"This is gonna be fun!" he said. "Gonna fuck you three ways from Sunday, babe, and you're gonna love it!"
Carol struggled frantically against him, trying to kick back at his shins and twist free, but he was strong despite his frail appearance. He started to pull her between two of the cars.
"Babe, when I'm through with you you're gonna beg for more. You're gonna—"
Carol heard a dull thunk!, felt her captor jerk, then stiffen, then release her. She broke away and glanced back in time to see him topple face first to the pavement. In the faint light she could see that the top of his skull was caved in, and blood was beginning to soak through the cap.
Over the tops of the parked cars she saw a tall, dark figure gliding away toward the fight.
12
Jim struggled for air. He was pinned on his side. Someone had the chain wrapped around his throat and was pulling it tight while somebody, else was kicking him in the gut.
He knew he was going to die. He didn't have it anymore. The old black ferocity from his football days that would have sent punks like these running for their mothers was gone. When he needed it most, it was gone.
Where was Bill? Was he down too? He just hoped Carol got away. Maybe she could flag a black-and-white and get some help. Maybe…
He twisted violently. If only he could get some air! One breath and he could hold on a little longer. Just a puff—
Suddenly the chain around his throat went slack. He gulped air and looked up. The one who had been kicking him paused and looked past Jim. Just then something blurred in from the left and caught the punk on the side of the head with enough force to lift him clear off his feet.
Something warm and wet and lumpy splattered Jim. He didn't have to look to know it was brain tissue.
He twisted around and saw two more of the gang sprawled on the sidewalk behind him. One lay still; a length of chain rattled softly in the twitching grasp of the other.
He heard a meaty thunk! and saw a tall, dark figure swing something against the head of one of the guys over Bill. The guy dropped into a boneless heap.
The last creep took off with the dark man chasing him.
Jim got up and staggered over to Bill.
"You okay?"
"My God!" Bill gasped. "What happened?"
"Jim!" Carol ran up and threw her arms around him. "Are you all right?"
"I think so. Bill? You there?"
Bill was on his feet, swaying. Jim couldn't make out his expression, but his voice shook as he spoke.
"I…I don't know. My stomach…"
He turned and staggered a few steps away, retching in the darkness. A moment later he returned.
"Sorry."
"It's okay, Bill. I may join you in a moment."
"Let's get moving before these guys come to and—"
"I think they're dead," Jim said.
He knelt and checked for a pulse in the throat of the nearest. He had no experience with this sort of thing, but he'd seen it done on TV. He found no pulse, but he did get a close look at the ruin of the guy's skull and his open, staring eyes.
He leapt to his feet.
"Let's get out of here!"
"Shouldn't we call the police?" Carol said.
"We will. From a pay phone somewhere. But I'm not hanging around to get blamed for this."
"But who did it? Who was that?"
Jim wasn't sure what it was, but there had been something disturbingly familiar about that dark figure.
"He helped me too," Carol said.
Jim felt spicules of ice run through his blood. "You?"
"One of them grabbed me by the car. If the guy with the club hadn't—"
Jim pulled her close against him. If anything ever happened to Carol, he knew he'd go mad.
"Maybe one of us has a guardian angel, Carol."
"That was no angel," Bill said.
Jim was not inclined to argue.
"Let's get to the car."
13
Carol had managed to hold it in while Jim drove the three of them around in aimless circles, hold it through the violent shakes that had started as soon as she slipped into the front seat, through the cold chills that tremored through her despite the heater going full blast. But when Bill got out to call 911 at a phone booth they found at Houston and the Bowery, leaving her alone in the car with Jim, it all came out. Loud, deep, racking sobs burst from the deepest part of her.
"It's okay," Jim said, hugging her tight. "We're safe now."
"But we could have been killed!"
"I know. I'll never forgive myself for endangering you like that."
"It wasn't your fault!"
"Next time we pay for a garage or a lot space near a main drag. No more penny-pinching where safety's concerned."
His arms around her seemed to absorb her fear. The sobs began to fade. She felt more herself by the time Bill returned to the backseat.
"Done," he said.
"You didn't mention names, did you?"
"I told you I wouldn't. But I don't like it."
"So you said. But just remember: If anyone asks why you look bruised, just say you slipped on the ice. I'll do the same."
They had argued about making a police report—Bill for, Jim against. Both were adamant, but Jim had finally put the problem into chilling focus.
"For all our sakes, Bill, you can't go to the police."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Bill had said from the backseat.
"For all we know, they may be only a part of a bigger gang. If they are, what about their buddies?"
"What about them?"
"What if they blame us? What if they feel embarrassed and humiliated by half a dozen of their number being so easily laid to rest? What if they figure they've got to even the score to regain their honor? Our names and addresses will be on the police report. What if they retaliate against us?"
Bill had been silent as Carol shuddered at the thought.
Jim went on. "I don't know about you, but I don't want them breaking into my home to finish off what their friends started with Carol back there. You want them lobbing a Molotov cocktail into St. F.'s dorm some night?"
"Maybe you're right," Bill had said softly after a long pause. "But at least let me make an anonymous report. We can do that much, can't we?"
Jim had nodded. "Of course. As long as you don't mention any names."
Now the call had been made and they were moving again. Jim turned the car east on Fourteenth.
Bill said, "Somebody killed five people—"
"Five killers, you mean," Jim said. "Five guys who would have killed us and raped Carol if that somebody hadn't stepped in!"
"Probably six dead if he caught up with the last one."
"Be that as it may," Jim said, "I'm not sure I want to put him behind bars. I owe him."
"That was cold-blooded murder, Jim!" Bill said.
"Granted. But what could I add to an investigation? That he reminded me of my father?"
Carol gasped. That tall dark figure she had seen had resembled Jonah Stevens. But that was impossible.
"Oh, Jim," she said lightly, actually managing a smile. "Your dad's not exactly Mr. Warmth, but he's not a killer. And he certainly doesn't hang around the East Village!"
Bill said, "I don't remember your father too well, Jim, but you've got to be kidding. This guy was efficient—brutally efficient. I mean, he dispatched those guys one after the other. One swing apiece."
"Do you know what my father does for a living?"
"He's a butcher or something, isn't he?"