And the birds. The seagulls was doing what they'd always done. Probably the only thing they missed was the garbage the crowds used to leave behind.
Al and Stan headed south, checking all the nooks and crannies as they moved. The only other humans they saw was Kenny and Jackie coming up the other way from the South Beach Arcade.
"Any luck?" Stan called.
"Nada," Jackie said.
"Ay-yo, Al!" Kenny said. "How many Heinies you have anyway? You seein things now? What was it—a blond seagull?"
But Al knew he'd seen something moving up here, and it hadn't been no goddamn seagull. But where . . .
"Jackie," Stan said. "Take Kenny under the boards and see if anyone's hidin down there."
Kenny put on this big shit-eating grin. " Aaaaay, under the boardwalk with Jackieeee. Cooool."
Stan ignored him and spoke to Jackie. "If it's a girl like Al thinks he saw, see if you can talk her out. I ain't up for no foot race, know what I'm sayin?"
Jackie nodded. "Gotcha." She turned to Kenny and snapped her fingers, like she was talking to a dog. "C'mon, boy. We're goin for a walk."
"Ooooh. Under the boardwalk with—"
"Don't"—she jabbed a finger within an inch of his nose—"even think about it!"
Kenny, his tongue hanging out like a dog, followed her down the wooden steps to the sand. That Kenny. What a pisser.
"Let's go back to Jenk's," Stan said. "She might be hidin inside."
They'd turned and were heading back up the boards when Al took one last look back .. . and saw something moving. Something small and red, rolling across the boards toward the beach from between one of the concession stands.
A ball.
He tapped Stan on the shoulder, put a finger to his lips, and pointed. Stan's eyes widened. He glanced toward the beach, probably looking to signal Jackie and Kenny, but they were out of sight. So the two of them crept toward the spot where the ball had rolled from.
As they got closer, Al realized why they'd missed this spot on the first pass. It was really two concession stands—a frozen yogurt place and a saltwater taffy shop—with boards nailed up over the space between to make them look like a single building.
Stan tapped Al on the shoulder and pointed to the roof of the nearer concession stand. Al nodded. He knew what he wanted: the second-story man had to do his thing again.
Al got to the top of the chain link fence behind the concession stands and from there it was easy to haul himself up to the roof. His sneakers made barely a sound as he crept across the tar of the canted roof to the far side.
The girl must have heard him coming, because she was already looking up when he peeked over the edge. She had one of them cross tattoos on her forehead.
That ain't gonna help you against me, honey.
Al felt a surge of satisfaction when he saw her blond ponytail and long thick bangs. Nice.
He felt something else when he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks from her pleading eyes, and her hands raised, palms together, as if praying to him. She wanted him to see nothin—she was begging Al to see nothing.
For an instant he was tempted. The fear in those frightened blue eyes reached deep inside and touched something there, disturbed a part of him so long unused he'd forgotten it belonged to him.
And then he saw she had a little boy with her, maybe seven years old, dark haired but with eyes as blue as hers, with a tattoo on his forehead. She was pleading for the kid as much as herself. Maybe more than herself. And with good reason. The vampires loved little kids. Al didn't get it. Kids were smaller, had less blood than adults. Maybe their blood was purer, sweeter. Someday, when he was undead himself, he'd know.
But even with the kid there, Al might have done something stupid, might have called down to Stan that there was nothing here but some old torn cat who'd probably taken a swat at that ball and rolled it out. But when he saw that she was knocked up—very knocked up, as in start-boiling-the-water knocked up—he knew he had to turn her in.
As much as the bloodsuckers loved kids, they went crazy for babies. Infants were like the primo delicacy among the vampires. Al once had seen a couple of them fighting over a newborn.
That had been a sight.
He sighed and said, "Too bad, honey, but you're packin too many points." He turned and called down toward the boardwalk. "Bingo, Stan. We struck it rich."
She screamed and the little boy began to cry.
Al shook his head as he watched her cower and hold the kid tight against her. Sorry babe. It ain't always a pleasant job, but a cowboy's gotta do what a cowboy's gotta do.
And besides, all these brownie points were gonna bring him that much closer to some stud time at the nearest cattle farm.
LACEY . . .
Lacey Flannery heard them coming before she saw them. Coming her way. They weren't talking, which was a bad sign. Could mean they were on the hunt. She had a faint hope that maybe they were wanderers like her, but she wasn't about to lay any money on it.
She'd motorboated down from the Sandy Hook area last night. The water tended to be pretty safe, even at night. The suckers stayed off it. She'd abandoned the boat at first light on the inlet jetty and sacked out here under the boardwalk. She'd been awake for about half an hour now. She'd packed up her stuff and had been ready to move out when she heard footsteps on the boards above. A bunch of feet—could have been four, six, maybe eight people. So she'd stayed put, figuring they'd move on.
But instead they were coming to her.
Lacy squatted with her back against a double piling and wondered what to do. Her sleeping bag and duffel were stacked before her on the sand. Better play it safe. She dipped into her bag of tricks, briefly considered her .38, but decided against it. She didn't have many bullets and didn't know what kind of trouble the noise of a shot would bring down on her. She chose her nunchucks instead. Two twelve-inch steel rods connected by a three-inch chain.
Yeah. That'll do.
She slipped out of her black leather jacket and her bare arms goose-bumped in the breeze off the water. The tight black tank top she wore beneath wasn't much for warmth but at least it wouldn't get in her way. She looked down and noticed her nipples poking at the thin fabric. She hadn't worn a bra in three years and didn't miss it now. She rubbed her nipples to make them stick out even more. Hey, girl—use all your weapons. Then she stuck the nunchucks inside the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back. The chain was cold between her cheeks. Thong panties didn't cover much.
Her mouth felt a little dry, her palms a little moist. Let's hope they're friendly, she thought. If not, then let's hope there's no more than two of them.
She rose and peeked around the piling.
Shit. One was a woman. She was going to be harder to distract. And worse, they were wearing cowboy earrings. The good news was there were only two of them.
Lacey stepped out and faced them. "How's it going?"
The stopped dead, staring.
"Ooooh, Jackie," said the dumb-looking guy with the bad skin and the red Mohican as his eyes fixed on Lacey's chest. "This ain't Al's blonde, but she'll do. Oh, baby, will she do."
"Shut up, Kenny."
The skinny, pierced-up, white-trash blonde gave her an up and down; she seemed more interested in checking to see if Lacey's hands were empty. She looked thirty-five but was probably thirty. Not at all Lacey's type.
She fixed Lacey with her squinty brown eyes. "What're you doin down here?"
"Catching some Z's," Lacey said. "How about you two?"
"Lookin for loooove," Kenny said, grinning. "In all the wrong places." He stepped closer. "Hey, ain't you somethin. Look at those muscles, Jackie. And she got tats too."
Lacey looked down at her upper arms and the black Celtic knots that encircled each just between the sleek, well-cut bulges of her biceps and deltoids. She'd spent a lot of time on those muscles.