“No,” Joseph said, towering over the priest, with a voice like ice and steel. “Today we heard about how great God is. We heard about the merciful heavens above. We heard that God is great because He has such a great place set up for us; and all we have to do is pray to Him, and believe in Him, and thank Him for everything He does.”

“Then, when cheap punks rub us out on the way to the grocery store, we can thank Him for the broken bones, the internal bleeding, the stroke that lays us up for years and years. We can thank God that the punks are still running around, so that more of us can get up to Heaven even
sooner
. We can thank God that there are guys like
you
around, to tell us what a swell guy He is for letting us get down on our knees to praise Him! Right?”

“Now listen.” He hunkered down in front of the priest, face to face, with only inches between them. “There is something moving around in the subways right now. It’s killing people. You might’ve read about it in the papers.” Drucker nodded hesitantly, his eyes wide and full of terror, his sweaty forehead gleaming like a freshly varnished floor. Joseph nodded in response.

“Yesterday, I saw some things,” he continued. “I saw some things that let me know we’re not talking about any ordinary human.
Comprendo?
Not an ordinary human
.”

He hesitated then, fishing for the words. A wily grin crossed his face, disappeared, then flashed again. Drucker was convinced that Joseph Hunter had gone mad, but he didn’t dare say a word.

“It’s a vampire, Father. Do you believe in them? It’s a vampire, and it sucks the blood right out of your neck. It’s a dead thing that walks around at night, killing people and turning
them
into vampires. I don’t know if you were ever a kid or not, but I must’ve seen a billion of those things in the movies, and I never believed in ‘em for a second.”

“Until now.”

The same violence in his voice, but something else as well, as he posed the question.

“But you’re supposed to be a man of God. You’re supposed to know all about this shit. So let me ask you: do you believe in vampires, Father? Do you believe in evil, the same way you’re supposed to believe in good? Do you
believe
,” hoisting Drucker up by the collar of his robe, “that Satan can bring dead bodies back to life; and if you do, can your God do anything to stop them?”

Drucker’s jaws worked, but no sound came forth.

“Can He?”

Drucker’s face began to darken, turn purple. Joseph was holding his collar too tightly.

“
Can He?
”

Joseph hurled him, gasping, back onto the pew. His eyes shone with triumphant contempt.

“I didn’t think so,” Joseph said, stepping back toward his mother. “This guy wouldn’t know Jesus from a blank fucking check.”

Behind him, Father Drucker was sucking air like a beached whale. Joseph ignored the great whooping sound. His attention was on his mother’s face, drinking in the details for what he knew was the last time.

“Goodbye, Mama,” he whispered.

His eyes closed then, involuntarily. He found himself seeing her the way she once was: when there was still vitality in her body, life and lustre in her eyes. He remembered them after Pappa’s death: Mama & Joey at Coney Island, her smiling and stretching their meager budget to allow one more ride on the Cyclone; Joey stuffing his fat little pre-adolescent face with hot dogs and knishes and cotton candy. Mama & Joey, alone against the world, her working full-time days at Freiberg’s and three nights a week as a
maid
, fer chrissakes, just to keep a too-small apartment and meat loaf on the table; Joey, the man of the house, leaving school to work so she could finally stop. “Joey” always protecting her, afraid to leave her, loving her too much to leave her, and hating her for it…

…and then, in his mind, he saw her as she was now: the features sunken, the complexion pasty and withered, the eyes forever closed…

…
and suddenly her eyes snapped open, blank and redly gleaming as her face turned, slowly, cold lips parting to reveal
…

“
No
,” he hissed, jerking back to reality by reflex, eyes riveted on the face in the coffin.

The cold, unmoving face.

She’s just dead
, he thought.
Just dead, thank God. Whatever that means… Heaven, Hell, or nothing at all… she won’t be getting back up again.

Thank God.

If there is one.

Then he turned, terror and rage coursing through him like a slow infusion of embalming fluid, and left Father Drucker to his empty house of worship: a place unsullied by any living presence, any power, any flame.