F. Paul Wilson - Nightworld

Too bad—for Bill's friend and because Glaeken had wanted Bill and Jack to meet, perhaps become friends. He'd have to save that for another time.

Jack dropped into a chair opposite Glaeken.

"Let's get on with it, then. You mentioned the necklaces again. You're not still set on getting ahold of them, are you?"

"Yes. I'm afraid they're an absolute necessity."

"To prevent 'the end of life as we know it,' right?"

"Correct."

Jack rose from the chair and stepped to the window again.

"I still say you're crazy," he said, looking down at the Park again. "But the damn Park is smaller, isn't it? I mean, it's lost whatever amount of surface area that hole swallowed. So it has shrunk, just like you said." He turned and stared at Glaeken. "How did you know that hole was going to open up?"

"Lucky guess."

"Yeah. Right. But you're going to need more than a lucky guess to find Kolabati and those necklaces."

"I've learned exactly where she is."

Jack sat down again.

"Where?"

"She's living on Maui, on the northwest slope of Haleakala, above Kula. And she has both necklaces with her."

"How'd you find that out? Two nights ago you hadn't the faintest idea where she was."

"I ran into an old acquaintance who happened to know."

"How convenient."

"Not really. I sought out this acquaintance."

Glaeken allowed himself a tight little smile and said no more. Let Jack assume that the acquaintance was a person. He could hardly tell him about the Dat-tay-vao, at least not at this juncture. He wasn't ready for it. But the truth was that when he had touched that boy Jeffy yesterday, he had made contact with the Dat-tay-vao, and in a flash that contact revealed the location of the necklaces. For the Dat-tay-vao always knew the whereabouts of the necklaces. They had been intimately linked once. Hopefully, with the cooperation of men like Repairman Jack, they would soon be reunited.

"And you want me to go there and convince Kolabati to give them up so she can turn into an old hag and die as a result."

"I want you to get them. Simply get them."

"Well, since she won't part with them willingly, I'll have to steal them. I'm not a thief, Mr. Veilleur."

"But you do steal things back for people, don't you?"

Jack leaned back in the chair and tapped his fingers on the arms.

"On occasion."

"Very well: those necklaces—or rather, the metal they were made from—originally belonged to me."

Jack shook his head slowly. "Uh-uh. That won't fly. I know for a fact that those necklaces date from pre-Vedic times, and that they've been in her family for generations. And believe me, hers is a family with long generations."

"Still, it is true. The source material was stolen from me long, long ago."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me you're a couple of thousand years old?"

Glaeken sensed that he had pushed Jack's credulity to its limits. The whole truth might make him walk out again as he had from the tavern the other night. Probably wise to back off a step for now.

"Let's just say, then, that some time in the dim past a member of her family stole it from a member of mine. Will that do?"

Jack rubbed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it.

"Why do I believe you?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth." Or something reasonably close to it.

"All right," Jack said after a lengthy pause. "I'll think about it. I'm not committing yet. I could use some detailed drawings of the necklaces, though. Got any?"

"I can have them for you tomorrow. Why?"

"That's my business." He rose to his feet. "You know my fee, and it doesn't look like you'll have any trouble meeting it, so—"

"Fee? I assumed you'd do this because you want to."

"Now why would I want to?"

"Your own self-interest. That hole out there is only the first. Many more holes will follow—countless holes. Those necklaces will go a long way toward stopping them."

Jack smiled. "Sure. Look, Mr. V. I'm in business, but it's not the business of saving the world. I'll be by tomorrow to pick up the drawings. And the down payment. See you then."

"It's almost sundown," Glaeken said as Jack headed for the door. "Go straight home."

Jack laughed. "Why? Vampires on the loose?"

"No," Glaeken said. "Worse. Do not go out after dark, especially near that hole."

Jack just smiled and waved at the door.

Glaeken hoped Jack heeded him. He truly liked the man; and he needed him. He didn't want him killed.

WPIX-TV

This is Charles Burge reporting live from the Sheep Meadow in Central Park. It's been quiet here since the tragedy this afternoon, but that doesn't mean nothing's been happening. If you look behind me you'll notice that the crowds are gone. That's because along about 5:30 or so, the downdraft that's been flowing into the hole changed to an updraft. And boy, let me tell you, it doesn't smell good here. A rotten odor permeates the air. Anyone who doesn't have to be here has gone. And I'll be going too. See you in the studio soon, Warren.

2• DE PROFUNDIS

Washington Heights

"Physically, he checks out fine," the neurology resident said. "Overweight, cholesterol and triglycerides on the high side, otherwise, all his numbers, scans, and reflexes check out."

Bill swallowed and asked the dreaded question that had plagued him since he'd seen Nick's blank expression and empty eyes. It reminded him too much of a similar case five or so years ago.

"He's…he's not hollow, is he?"

The resident gave him a funny look. "Hollow? No, he's not hollow. Where'd you get an idea like that?"

"Never mind. Just a recurring nightmare. Go on."

"Right. As I was saying, he checks out physically, but"—he waved his hand before Nick's unresponsive eyes—"the Force is definitely not with him."

The name-tag read R. O'Neill, M.D. He wore an earring and his hair was braided at the back.

Not exactly Marcus Welby, Bill thought, but he seemed to know what he was about.

"He's in shock," Bill said.

"Well…shock to you isn't shock to me. Shock to me means he's prostrate, his blood pressure's hit bottom, his kidneys are shutting down, and so on. That's not our friend here."

Bill glanced over to where Nick sat on the edge of the bed. He'd trailed the ambulance up here to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center. The emergency-room physicians and the consultants had unanimously recommended at the very least that he be kept overnight for observation. The university had wrangled a private room for him, very much like a sitting room, with a small picture window, a sofa, a couple of chairs, and of course, a hospital bed. Nick looked a lot better. His lower lip had been sutured; he'd been cleaned up and fitted into a hospital gown. But his eyes were still as vacant as a drive-in theater on a sunny afternoon.

"What's wrong with him, then?"

"Hysteria. Acute withdrawal. That's for the Psych boys to figure out. I'm here to say it's not medical, not neurological. It's the windmills of his mind—they aren't turning."

"Thank you for that astute observation," Bill said. "How about the other man who went down in the bell with him?"

Dr. O'Neill shrugged. "Haven't heard a thing."

"He's dead, you know."

Bill started at the sound. It was Nick. His eyes weren't exactly focused, but they weren't completely empty. And he wasn't grinning as he had before when they were leading him to the ambulance. His expression was neutral. Still, the sound of Nick's voice, so flat and expressionless, gave him a chill. Especially since there was no way Nick could know Dr. Buckley's condition.

"Great!" said Dr. O'Neill. "He's coming around already." He picked up Nick's chart and headed for the door. "I'll make a few notes and let Psych know."