Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

Reaching the top, he saw a room and, past it, the open door of the mausoleum. The light he’d seen was beyond the ruined doors. He crawled toward the light, advancing one knee, then one hand, then one knee, moving slowly and without thought.

Finally he passed through the door. The light was on his right, shining brightly, and a machine to his left was pushing out a stream of fog. He could hear the thrum of a generator.

There was a woman here. Sitting cross-legged on the ground. A blond woman, splattered in blood, with her head buried in her hands. She looked up at him as he emerged from the tomb, her face a perfect blank. The blood on her face looked like ghastly red freckles.

She looked at him for a while, then she lowered her head into her hands again.

Now Wellstone’s body decided it could crawl no more. It was as if his agency had departed. He lay down next to the woman and curled up, once again in a fetal position, covering his head with his hands. Vaguely, he sensed that he was waiting, but for what, or whom, he could not say... any more than he could, or would, say anything else — ever again.

Terry O’Herlihy pushed deuce off his lap, got up from his living room couch, walked through the doorway into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. After a brief inspection, he took out a diet iced tea, unscrewed the lid, and walked back to the couch. With a sigh, he flopped down, his form fitting easily into the depression in the springs in front of the TV. A moment later, Deuce jumped back up. Deuce was a black Pomeranian, his wife’s pride and joy. It was his job to take Deuce for his nightly walk, and the way people snickered at his leading a toy lapdog by the leash made him feel like a prison punk.

He took a sip of iced tea, muttered a curse, then screwed the top back on. A humid breeze came through the open windows, stirring the embroidered lace curtains, and he held the bottle to his temple. The window air-conditioning unit had broken two days before, and his social security check wouldn’t be coming until next week. If the damn stuff wasn’t fit to drink, it could at least cool him off a little.

He glanced around the dimly lit room: at the shabby dining room table, the shabby hooked rug, the photos of family members in carefully dusted but yellowing frames. Forty-two years at the tool and die factory, five days a week, waiting to retire — and now he was retired, all right. Good and retired.

His wandering gaze fell on the ashtray atop the coffee table. Molly had wiped it so clean that it almost sparkled in the dark room. She was a tidy woman, but this was something that had nothing to do with tidiness; she didn’t want ash, or butts, or anything in the room that would put his mind to smoking.

Same with the liquor. One at a time, she’d thrown out his bottles of rye, stuffing knickknacks in the places they’d been. The shelf in the kitchen that once held booze was now piled with dishes. She’d found the bottle he kept in the basement, too — made a big production out of disposing of that one. She was a stone bloodhound, that woman.

“Shit-fire,” he muttered, putting the iced tea down with a bang. Why couldn’t the woman stop dogging him? He’d spent his whole life working. What was wrong with a pack of smokes and a half-pint? Well, all right then, a pint? He felt fine; he didn’t care what the doctors at Memorial said. It wasn’t like he was stepping out on the battle-ax or something. A man deserved his little pleasures.

The fact was, he did have something stashed away for a rainy day — a carton of Kools and a couple bottles of Old Overholt Bonded — somewhere Molly would never find them. Just knowing they were there made him feel better.

He raised one cheek off the sofa and busted ass. Deuce pricked up his ears and looked at him reproachfully. “Come on, boy,” he said a little guiltily, rising from the couch again with a grunt and reaching for the dog’s leash. “Let’s get this over with.”

Stepping outside, he found the night air was cooler than the house, but only a little. He paused. The clouds were clearing from the night sky. The Avondale district of east Savannah was quiet, but in the distance he could make out lights and hear some kind of racket: that senator was in town again, making a nuisance of himself.

He gave the leash a yank and headed east on Louisiana Avenue. His route never varied: a few blocks down New Jersey, a block west on New York, and then a couple more back up Ohio Avenue and home. It was a short run: five minutes, as long as Deuce didn’t get too busy sniffing some other dog’s mess.

As he made the turn onto New Jersey Avenue, he saw the Deloach boys sitting on their front porch in the dark. A strong smell of weed drifted toward him, followed by some whispering, giggling, and then finally, a falsetto voice: “Nice hamster you got there, Mr. O’Herlihy.”

Peckerwoods . He ignored them and picked up his pace a little, forcing Deuce into a trot.

He should start taking a cigarette with him on these walks. That would make it enjoyable, at least. Take tonight, for instance: Molly would be down at New Jerusalem until at least ten, planning for the upcoming game night and silent auction. But no: she’d smell it on his breath when she came home.

He could see the intersection with New York Avenue ahead. Deuce stopped to investigate a big-ass turd, but Terry was in no mood and yanked him away. “No fun tonight, boy.” At this rate, he’d make it home in a hot minute.

The wind shifted, and suddenly he heard more noise. But this wasn’t coming from downtown: it seemed to be coming from the direction of the cemetery. And it wasn’t cheering and clapping: it sounded more like screams.

As he stared curiously in that direction, he saw a dark cloud rise up into the heavy sky. But clouds didn’t rise like that. And clouds didn’t have wings.

Deuce began squeaking and barking hysterically, jerking on the leash. But Terry didn’t notice. He was staring at the thing in the sky.

Skeletal wings beating slowly, it rose up, glowing a pale blue in the ghostly light of the moon. Even from this distance, he could see it had a body like a dry leather sack. As Terry watched, it hovered briefly, then — flap, flap — it glided over the Placentia Canal. It circled the industrial area hard by the cemetery, its hideous little head moving this way and that as if searching for something. And then, quite abruptly, it veered away and shot off like an arrow.

It was headed for downtown.

Terry watched until it vanished in the smoky late-spring night. Even when it was gone, he remained still for a moment. Then he shuffled around and made his way — slowly, stiff-legged — through people’s backyards and driveways in a beeline for his own house. The moment he opened the door, Deuce shot inside and burrowed under the couch. Still, Terry paid him no heed. He headed past the living room, down a hallway, and into the spare bedroom. In the back of the closet, he found the loose panel of veneer and reached into the space behind it. He felt around, grabbed the carton of cigarettes, and pulled it out. But he tossed it aside, reached in again, and found a bottle of Old Overholt. Ignoring the cigarettes, he made his way back to the living room couch, sat down, and — cracking open the bottle — began sipping slowly and meditatively as the distant sounds of the night began to change.

Pendergast had taken the notebook off the worktable and was consulting it. Now he held it in his left hand, open for reference, while with his right he gently grasped a lever that rested on two metal supports. Beside it was a large meter with a black dial.

“That doesn’t look like an on switch to me,” said Coldmoon.