F Wilson - Midnight Mass

"Okay. Just get back in time so we can stock up for the trip. We need to find some gas too. The Lincoln's pretty low."

"No need," Lacey said. "There's a cool convertible with a full tank sitting in the garage. We can take that instead."

"Looks like you've got all the bases covered. Only one thing left to do before we go. Carole, drop Lacey off at the church so she can tell them what we did at the Post Office and to expect reprisals. But most important, tell them the get-death secret. Have Gerald Vance get on his shortwave and start broadcasting it around the world."

"You think anyone'll believe it?"

"I hope so. Maybe in New York we'll find a way to give the world more tangible proof."

"How?"

Joe didn't answer. He was working on the beginning of an idea of his own.

BARRETT . . .

It was a little after midnight when James Barrett stepped out of the elevator into the Observation Deck atrium. A couple of Franco's get-guards pulled pistols and started for him. Where was Artemis tonight? He was usually the first to get in the face of anyone, living or undead, who set foot on the deck.

"What do you want?"

Something in their eyes, their expressions. Was it fear? What was going down here?

"Franco said to meet him here," Barrett said.

"I'll go check," said one of the guards.

As commander of the Empire State Building's human contingent, Barrett was used to being taken straight to Franco. Why this extra layer of insulation all of a sudden?

After all, he was responsible for round-the-clock security. He could have stayed around just on days—the really important time for security—but that meant he'd never get to see Franco, and Franco would never see him. So he caught a few winks here and there when he could and made sure he was around for at least some of the night shift.

He'd held the job for six months now. That meant he had nine-and-a-half years of servitude left. That was the deal with the undead: ten years of service and they'd turn him. Fine for the other slobs to wait that long, but not him. He'd risen as high as a living man could go in Franco's organization. He needed to take the next step, needed to be turned, and soon. But he still hadn't found the lever to boost him to that stage.

"Come with us," said the returning vampire. "But first..."

He patted Barrett down and removed the .44 Magnum from his shoulder holster. He stared at it a moment, then handed it back.

Barrett hid his shock. He'd never been frisked before.

"Let's go," said the other.

But instead of escorting him to the outer deck, he led him into a stairwell to the left of the elevator bank and down the steps to the eighty-fifth floor. After a short walk along a hallway, he was passed through another set of guards into a bare room furnished with only a king-size four-poster bed. Large sheets of plywood had been bolted over the windows.

Franco paced the room, his hands behind his back.

"There's been some trouble," he said without preamble, without so much as a glance at Barrett.

"Where?" It must be really serious, he thought. "I haven't heard anything."

"You wouldn't," Franco said, his eyes were on the floor as he paced. "I sent Artemis down to New Jersey a few days ago to check up on Olivia and see to it that she was staying on top of things. If she wasn't—as I was sure was the case—he was to take over. This evening I received a report from downtown that—"

He seemed to catch himself and cast a quick sidelong glance at Barrett. What was he hiding? He knew that Artemis and a few of his get lived down in the Village. What had Franco heard?

Franco shook his head and went on. "I heard a report that made me suspect that something might have happened to Artemis. So I sent a flyer down to check." Finally he looked up at Barrett. "Artemis is dead. So is Olivia."

"Oh, shit," Barrett said. It was the best he could do. He was all but speechless.

Artemis dead? Barrett couldn't wrap his mind around it. Was there a tougher undead son of a bitch in the world? He doubted it.

"How?"

"Staked. Same as Olivia."

"Her guards too?"

"All dead."

"A massacre! Who—?"

"I suspect it has something to do with that vigilante priest. That's the only answer."

"But he's one of you now."

"His followers aren't. Maybe when they found out that we turned him, instead of being demoralized, they went berserk. I don't know."

Barrett heard opportunity knocking. Here was a chance to stand out, to maybe shorten that nine-and-a-half-year wait for immortality.

A plan was already forming. Show up down there, pretend to be another refugee, infiltrate their ranks, wait till the time was right, till they were off guard, then blow them all away.

"Want me to go down and check it out?"

Franco shook his head. "No. I need you here. I want you to gather your men from inside and outside the city and concentrate them around this building. I'm going to organize a counter strike and I don't want any interruptions. By next week I'll have gathered a horde of ferals to set loose down there. No quarter, no survivors. Then I'm going to incinerate the entire area. The flames will be visible for miles. Not one house or church or synagogue will be left standing. The rest of the living will hear and understand the consequences of resistance."

"I don't think pulling in your perimeter is such a good idea. That's like your early-warning system. You don't want—"

"What I don't want is to debate it. I did not bring you up here for a discussion. I'm telling you what to do. Now do it!"

Barrett resisted a hot retort. He held up his hands and said, "You're the boss."

As he turned and walked out, he thought, But you're an asshole.

He didn't care what Franco said, he wasn't going to pull in all the outriders. His ass was on the line here too, and if a caravan full of vampire hunters was headed this way, he wanted to know about it before they reached Fifth Avenue.

Because invariably vampire hunters were cowboy hunters too.

- 12 -

LACEY . . .

Feeling tight and on edge, Lacey sat straight and tall in the passenger seat, scanning the highway ahead and twisting to check out behind as they sped north along Route 35. Her right hand rested on the .45 semiautomatic cradled in her lap.

They'd left before dawn with Carole at the wheel. The Parkway route had been considered, but rejected. It was a wider road, but offered fewer options should they run into any Vichy. Route 35 was local, but it wasn't as if they had to worry about traffic lights or anything, and it allowed them to turn off on an instant's notice. That was good; the sun was rising into a cloudless sky, which was not so good. Lacey would have preferred a cloudy, rainy day. Better yet, foggy. Anything to cut the visibility.

As she spotted a sign that said HAZLET she felt the Fairlane surge forward. Joe—apparently he'd played around with cars as a teen—had identified this one as a '57 Fairlane; he'd checked the engine before they'd left and proclaimed it "hot," mentioning a four-barrel carburetor and other car talk she couldn't follow. She leaned left to catch a look at the speedometer.

"Ninety?" she said.

Carole nodded. She was dressed in some hideous mauve nylon warm-up she'd found last night in a neighboring house. "The road is straight and level here, and the sooner we get there, the better."

"I'll drink to that."