the counter and into the kitchen. He shooed away two rats, then wiped down the cooking surface. The fridge was still cold inside, so he pulled out two beef dogs. He found the buns and a cellophane-covered tin of red onions. He liked onions, especially the way the vandals winced when he got up in their face after lunch.
The dogs cooked fast, and he stepped outside to eat. The Cyclone and the Wonder Wheel were still and quiet, seagulls perched on the uppermost railings. Another seagull flew close, then darted away from the top of the wheel at the last moment. Jackson looked closer and realized that the critters sitting atop the structure weren’t birds at all.
They were rats. Lots of rats, dotting the top edges of the structure. Trying to grab birds. What in the hell?
He continued down the boardwalk, passing Shoot the Freak, one of Coney Island’s landmark attractions. From a railed promontory, he looked down into the alley-like shooting gallery cluttered with fencing, spattered barrels, and assorted mannequin heads and bowling pins set upon rusted racks for target practice. Along the railing were six paintball guns chained to a table. The sign listed the prices, promising a LIVE HUMAN TARGET.
The brick side walls were decorated with graffiti, creating more character. But among the fake white Krylon tags and weak bubble throw-ups, Jackson noticed another of Phade’s designs. Another six-limbed figure, this one in black and orange. And, near it, in the same colors, a design of lines and dots similar to the code he had been seeing all over town.
Then he saw the freak. The freak was dressed in heavy black armor, like riot gear, covering his entire body. A helmet and mask with protective goggles hid his face. The orange-painted shield he normally carried in order to deflect paintball projectiles stood against a low section of chain-link fence.
The freak stood at the far corner of the shooting alley, a can of spray paint in its gloved hand, marking up the wall.
“Hey!” Jackson called down to him.
The freak didn’t acknowledge him. It kept right on tagging.
“Hey!” called Jackson, louder now. “NYPD! I wanna talk to you!”
Still no response or reaction.
Jackson picked up each of the carbine-like paintball guns, hoping for a free shot. He found one with a handful of orange balls still inside its opaque plastic feeder. He shouldered the weapon and fired low, the carbine kicking and the paintball exploding in the dirt at the freak’s boot.
The freak didn’t flinch. It finished its tag and then dropped the empty can and started toward the underside of the railing where Jackson stood.
“Hey, asshole, I said I wanna talk to you.”
The freak did not stop. Jackson unloaded three blasts at its chest, exploding red. Then the freak passed below Jackson’s angle of fire, heading underneath him.
Jackson went to the railing, lifting himself over it and dangling a moment before dropping down. From there, he had a better view of the freak’s handiwork.
It was Phade. No doubt in Jackson’s mind. His pulse quickened and he started for the only door.
Inside was a tiny changing room, the floor spattered with paint. Beyond was a narrow hallway, and along it he saw, discarded, the freak’s helmet, gloves, goggles, body armor overalls, and other gear. Jackson realized then what he had only previously begun to understand: Phade wasn’t just an opportunist using the riots as cover to blanket the city with his tags. No—Phade was linked to the unrest somehow. His markings, his throw-ups: he was part of this.
At the end, he turned into a small office with a counter and a phone, stacks of paintball loads in egg cartons, and broken carbines.
On the swivel chair was an open backpack stuffed with Krylon cans and loose markers. Phade’s gear.
Then a noise behind him and he whipped around. There was the tagger, shorter than Jackson had imagined, wearing a paint-stained hoodie, a silver-on-black Yankees cap, and an aerosol mask.
“Hey,” said Jackson, all he could think to say at first. It had been such a long hunt, he never expected to find his man so abruptly. “I wanna talk to you.”
Phade said nothing, staring, his eyes dark and low beneath the brim of his ball cap. Jackson moved to the side in case Phade was thinking of ditching his backpack and trying to make a run for it.
“You’re a pretty slippery character,” Jackson said. Jackson had his camera in his jacket pocket, ready as ever. “First of all, take off the face mask and hat. I want you to smile for the birdie.”
Phade moved slowly—not at all, at first, but then its paint-spattered hands came up, pulling back its hood, removing its cap, and pulling down its aerosol mask.
The camera remained at Jackson’s eye, but he never pushed the button. What he saw through the lens surprised him at first—then transfixed him.
This wasn’t Phade at all. Couldn’t be. This was a Puerto Rican girl.
She had red paint around her mouth, as though she had been huffing it, getting high. But no: huffed paint leaves an even, thin coat around the mouth. These were thick drops of red, some of it dried below her chin. Her chin dropped then, and the stinger lashed out, the vampire artist leaping onto Jackson’s chest and shoulders and driving him back against the counter, drinking him dry.
The Flatlands
FLATLANDS WAS A neighborhood near the southern shore of Brooklyn between Canarsie and the coastal Marine Park. As with most New York City neighborhoods, it had undergone many significant demographical changes throughout the twentieth century. The library currently offered French-Creole books for Haitian residents and immigrants from other Caribbean nations, as well as reading programs in coordination with local yeshivas for children from Orthodox Jewish families.
Fet’s shop was a small storefront in a strip mall around the corner from Flatlands Avenue. No electricity, but Fet’s old telephone still gave out a dial tone. The front of the store was used mostly for storage, and not designed to service walk-in customers; in fact, the rat sign over the door was specifically meant to discourage window shoppers. His workshop and garage were in back; that was where they loaded in the most essential items from Setrakian’s basement armory—books, weapons, and other wares.
The similarity between Setrakian’s basement armory and Fet’s workshop was not lost on Eph. Fet’s enemies were rodents and insects, and, for that reason, the space was filled with cages, telescoping syringe poles, black- light wands, and miners’ helmets for night hunting. Snake tongs, animal control poles, odor eliminators, dart guns, even throw nets. Powders, trapping gloves, and a lab area over a small sink, with some rudimentary veterinary equipment for taking blood or sampling captured prey.
The only curious feature was a deep stack of
Nora entered, taking a break from unloading, drinking from a bottle of water, one hand on her hip. Fet handed Eph a heavy key ring.
“Three locks for the front door, three for the back.” He demonstrated, showing the order of the keys as they were organized along the ring. “These open the cabinets—left to right.”
“Where are you off to?” asked Eph, as Fet headed for the door.
“Old man’s got something for me to do.”
Nora said, “Pick us up some takeout on your way back.”
“Those were the days,” said Fet, moving out to the second van.
Setrakian brought Fet the item he had carried in his lap from Manhattan. A small bundle of rags, with something wrapped inside. He handed it to Fet.
“You will return underground,” said Setrakian. “Find those ducts that connect to the mainland, and close them.”
Fet nodded, the old man’s request as good as an order. “Why alone?”
