Darkfall

VI

The Jamisons' apartment was in a twelve-story building on a cross street that hadn't yet been plowed. The street was mantled with six inches of snow. Jack drove slowly forward and had no trouble for about twenty yards, but then the wheels sank into a hidden drift that had completely filled in a dip in the pavement. For a moment he thought they were stuck, but he threw the car into reverse and then forward and then reverse and then forward again, rocking it, until it broke free. Two-thirds of the way down the block, he tapped the brakes, and the car slid to a stop in front of the right building.

He flung open the door and scrambled out of the car. An arctic wind hit him with sledgehammer force. He put his head down and staggered around the front of the car, onto the sidewalk, barely able to see as the wind picked up crystals of snow from the ground and sprayed them in his face.

By the time Jack climbed the steps and pushed through the glass doors, into the lobby, Rebecca was already there. Flashing her badge and photo ID at the startled doorman, she said, “Police.”

He was a stout man, about fifty, with hair as white as the snow outside. He was sitting at a Sheraton desk near the pair of elevators, drinking coffee and taking shelter from the storm. He must have been a day-shift man, filling in for the regular night-shift man (or perhaps new) because Jack had never seen him on the evenings when he'd come here to pick up the kids.

“What is it?” the doorman asked. “What's wrong?”

This wasn't the kind of building where people were accustomed to anything being wrong; it was first-class all the way, and the mere prospect of trouble was sufficient to cause the doorman's face to turn nearly as pale as his hair.

Jack punched the elevator call button and said, “We're going up to the Jamisons' apartment. Eleventh floor.”

“I know which floor they're on,” the doorman said, flustered, getting up so quickly that he bumped the desk and almost knocked over his coffee cup. “But why—”

One set of elevator doors opened.

Jack and Rebecca stepped into the cab.

Jack shouted back to the doorman: “Bring a passkey!

I hope to God we don't need it.”

Because if we need it, he thought, that'll mean no one's left alive in the apartment to let us in.

The lift doors shut. The cab started up.

Jack reached inside his overcoat, drew his revolver.

Rebecca pulled her gun, too.

Above the doors, the panel of lighted numbers indicated that they had reached the third floor.

“Guns didn't help Dominick Carramazza,” Jack said shakily, staring at the Smith & Wesson in his hand.

Fourth floor.

“We won't need guns anyway,” Rebecca said. “We've gotten here ahead of Lavelle. I know we have.”

But the conviction had gone out of her voice.

Jack knew why. The journey from her apartment had taken forever. It seemed less and less likely that they were going to be in time.

Sixth floor.

“Why're the elevators so goddamned slow in this building?” Jack demanded.

Seventh floor.

Eighth.

Ninth.

“Move, damnit!” he commanded the lift machinery, as if he thought it would actually speed up if he ordered it to do so.

Tenth floor.

Eleventh.

At last the doors slid open, and Jack stepped through them.

Rebecca followed close behind.

The eleventh floor was so quiet and looked so ordinary that Jack was tempted to hope.

Please, God, please.

There were seven apartments on this floor. The Jamisons had one of the two front units.

Jack went to their door and stood to one side of it. His right arm was bent and tucked close against his side, and the revolver was in his right hand, held close to his face, the muzzle pointed straight up at the ceiling for the moment, but ready to be brought into play in an instant.

Rebecca stood on the other side, directly opposite him, in a similar posture.

Let them be alive. Please. Please.

His eyes met Rebecca's. She nodded. Ready.

Jack pounded on the door.

VII

In the shadow-crowded room, on the bed, Lavelle breathed deeply and rapidly. In fact, he was panting like an animal.

His hands were curled at his sides, fingers hooked and rigid, as if they were talons. For the most part, his hands were still, but now and then they erupted in sudden violent movement, striking at the empty air or clawing frantically at the sheets.

He shivered almost continuously. Once in a while, he jerked and twitched as if an electric current had snapped through him; on these occasions, his entire body heaved up, off the bed, and slammed back down, making the mattress springs squeal in protest.

Deep in a trance, he was unaware of these spasms.

He stared straight up, eyes wide, seldom blinking, but he wasn't seeing the ceiling or anything else in the room. He was viewing other places, in another part of the city, where his vision was held captive by the eager pack of small assassins with which he had established psychic contact.

He hissed.

Groaned.

Gnashed his teeth.

He jerked, flopped, twisted.

Then lay silent, still.

Then clawed the sheets.

He hissed so forcefully that he sprayed spittle into the dark air around him.

His legs suddenly became possessed. He drummed his heels furiously upon the mattress.

He growled in the back of his throat.

He lay silent for a while.

Then he began to pant. He sniffed. Hissed again.

He smelled the girl. Penny Dawson. She had a wonderful scent. Sweet. Young. Fresh. Tender.

He wanted her.

VIII

Faye opened the door, saw Jack's revolver, gave him a startled look, and said, “My God, what's that for? What're you doing? You know how I hate guns. Put that thing away.”