Gus closed the pills in his fist. “You go. Deal with that piece of shit. I’ll be along.”
He went back inside to Joaquin, caressed his sweaty forehead, and helped him swallow the pills. Gus knew that he was saying good-bye to the last person in the world he cared for. The last person he really loved. His brother, his mother, his closest
Back outside, Fet looked at Nora. “Everything all right? You took a long time.”
“We were being followed,” she said.
Eph watched them embrace. He had to pretend as though he didn’t care.
“Mr. Quinlan get anywhere with the
“No,” said Fet. “It’s not looking good.”
The three of them headed across the Greek-amphitheater-like Low Plaza, past the library, and on to the edge of the campus, where the maintenance building stood. Creem’s yellow Hummer was parked inside the garage. The blinged-out leader of the Jersey Sapphires had his fat hand on a shopping cart full of semiautomatic weapons that Gus had promised him. The gang leader grinned wide, his silver-plated teeth glowing Cheshire Cat–like inside his considerable mouth.
“I could do some damage with these pop guns,” he said, sighting one out the open garage door. He looked at Fet, Eph, and Nora. “Where’s the Mex?”
“He’ll be along,” said Fet.
Creem, professionally suspicious, mulled this over before deciding it was okay. “You authorized to speak for him? I made that bean eater a fair offer.”
Fet said, “We are all well aware.”
“And?”
“Whatever it takes,” said Fet. “We have to see the detonator first.”
“Yeah, sure, of course. We can arrange that.”
“Arrange it?” said Nora. She looked at his ugly yellow truck. “I thought you were bringing it.”
“Bringing it? I don’t even know what the fuck it looks like. What am I, MacGyver? I show you where to go. Military arsenal. If this place don’t have it, I don’t know that anyplace does.”
Nora looked at Fet. It was clear she didn’t trust this Creem. “So, what, you’re offering us a ride to the store? That’s your great contribution?”
Creem smiled at her. “Intelligence and access. That’s what I bring to the table.”
“If you don’t have this thing yet… then why are you here now?”
Creem brandished the unloaded weapon. “I came for my guns, and for the Mex’s answer. And a little matter of ammunition to load up these babies.” He opened his driver’s-side door, reaching for something between the front seats: a map of Jersey, with a hand-drawn map paper-clipped to it.
Nora showed the maps to Fet and then Eph. “This is what you’re giving us. For the island of Manhattan.” She looked at Fet. “The Native Americans got a better deal than we are.”
Creem was amused. “That’s a map of the Picatinny Arsenal. You see there, it’s in the northern New Jersey skylands, so only about thirty, forty miles west of here. A giant military reserve that the bloodsuckers now control. But I got a way in. Been raiding munitions for months now. Drawn down on most of their ammo—why I need this here.” He patted the weapons as he loaded them into the back of his Hummer. “Started out in the Civil War as a place for the army to store gunpowder. It was military research and manufacturing before the vamp takeover.”
Fet looked up from the map. “They have detonators?”
Creem said, “If they don’t, nobody does. I seen fuses and timers. You gotta know what type you need. Your nuke here? Not that I know what I’m looking for.”
Fet didn’t answer that. “It’s about three feet by five feet. Portable, but not suitcase-small. Heavy. Like a small keg or a trash can.”
“You’ll find something that works. Or you won’t. I don’t make any guarantees, except that I can put you there. Then you take your toy far away and see how she goes. I don’t offer any money-back guarantees. Duds are your problem, not mine.”
Nora said, “You are offering us next to nothing.”
“You want to shop around for a few more years? Be my guest.”
Nora said, “I’m glad you find this so funny.”
“It’s all fucking funny to me, lady,” said Creem. “This whole world is a laugh factory. I laugh all day and night. What do you want me to do, bust out weeping? This vampire thing is one colossal joke, and the way I see it, you’re either in on the joke, or you’re out.”
“And you’re in on it?” said Nora.
“Put it to you this way, bald beauty,” said silver-toothed Creem. “I aim to have the last laugh. So you renegades and rebels better make sure you light the fuse on this fucking thing away from my island here. Take a bite out of… fucking Connecticut or something. But stay off my turf here. Part of the deal.”
Fet was smiling now. “What do you hope to do with this city once you own it?”
“I don’t even know. Who can think that far ahead? I never been a landlord before. This place is a fixer-upper but a one of a kind. Maybe turn this fucker into a casino. Or a skate rink—it’s all the same to you.”
Gus entered then. His hands were deep in his pockets, his face set tight. He was wearing dark glasses but if you looked carefully enough—like Nora did—you could see his eyes were red.
“Here he is,” said Creem. “Looks like we have a deal, Mex.”
Gus nodded. “We have a deal.”
Nora said, “Hold on. He’s got nothing except these maps.”
Gus nodded, still not really in the room yet. “How soon can we get it?”
Creem said, “How about tomorrow?”
Gus said, “Tomorrow it is. On one condition. You wait here tonight. With us. Lead us to it before first light.”
“Keeping an eye on me, Mex?”
“We’ll feed you,” said Gus.
Creem was won over. “Fair enough. I like my steak well-done, remember.” He swung his trunk door shut. “What’s your great plan, anyway?”
“You don’t really need to know,” said Gus.
“You can’t ambush this motherfucker.” Creem looked at them all. “Hope you know that.”
Gus said, “You can if you have something it wants. Something it needs.
Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather
Dear Zack,
This is my second time writing a letter that no father should ever have to write to his son: a suicide note. The first one I crafted before putting you on that train out of New York City, explaining my reasons for staying behind and fighting what I suspected was a losing battle.
Here I remain, still fighting that fight.
You were taken from me in the cruelest manner possible. For nearly two years now, I have pined for you, I have tried to find a way to set you free from the clutches of those who hold you. You think me dead, but no—not yet. I live, and I live for you.
I am writing this to you in the event that you survive me and that the Master survives me as well. In that case—which is for me the worst-case scenario—I will have committed a grave crime against humanity, or what was left of it. I will have traded the last hope for the freedom of our subordinated race in order that you, son, will live. Not only live, but live as a human being, unturned by the plague of vampirism spread by the Master.
My dearest hope is that you have by now come to the realization that the Master’s way is evil in its basest form. There is a very wise saying: “History is written by the victor.” Today I write not of history but of hope. We had a life together once, Zack. A beautiful life, and I include your mother in this also. Please remember that life, its
