"Sure," he said, grinning. "Let's go."
She waited for him to catch up, then together they headed for the front steps and climbed onto the porch. She tried the door, hoping it was unlocked—she hated the thought of breaking one of those old windows to get in—and smiled as the latch yielded to the pressure of her thumb. All right!
Enrico hung in the living room while Lacey hurried through the cool, dark, silent interior. The decor was not authentically Victorian—nowhere near cramped and cluttered enough—but the place hadn't been vandalized. The two upper floors held five small bedrooms and one larger master bedroom, all furnished with beds and dressers. The couch in the first-floor sun room could sleep another, once all the dead house plants were removed.
Perfect, she thought, feeling the best she had all day. This is a definite keeper. And I've got first dibs on the master bedroom.
She came down the main staircase—the house had a rear servants' stairway as well, running to and from the kitchen—and found the living room empty.
"Enrico?"
Maybe he'd done a little exploring on his own. She headed for the kitchen and stopped cold when she saw a pair of feet jutting toes-up from behind a counter. She wanted to run but knew she had to check. She hurried forward, took a look at the kitchen carving knife jutting from Enrico's bloody chest, at his dead, glazed eyes staring at the ceiling, then spun and ran.
She didn't head for the front door. Instead she sprang for the French doors and leaped onto the verandah. There she ran into three waiting Vichy and had no time to react before something cracked against her skull, sending lightning bolts through her suddenly darkening vision. She lashed out with her booted foot but struck only air, and then another blow to her head sent her down.
She had flashes of faces, one clean-shaven, one bearded, one with braided hair, snatches of voices . . .
"Got one!" . . . "Hey, she's fine! She's really fine!"
A feeling of being carried, then an impact as she was tossed into the rear of a van, the van starting to move, then more voices...
"We get major points for this—major!" . . . "Man, she's so fine! Shame to hafta give her to the bloodsuckers." . . . "Ay, yo, they only said they wanted a live one. Didn't say nothin 'bout havin to be a virgin, know'm sayin?"
Laughter.
"Right! Fuckin-ay right!"
And then the feeling of her clothes being torn from her body . . .
CAROLE . . .
Sister Carole watched a beat-up old van race along the street. She couldn't see who was driving but it was coming from the direction of St. Anthony's.
St. Anthony's . . . how she'd wanted to step inside when she'd passed by this morning. She'd heard the voices drifting through the open front doors, responding to Father Joe during Mass, and they'd tugged her up the steps to participate and ... to see Father Joe's face once more. But she couldn't allow it. She was unworthy . . . too unworthy.
She'd seen the stains on the steps—blood and fouler substances—and had asked one of the armed men guarding the front about them. He'd told her about what had happened during the night, how Father Palmeri and other undead had been routed and killed along with their living helpers, how the church was now a holy place again.
Carole had walked on with her heart singing. Maybe what she'd been doing was not all for naught. Maybe there was a Divine Plan and she was part of it.
Then again, maybe not.
Most likely not.
The song in her heart had gasped and died.
And so she'd spent most of the rest of the day working around the house. She figured it was only a matter of time before she was caught and wanted to be ready when the undead or their cowboys came for her.
"That makes two of us," Sister Carole said.
She didn't want to go out again tonight but knew she had to.
Her only solace was the certainty that sooner or later it going to end—for her.
She set a few more wires, ran a few more strings, then headed up to the bedroom to change into her padded bra, her red blouse, her black leather skirt.
"When they're all dead and gone," Sister Carole said aloud to the stranger in the bedroom mirror. "Or when I am. Whichever comes first."
GREGOR...
Gregor frowned as he smeared makeup on his face to hide his pallor. He hoped it looked all right. Since he couldn't use a mirror he had to go by feel. It would have made more sense to have one of his get apply it, but he wanted to keep his plan to himself.
He sprayed himself with Obsession cologne. The living said the undead carried an unmistakable odor. He couldn't detect it himself, but this should mask it. He rose and looked down at himself. A long-sleeved work shirt, scruffy jeans, a crescent-on-a-chain earring, and now, a passably—he hoped—ruddy complexion.
"Hey there," he said in the drawl he'd been practicing since sundown, hoping to disguise his own accent with another. "Ahm new in these here parts."
He slipped a cowboy hat onto his head to complete the picture.
A good enough picture, he hoped, to decoy these vigilantes into picking on him as their next cowboy victim.
Gregor smiled, baring his teeth. Then they'd be in for a surprise.
He could have sent someone else, could have sent out a number of decoys, but he wanted this hunt for himself. After all, Franco had his eye on the situation, and that mandated bold and extraordinary measures. Gregor needed to prove without a doubt that the vigilantes were separate from the insurgents in the church.
He stepped over the drained, beheaded corpse of the old man who'd been brought to him earlier—what had happened to all the young catde?—and checked the map one last time. He'd marked all six places where the dead cowboys had been found. The X's formed a rough circle. Gregor's plan was to wander the streets within that circle. Alone.
An hour ago he'd sent his get-guards upstairs to the main floor of the synagogue, telling them he wanted to sup alone and be left undisturbed here in the basement while he planned the night's sortie. Now he crept up the steps and let himself out a side door and into the dark.
Gregor took a deep, shuddering breath of the night air. Too long since he'd done this. Not since he'd migrated out of Eastern Europe with the others. It felt wonderful to be on the hunt again.
JOE . . .
Joe realized with a start that he hadn't seen Lacey since this morning.
"Has anybody seen my niece?" he said to a group of men standing guard on the front steps.
"Niece?" one of them said, a big black man with gray stubble on his cheeks. "I didn't know you had one. What's she look like, Father?"
"Dark hair, tattoo on her arm about here, and she's—"
"Sure," said another fellow. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "She was with us back there across the street in the office building most of the day. Some kinda worker, that girl."
"That she is," Joe said, trying not to sound too obviously proud. "But when did you last see her? "
"Late afternoon," said a big, red-faced man. "Said she was coming back here to see you about something."
A jolt of alarm lanced though Joe. "I haven't seen her. She never got to me!"
He tore back into the church, scanning expectant faces as he hurried through the nave—expectant because he was supposed to start saying evening Mass just about now. He ducked through the sanctuary and into the sacristy where he found Carl, getting ready for his altar boy duties.