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 from downstairs, for he opened 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.
11
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 their 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 snow-covered 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.
But nothing worse than that. Nothing with silvery eyes. Nothing with lots of pointed little teeth.
Not yet.
He pressed the Grofelds’ button, asked if this were the Santini apartment, and was curtly told that the Santinis’ mailbox was the next one.
He rang the Santinis and was prepared to ask if theirs was the Porterfield apartment. But the Santinis apparently expected someone and were considerably less cautious than their neighbors, for they buzzed him through the inner door without asking who he was.
Rebecca ushered the kids inside, and Jack quickly followed, closing the foyer door behind them.
He could have used his police ID to get past the foyer, but it would have taken too long. With the crime rate spiraling upward, most people were more suspicious these days than they’d once been. If he had been straightforward with Mrs. Evans, right there at the start, she wouldn’t have accepted his word that he was a cop. She would have wanted to come down—and rightly so—to examine his badge through the glass panel in the inner door. By that time, one of Lavelle’s demonic assassins might have passed by the building and spotted them.
Besides, Jack was reluctant to involve other people, for to do so would be to put their lives at risk if the goblins should suddenly arrive and attack.
Apparently, Rebecca shared his concern about dragging strangers into it, for she warned the kids to be especially quiet as she escorted them into a shadowy recess under the stairs, to the right of the main entrance.
Jack crowded into the nook with them, away from the door. They couldn’t be seen from the street or from the stairs above, not even if someone leaned out over the railing and looked down.
After less than a minute had passed, a door opened a few floors overhead. Footsteps. Then someone, apparently Mr. Santini, said, “Alex? Is that you?”
Under the stairs, they remained silent, unmoving.
Mr. Santini waited.
Outside, the wind roared.
Mr. Santini descended a few steps. “Is anyone there?”
Go away, Jack thought. You haven’t any idea what you might be walking into. Go away.
As if he were telepathic and had received Jack’s warning, the man returned to his apartment and closed the door.
Jack sighed.
Eventually, speaking in a tremulous whisper, Penny said, “How will we know when it’s safe to go outside again?”
“We’ll just give it a little time, and then when it seems right ... I’ll slip out there and take a peek,” Jack said softly.
Davey was shaking as if it were colder in here than it was outside. He wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his coat and said, “How much time will we wait?”
“Five minutes,” Rebecca told him, also whisperi
ng. “Ten at most. They’ll be gone by then.”
“They will?”
“Sure. They might already be gone.”
“You really think so?” Davey asked. “Already?”
“Sure,” Rebecca said. “There’s a good chance they didn’t follow us. But even if they did come after us, they won’t hang around this area all night.”
“Won’t they?” Penny asked doubtfully.
“No, no, no,” Rebecca said. “Of course they won’t. Even goblins get bored, you know.”
“Is that what they are?” Davey asked. “Goblins? Really?”
“Well, it’s hard to know exactly what we ought to call them,” Rebecca said.
“Goblins was the only word I could think of when I saw them,” Penny said. “It just popped into my mind.”
“And it’s a pretty darned good word,” Rebecca assured her. “You couldn’t have thought of anything better, so far as I’m concerned. And, you know, if you think back to all the fairytales you ever heard, goblins were always more bark than bite. About all they ever really did to anyone was scare them. So if we’re patient and careful, really careful, then everything will be all right.”
Jack admired and appreciated the way Rebecca was handling the children, alleviating their anxiety. Her voice had a soothing quality. She touched them continually as she spoke to them, squeezed and stroked them, gentled them down.
Jack pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch.
Ten-fourteen.
They huddled together in the shadows under the stairs, waiting. Waiting.
CHAPTER SIX
I
For a while Lavelle lay on the floor of the dark bedroom, stunned, breathing only with difficulty, numb with pain. When Rebecca Chandler shot a few of those small assassins in the Jamisons’ apartment, Lavelle had been in psychic contact with them, and he’d felt the impact of the bullets on their golem bodies. He hadn’t been injured, not any more than the demonic entities themselves had been injured. His skin wasn’t broken. He wasn’t bleeding. In the morning, there would be no bruises, no tenderness of flesh. But the impact of those slugs had been agonizingly real and had rendered him briefly unconscious.
He wasn’t unconscious now. Just disoriented. When the pain began to subside a little, he crawled around the room on his belly, not certain what he was searching for, not even certain where he was. Gradually he regained his senses. He crept back to the bed, levered himself onto the mattress, and flopped on his back, groaning.
Darkness touched him.
Darkness healed him.
Snow tapped the windows.
Darkness breathed over him.
Roof rafters creaked in the wind.
Darkness whispered to him.
Darkness.
Eventually, the pain was gone.
But the darkness remained. It embraced and caressed him. He suckled on it. Nothing else soothed as completely and as deeply as the darkness.
In spite of his unsettling and painful experience, he was eager to reestablish the psychic link with the creatures that were in pursuit of the Dawsons. The ribbons were still tied to his ankles, wrists, chest, and head. The spots of cat’s blood were still on his cheeks. His lips were still anointed with blood. And the blood vèvè was still on his chest. All he had to do was repeat the proper chants, which he did, staring at the tenebrous ceiling. Slowly, the bedroom faded around him, and he was once again with the silver-eyed horde, relentlessly stalking the Dawson children.
2
Ten-fifteen.
Ten-sixteen.
While they huddled under the stairs, Jack looked at the bite on Rebecca’s left hand. Three puncture marks were distributed over an area as large as a nickel, on the meatiest part of her palm, and there was a small tear in the skin, as well, but the lizard-thing hadn’t bitten deeply. The flesh was only slightly puffy. The wound no longer wept; there was only dried blood.
“How does it feel?”
“Burns a bit,” she said.
“That’s all?”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll put my glove on; that ought to help prevent it from breaking open and bleeding again.”
“Keep a watch on it, okay? If there’s any discoloration, any more swelling, anything at all odd about it, maybe we ought to get you to a hospital.”
“And when I talk to the doctor, what’ll I say happened to me?”
“Tell him you were bitten by a goblin. What else?”
“Might be worth it just to see his expression.”
Ten-seventeen.
Jack examined Davey’s coat, at which the lizard had clawed in a murderous frenzy. The garment was heavy and well-made; the fabric was sturdy. Nevertheless, the creature’s claws had sliced all the way through in at least three places—and through the quilted lining, too.
It was a miracle that Davey was unharmed. Although the claws had pierced the coat as if it were so much cheesecloth, they hadn’t torn the boy’s sweater or his shirt; they hadn’t left even one shallow scratch on his skin.
Jack thought about how close he had come to losing both Davey and Penny, and he was acutely aware that he might still lose them before this case was closed. He put one hand to his son’s fragile face. An icy premonition of dreadful loss began to blossom within him, spreading frozen petals of terror and despair. His throat clenched. He struggled to hold back tears. He must not cry. The kids would come apart if he cried. Besides, if he gave in to despair now, he would be surrendering—in some small but significant way—to Lavelle. Lavelle was evil, not just another criminal, not merely corrupted, but evil, the very essence and embodiment of it, and evil thrived on despair. The best weapons against evil were hope, optimism, determination, and faith. Their chances of survival depended on their ability to keep hoping, to believe that life (not death) was their destiny, to believe that good could triumph over evil, simply to believe. He would not lose his kids. He would not allow Lavelle to have them.
“Well,” he said to Davey, “it’s too well-ventilated for a winter coat, but I think we can fix that.” He took off his long neckscarf, wound it overtop the boy’s damaged coat, twice around his small chest, and knotted it securely at his waist. “There. That ought to keep the gaps closed. You okay, skipper?”
Davey nodded and tried very hard to look brave. He said, “Dad, do you think maybe what you need here is a magic sword?”
“A magic sword?” Jack said.
“Well, isn’t that what you’ve got to have if you’re going to kill a bunch of goblins?” the boy asked earnestly. “In all the stories, they usually have a magic sword or a magic staff, see, or maybe just some magic powder, and that’s what always does in the goblins or the witches or ogres or whatever it is that has to be done in. Oh, and sometimes, what it is they have ... it’s a magic jewel, you know, or a sorcerer’s ring. So, since you and Rebecca are detectives, maybe this time it’s a goblin gun. Do you know if the police department has anything like that? A goblin gun?”
“I don’t really know,” Jack said solemnly, wanting to hug the boy very close and very tight. “But it’s a darned good suggestion, son. I’ll look into it.”
“And if they don’t have one,” Davey said, “then maybe you could just ask a priest to sort of bless your own gun, the one you already have, and then you could load it up with lots and lots of silver bullets. That’s what they do with werewolves, you know.”
“I know. And that’s a good suggestion, too. I’m real glad to see you’re thinking about ways to beat these things. I’m glad you aren’t giving up. That’s what’s important—not giving up.”
“Sure,” Davey said, sticking his chin out. “I know that.”
Penny was watching her father over Davey’s shoulder. She smiled and winked.
Jack winked back at her.
Ten-twenty.
With every minute that passed uneventfully, Jack felt safer.
Not safe. Just safer.
Penny gave him a very abbreviated account of her encounters with the goblins
.
When the girl finished, Rebecca looked at Jack and said, “He’s been keeping a watch on them. So he’d always know exactly where to find them when the time came.”
To Penny, Jack said, “My God, baby, why didn’t you wake me last night when the thing was in your room?”
“I didn’t really see it—”
“But you heard it.”
“That’s all.”
“And the baseball bat—”
“Anyway,” Penny said with a sudden odd shyness, unable to meet his eyes, “I was afraid you’d think I’d gone ... crazy ... again.”
“Huh? Again?” Jack blinked at her. “What on earth do you mean—again?”
“Well ... you know ... like after Mama died, the way I was then ... when I had my ... trouble.”
“But you weren’t crazy,” Jack said. “You just needed a little counseling; that’s all, honey.”
“That’s what you called him,” the girl said, barely audible. “A counselor.”
“Yeah. Dr. Hannaby.”
“Aunt Faye, Uncle Keith, everyone called him a counselor. Or sometimes a doctor.”
“That’s what he was. He was there to counsel you, to show you how to deal with your grief over your mom’s death.”
The girl shook her head: no. “One day, when I was in his office, waiting for him ... and he didn’t come in to start the session right away ... I started to read the college degrees on his wall.”
“And?”
With evident embarrassment, Penny said, “I found out he was a psychiatrist. Psychiatrists treat crazy people. That’s when I knew I was a little bit ... crazy.”
Surprised and dismayed that such a misconception could have gone uncorrected for so long, Jack said, “No, no, no. Sweetheart, you’ve got it all wrong.”
Rebecca said, “Penny, for the most part, psychiatrists treat ordinary people with ordinary problems. Problems that we all have at one time or another in our lives. Emotional problems, mostly. That’s what yours were. Emotional problems.”