Darkfall

could have rushed her at any time. They could have killed her if they'd wanted to kill her.

The flickering ice-white eyes watched her.

Mrs. March pounded on the piano.

The kids sang.

Penny bolted away from the shelves, dashed to the stairs, and clambered upward. Step by step she expected the things to bite her heels, latch onto her, and drag her down. She stumbled once, almost fell back to the bottom, grabbed the railing with her free hand, and kept going. The top step. The landing. Fumbling in the dark for the doorknob, finding it. The hallway. Light, safety. She slammed the door behind her. Leaned on it. Gasping.

In the music room, they were still singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

The corridor was deserted.

Dizzy, weak in the legs, Penny slid down and sat on the floor, her back against the door. She let go of the carry-all. She had been gripping it so tightly that the handle had left its mark across her palm. Her hand ached.

The song ended.

Another song began. Silver Bells.

Gradually, Penny regained her strength, calmed herself, and was able to think clearly. What wet those hideous little things? Where did they come from? What did they want from her?

Thinking clearly wasn't any help. She couldn't come up with a single acceptable answer.

A lot of really dumb answers kept occurring to her, however: goblins, gremlins, ogres…. Cripes. It couldn't be anything like that. This was real life, not a fairy tale.

How could she ever tell anyone about her experience in the cellar without seeming childish or, worse, even slightly crazy? Of course, grown-ups didn't like to use the term “crazy” with children. You could be as nuts as a walnut tree, babble like a loon, chew on furniture, set fire to cats, and talk to brick walls, and as long as you were still a kid, the worst they'd say about you — in public, at least — was that you were “emotionally disturbed, “ although what they meant by that was “crazy.” If she told Mr. Quillen or her father or any other adult about the things she had seen in the school basement, everyone would think she was looking for attention and pity; they'd figure she hadn't yet adjusted to her mother's death. For a few months after her mother passed away, Penny had been in bad shape, confused, angry, frightened, a problem to her father and to herself. She had needed help for a while. Now, if she told them about the things in the basement, they would think she needed help again. They would send her to a “counselor,” who would actually be a psychologist or some other kind of head doctor, and they'd do their best for her, give her all sorts of attention and sympathy and treatment, but they simply wouldn't believe her — until, with their own eyes, they saw such things as she had seen.

Or until it was too late for her.

Yes, they'd all believe then—when she was dead.

She had no doubt whatsoever that the fiery-eyed things would try to kill her, sooner or later. She didn't know why they wanted to take her life, but she sensed their evil intent, their hatred. They hadn't harmed her yet, true, but they were growing bolder. Last night, the one in her bedroom hadn't damaged anything except the plastic baseball bat she'd poked at it, but by this morning, they had grown bold enough to destroy the contents of her locker. And now, bolder still, they had revealed themselves and had threatened her.

What next?

Something worse.

They enjoyed her terror; they fed on it. But like a cat with a mouse, they would eventually grow tired of the game. And then…

She shuddered.

What am I going to do? she wondered miserably. What am I going to do?

VIII

The hotel, one of the best in the city, overlooked Central Park. It was the same hotel at which Jack and Linda had spent their honeymoon, thirteen years ago. They hadn't been able to afford the Bahamas or Florida or even the Catskills. Instead, they had remained in the city and had settled for three days at this fine old landmark, and even that had been an extravagance. They'd had a memorable honeymoon, nevertheless, three days filled with laughter and good conversation and talk of their future and lots of loving. They'd promised themselves a trip to the Bahamas on their tenth anniversary, something to look forward to. But by the time that milestone rolled around, they had two kids to think about and a new apartment to get in order, and they renegotiated the promise, rescheduling the Bahamas for their fifteenth anniversary. Little more than a year later, Linda was dead. In the eighteen months since her funeral, Jack had often thought about the Bahamas, which were now forever spoiled for him, and about this hotel.

The murders had been committed on the sixteenth floor, where there were now two uniformed officers — Yeager and Tufton — stationed at the elevator alcove. They weren't letting anyone through except those with police ID and those who could prove they were registered guests with lodgings on that level.

“Who were the victims?” Rebecca asked Yeager. “Civilians?”

“Nope,” Yeager said. He was a lanky man with enormous yellow teeth. Every time he paused, he probed at his teeth with his tongue, licked and pried at them. “Two of them were pretty obviously professional muscle.”

“You know the type,” Tufton said as Yeager paused to probe again at his teeth. “Tall, big hands, big arms; you could break ax handles across their necks, and they'd think it was just a sudden breeze.”

“The third one,” Yeager said, “was one of the Carramazzas.” He paused; his tongue curled out, over his upper teeth, swept back and forth. “One of the immediate family, too.” He scrubbed his tongue over his lowers. “In fact—” Probe, probe. “-it's Dominick Carramazza.”

“Oh, shit!” Jack said. “Gennaro's brother?”

“Yeah, the godfather's little brother, his favorite brother, his right hand,” Tufton said quickly, before Yeager started to answer. Tufton was a fast-spoken man with a sharp face, an angular body, and quick movements, brisk and efficient gestures. Yeager's slowness must be a constant irritant to him, Jack thought. “And they didn't just kill him. They tore him up bad. There isn't any mortician alive who can put Dominick back together well enough for an open-casket funeral, and you know how important funerals are to these Sicilians.”

“There'll be blood in the streets now,” Jack said wearily.

“Gang war like we haven't seen in years,” Tufton agreed.

Rebecca said, “Dominick…? Wasn't he the one who was in the news all summer?”

“Yeah,” Yeager said. “The D.A. thought he had him nailed for—”

When Yeager paused to swab his yellowed teeth with his big pink tongue, Tufton quickly said, “Trafficking in narcotics. He's in charge of the entire Carramazza narcotics operation. They've been trying to put him in the stir for twenty years, maybe longer, but he's a fox. He always walks out of the courtroom a free man.”

“What was he doing here in the hotel?” Jack wondered.

“I think he was hiding out,” Tufton said.

“Registered under a phony name,” Yeager said.

Tufton said, “Holed up here with those two apes to protect him. They must've known he was targeted, but he was hit anyway.”

“Hit?” Yeager said scornfully. He paused to tend to his teeth and made an unpleasant sucking sound. Then: “Hell, this was more than just a hit. This was total devastation. This was crazy, totally off the wall; that's what this was. Christ, if I didn't know better, I'd say these three here had been chewed, just chewed to pieces.”

The scene of the crime was a two-room suite. The door had been broken down by the first officers to arrive. An assistant medical examiner, a police photographer, and a couple of lab technicians were at work in both rooms.

The parlor, decorated entirely in beige and royal blue, was elegantly appointed with a stylish mixture of French provincial and understated contemporary furniture. The room would have been warm and welcoming if it hadn't been thoroughly splattered with blood.