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."
Bill wanted to stop him, make him stay, but didn't know how. He didn't want to be alone with Nick. A moment later he was.
"Dr. Buckley's dead," Nick repeated.
Bill came around the bed and stood in front of him—but not too close.
"How do you know?"
Nick's brow furrowed. "I don't know. I just know he's dead."
The fact didn't seem to bother Nick and he sat silent for a a long moment. Abruptly he spoke again in that affectless voice.
"He wants to hurt you, you know."
"Who? Dr. Buckley?"
"No. Him."
The room suddenly seemed cooler.
"Who are you talking about? The one you…met down there?"
A nod. "He hates you, Father Bill. There's one other he hates more than you, one he wants to hurt more than you, but he hates you terribly."
Bill reached back, found a chair, and lowered himself into it.
"Yes, I know. I've been told."
"Are you going to stay with me tonight?"
"Yes. Sure. If they'll let me."
"They'll let you. It's good that you're going to stay tonight."
Bill remembered the bespectacled nine-year-old orphan who used to be afraid of the dark but would never admit it.
"I'll stay as long as you need me."
"Not for me. For you. It's going to be dangerous out there."
Bill turned and looked out the window. The sun was down, the city's lights were beginning to sparkle through the growing darkness. He turned back to Nick.
"What do you—"
Nick was gone. He was still sitting on the bed, but he wasn't really there. His eyes had gone empty and his mind had slipped back into hiding.
But what of his mind? What did it know about Rasalom—the Enemy? And how did it know? Was Nick somehow tapped into a part of Rasalom as a result of whatever happened in that hole?
Bill shuddered and gently pushed Nick back to a reclining position on the bed. He didn't envy Nick if that were true. Simply to brush the hem of that sickness would mean madness…
And that was precisely where Nick was now, wasn't he?
Bill stood over Nick's bed, wondering if he should stay. How much could he do for Nick? Not much. But at least he could be here for him if he came around again, or came out of this mental fugue and wanted to know where he was and what had—
Something splatted against the window.
Bill turned and saw what looked like a softball-sized glob of mucous pressed against the outer surface of the glass. It began to move—sideways.
Curious, he stepped closer. As he neared he heard an angry buzzing through the glass. The glob appeared to be encased in a thin membrane, red-laced with fine, pulsating blood vessels. It left a trail of moisture as it slid slowly across the glass. But the buzzing—it seemed to be coming from the glob.
Bill picked up a lamp from an end table and held it close to the window. He spotted a fluttering blur on the far side of the glob. Wings? He angled the lamp. Yes, wings—translucent, at least a foot long, fluttering like mad. And eyes. A cluster of four multi-faceted eyes at the end of a wasp-like body the size of a jumbo shrimp, lined with rows of luminescent dots. Eight articulated arms terminating in small pincers were stretched across the mucous-filled membrane.