Darkfall

“They weren't rats,” he said. “I saw—”

“Nothing but rats.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Rats,” she insisted. “But we're not going to tell Anson and Francine we have rats. What would they think of us? I won't have them knowing we live in a building with rats. Why, Francine already looks down on me, she looks down on everyone; she thinks she's such a blueblood, that family she comes from. I won't give her the slightest advantage. I swear I won't. Not a word about rats. What we'll tell them is that there's a gas leak. They can't see our building from their apartment and they won't be going out on a night like this, so we'll tell them we've been evacuated because of a gas leak.”

“Faye—”

“And tomorrow morning,” she said determinedly, “I'll start looking for a new place for us.”

“But—”

“I won't live in a building with rats. I simply won't do it, and you can't expect me to. You should want out of there yourself, just as fast as it can be arranged.”

“But they weren't—”

“We'll sell the apartment. And maybe it's even time we got out of this damned dirty city altogether. I've been half wanting to get out for years. You know that. Maybe it's time we start looking for a place in Connecticut. I know you won't be happy about commuting, but the train isn't so bad, and think of all the advantages. Fresh air. A bigger place for the same money. Our own pool. Wouldn't that be nice? Maybe Penny and Davey could come and stay with us for the entire summer. They shouldn't spend their entire childhood in the city. It isn't healthy. Yes, definitely, I'll start looking into it tomorrow.”

“Faye, for one thing, everything'll be shut up tight on account of the blizzard—”

“That won't stop me. You'll see. First thing tomorrow.”

The elevator doors opened.

In the fourteenth-floor corridor, Keith said, “Aren't you worried about Penny and Davey? I mean, we left them—”

“They'll be fine,” she said, and she even seemed to believe it. “It was only rats. You don't think rats are going to follow them out of the building? They're in no danger from a few rats. What I'm most worried about is that father of theirs, telling them it's voodoo, scaring them like that, stuffing their heads full of such nonsense. What's gotten into that man? Maybe he does have a psychotic killer to track down, but voodoo has nothing to do with it. He doesn't sound rational. Honestly, I just can't understand him; no matter how hard I try, I just can't.”

They had reached the door to the Dorset apartment. Keith rang the bell.

Faye said, “Remember, not a word!”

Anson Dorset must have been waiting with his hand on the doorknob ever since they phoned up from downstairs, for he opened up at once, just as Faye issued that warning to Keith. He said, “Not a word about what?”

“Rats,” Keith said. “All of a sudden, it seems as if our building is infested with rats.”

Faye cast a murderous look at him.

He didn't care. He wasn't going to spin an elaborate story about a gas leak. They could be caught too easily in a lie like that, and then they'd look like fools. So he told Anson and Francine about a plague of vermin, but he didn't mention voodoo or say anything about the weird creatures that had come out of the guest room vent. He conceded that much to Faye because she was absolutely right on that score: A stockbroker had to maintain a conservative, stable, level-headed image at all times — or risk ruin.

But he wondered how long it would be before he could forget what he had seen.

A long time.

A long, long time.

Maybe never.

XI

Sliding a little, then stomping through a drift that put snow inside his boots, Jack turned the corner, onto the avenue. He didn't look back because he was afraid he'd discover the goblins — as Penny called them — close at his heels.

Rebecca and the kids were only a hundred feet ahead. He hurried after them.

Much to his dismay, he saw that they were the only people on the broad avenue. There were only a few cars, all deserted and abandoned after becoming stuck in the snow. Nobody out walking. And who, in his right mind, would be out walking in gale-force winds, in the middle of a blinding snowstorm? Nearly two blocks away, red taillights and revolving red emergency beacons gleamed and winked, barely visible in the sheeting snow. It was a train of plows, but they were headed the other way.

He caught up with Rebecca and the kids. It wasn't difficult to close the gap. They were no longer moving very fast. Already, Davey and Penny were flagging. Running in deep snow was like running with lead weights on the feet; the constant resistance was quickly wearing them down.

Jack glanced back the way they had come. No sign of the goblins. But those lantern-eyed creatures would show up, and soon. He couldn't believe they had given up this easily.

When they did come, they would find easy prey. The kids would have slowed to a weary, shambling walk in another minute.

Jack didn't feel particularly spry himself. His heart was pounding so hard and fast that it seemed as if it would tear loose of its moorings. His face hurt from the cold, biting wind, which also stung his eyes and brought tears to them. His hands hurt and were somewhat numb, too, because he hadn't had time to put on his gloves again. He was breathing hard, and the arctic air cracked his throat, made his chest ache. His feet were freezing because of all the snow that had gotten into his boots. He wasn't in any condition to provide much protection to the kids, and that realization made him angry and fearful, for he and Rebecca were the only people standing between the kids and death.

As if excited by the prospect of their slaughter, the wind howled louder, almost gleefully.

The winter-bare trees, rising from cut-out planting beds in the wide sidewalk, rattled their stripped limbs in the wind. It was the sound of animated skeletons.

Jack looked around for a place to hide. Just ahead, five brownstone apartment houses, each four stories tall, were sandwiched between somewhat higher and more modern (though less attractive) structures. To Rebecca, he said, “We've got to get out of sight,” and he hurried all of them off the sidewalk, up the snowcovered steps, through the glass-paneled front doors, into the security foyer of the first brownstone.

The foyer wasn't well-heated; however, by comparison with the night outside, it seemed wonderfully tropical. It was also clean and rather elegant, with brass mailboxes and a vaulted wooden ceiling, although there was no doorman. The complex mosaic-tile floor — which depicted a twining vine, green leaves, and faded yellow flowers against an ivory background — was highly polished, and not one piece of tile was missing.

But, even as pleasant as it was, they couldn't stay here. The foyer was also brightly lighted. They would be spotted easily from the street.

The inner door was also glass paneled. Beyond it lay the first-floor hall, the elevator and stairs. But the door was locked and could be opened only with a key or with a lock-release button in one of the apartments.

There were sixteen apartments in all, four on each floor. Jack stepped to the brass mailboxes and pushed the call button for a Mr. and Mrs. Evans on the fourth floor.

A woman's voice issued tinnily from the speaker at the top of the mailbox. “Who is it?”

“Is this the Grofeld apartment?” Jack asked, knowing full well that it wasn't.

“No,” the unseen woman said. “You've pressed the wrong button. The Grofelds' mailbox is next to ours.”

“Sorry,” he said as Mrs. Evans broke the connection.

He glanced toward the front door, at the street beyond.

Snow. Naked, blackened trees shaking in the wind. The ghostly glow of storm-shrouded streetlamps.