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.m 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.
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?”
“You know those tunnels better than anyone else. And Zachary needs time with his father.”
Fet nodded. “How is the kid?”
Setrakian sighed. “For him, there is first the abject horror of the circumstances, the terror of this new reality. And then there is the
“You might as well be talking about the doc, too.”
“Indeed. Now, about this task — you must be swift.” He pointed to the package. “The timer will give you three minutes. Only three.”
Fet peeked inside the oil-stained rags: three sticks of dynamite and a small mechanical timer. “Jesus — it looks like an egg timer.”
“So it is. 1950s analog. Analog avoids mistakes, you see. Crank it all the way to the right, and then run. The small box underneath will generate the necessary spark to detonate the sticks. Three minutes. A soft-boiled egg. Do you think you can find a place to hide that fast down there?”
Fet nodded. “I don’t see why not. How long ago did you assemble this?”
“Some time ago,” said Setrakian. “It will still work.”
“You had this around — in your basement?”
“Volatile weapons I kept in the back of the cellar. A small vault, sealed, concrete wall and asbestos. Hidden from city inspectors. Or nosy exterminators.”
Fet nodded, carefully wrapping up the explosive and tucking the package underneath his arm. He moved closer to Setrakian, speaking privately. “Level with me here, professor. I mean, what are we doing? Unless I’m missing something — I don’t see any way to stop this. Slow it down, sure. But destroying them one by one — that’s like trying to kill every rat in the city by hand. It’s spreading too fast.”
“That much is true,” said Setrakian. “We need a way to destroy more efficiently. But, by that same token, I do not believe the Master to be satisfied with exponential exposure.”
Fet digested the big words, then nodded. “Because hot diseases burn out. That’s what the doc said. They run out of hosts.”
“Indeed,” Setrakian said, with a tired expression. “There is a greater plan at work. What it is — I hope we never have to find out.”
“Whatever it is,” said Fet, patting the rags beneath his arm, “count on me to be right at your side.”
Setrakian watched Fet climb into the van and drive off. He liked the Russian, even if he suspected that the exterminator enjoyed the killing only too much. There are men who bloom in chaos. You call them heroes or villains, depending on which side wins the war, but until the battle call they are but normal men who long for action, who lust for the opportunity to throw off the routine of their normal lives like a cocoon and come into their own. They sense a destiny larger than themselves, but only when structures collapse around them do these men become warriors.
Fet was one of them. Unlike Ephraim, Fet had no question about his calling or his deeds. Not that he was
