George knew he was going to have nightmares about this one, bad nightmares.
“We need help,” Smith told him. “There are just two of us doing this, now. We’ve got some… I guess you’d call them support people, some other people backing us up who don’t actually go out after the monsters. We started out with four of us, but they got the other two before we learned enough to protect ourselves, and we need more. Khalil and I can’t do it all ourselves. There are more than a hundred of them still in there, in those apartments, and next week, when the moon’s full, they’ll be able to breed, and there could be more of them, more than we could ever get.”
George didn’t say anything; he was still too sick.
“George,” Smith said, “Will you help us?”
George raised his head unhappily. “Help you do what?” he asked.
“Kill these things,” Smith replied.
“Like that?” he said, pointing at the dripping mess on the back seat.
Smith nodded.
George shook his head.
“I can’t do it, Ed,” he said.
They argued for a few minutes, but eventually Smith yielded.
“If you won’t do it, you won’t,” he said. “I can’t make you. If you change your mind, let me know. Or if you can find someone who will help, let me know.”
He drove back to Topaz Court, where George’s car waited.
George drove away slowly, and Smith and Khalil silently watched him go.
They’d had trouble contacting Lieutenant Buckley, who was, after all, a busy man. Smith had finally got hold of him, however, and arranged to meet him later that evening.
They didn’t plan to try a graphic demonstration with him, as they had with George, for fear that as a trained man of action he would stop them and give the monster a chance to escape or retaliate. They didn’t lay it all out, the story of spontaneous generation of evil, the extinction of the vampires, any of that. They didn’t mention that they had killed any of the creatures. They merely told him, as they drove along, that the things in the Bedford Mills apartments weren’t human. They described some of what they knew about the nightmare people.
Smith watched his face carefully, judging how much the cop believed.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t much.
“It’s not my problem,” Buckley told them.
“It’s over a hundred murders,” Smith replied.
“I don’t see any evidence,” Buckley answered.
“What if we brought you one of the skins they wear?” Smith suggested. “That would prove someone had been killed, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Buckley admitted, “But not by a monster.”
“A complete human skin in one piece, except for, say, a hole in the chest, wouldn’t prove something supernatural was happening? I mean, the fingers and toes all there, not cut open?”
“I don’t know,” Buckley said, eyeing Smith uneasily.
“We didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Smith said. “We didn’t skin anybody. We got it away from one of the creatures.”
“How?”
“I’d rather not answer that yet. You tell me, first, what the police would do if I could show them that skin.”
Buckley blinked, then sat for a moment, thinking it over.
“Officially?” he asked.
Smith nodded.
“Officially, nothing,” Buckley replied. “It doesn’t fit. This isn’t something we’re set up to handle. I mean, think about it. What are we going to do, arrest these creatures of yours? Then what? Put them on trial for murder? They aren’t human. If we leave the skins on, we have no evidence of a crime; if we take them off, the thing’s not human, and we don’t put animals on trial. And could we hold onto them, anyway? Didn’t you say they can ooze out through windows? And how are we going to report any of this to higher up? What’ll we put in the papers? Nobody’s going to believe something like that unless they see it.”
“All right, then,” Smith said, “What about unofficially?”
“Unofficially, I think you’re both nuts, but if it were true, I think I could look the other way at some vigilante efforts, and maybe some of my officers might help out when they’re off-duty. But I’d need to see that skin.”
Smith nodded.
“It’s in the trunk,” he said. “It came from a friend of ours named Sandy Niklasen; they got him a couple of days ago, but we killed the one that got him.”
Smith saw Buckley tense slightly, and realized that the cop didn’t believe him.
“I’ll show you in a minute,” Smith said. He turned at the corner.
Buckley sat silently until they turned into the parking lot.
“I thought you said that all the people here were really monsters,” he said, as Smith slowed the car.
“They are,” Smith said, “But you don’t believe us. So I’m going to show you.” He stopped the car.
In the back seat, Khalil checked to be certain his windows were closed tightly.
“Here?” Buckley protested. “You’re going to show me that skin?”
“Not exactly,” Smith replied as he got out of the car.
“Khalil,” he said, “You get in front. And keep the motor running.”
Khalil nodded, and clambered into the driver’s seat while Lieutenant Buckley stepped out.
“What are you doing, Smith?” he asked.
“A little demonstration, Lieutenant,” he said. “Take a look around.”
Buckley looked.
It was nine o’clock on a pleasantly cool summer evening, but nobody was visible on any of the balconies or basement patios. The windows were all dark. The parking lot was virtually full.
That, Buckley knew, was not normal.
“Hey!” Smith shouted suddenly, “Who’s in there?”
No one replied; no lights came on. For an instant, though, Buckley thought he saw something flicker red in a nearby window.
“Come on,” Smith said, gesturing, “If they won’t come out, we’ll go in after them.”
“I don’t know, Smith,” Buckley said. “This is private property…”
“Hey, I live here, remember? That’s my apartment up there, C41.” He pointed. “I’ve got a perfect right to go in and say hello to my neighbors, don’t I?”
“Yeah,” Buckley admitted. Reluctantly, he climbed out of the car.
“One thing,” Smith said, “When it happens, turn and run. Remember, there are dozens of them in there. They aren’t significantly stronger than ordinary people, but there are a lot of them, and those teeth are dangerous.”
“When what happens?” Buckley asked, annoyed.
“You’ll know,” was Smith’s only reply.
They were halfway up the walk when he added, “And remember, they aren’t scared of guns. Don’t bother pulling your gun if they attack – just run.”
“What gun?” Buckley asked.
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Smith said, “I know you’ve got a gun. You’re a cop, aren’t you? And you’re out here dealing with someone who might be a dangerous loony, right?”
Buckley didn’t argue.
“And if they get you,” Smith added, “Bite.”
Smith turned aside from the entry and stepped down onto the patio of C14. Buckley followed, puzzled.
“Hey, Smith,” he began, as Smith rapped on the sliding glass door.
Smith held up a hand for silence.
“This apartment,” he said, “Was home to a pleasant little person named Irene Corbett, who I didn’t really know. I ran into her now and then when I picked up my mail or brought down my trash, that’s all. She’s dead now, and there’s something living here pretending to be her.” He rapped again, then tucked his hands into his pockets; the night air was unseasonably cool.
The patio light came on, disturbing a swarm of gnats.
“Look, Smith,” Buckley said, “We shouldn’t be here…”
Before he could say any more the door slid open.
A small, plump woman with curly black hair leaned out. “What is it? Oh, hi, Mr. Smith, Lieutenant; what’s up?”
Buckley started to speak, but before he could get a word out Smith’s hand came up from his pocket, the switchblade snapped open, and he slashed it across the woman’s face.
She blinked and stepped back, startled.
Buckley blinked, as well.
Smith was already turning away; he called, “Take a good look, Lieutenant.” Then he ducked out of the patio and onto the entryway path.