The doorbell began to sing again, then stopped in mid-song. There was something not-quite-right about the way it happened. It didn't so much stop as die.
Larry looked at the bell, which was mounted on the wall just above the doorframe: a silver circle and its adjoining mechanisms, hanging as it always had.
Except that it was melting, the metal turning soft as a Dali clock, then smoking and slagging and burning into the wall
There was a strange, weightless moment in which his eyes refused to accept it. He was blinking and blinking, as if the flutter of his eyelids would somehow make it go away. It didn't. Molten drops of doorbell plopped on the wooden floor, forming tiny tongues of blue-white flame. The biting-on-tinfoil stink of it filled the kitchen.
"Kinda makes ya think, don't it?" said the voice from behind him. Larry felt a cold hand clap down on his shoulder in mock camaraderie. "There but for the grace of God . . ."
. . . go I, Larry completed, accepting it now. Accepting it all. He stared at the smelting metal, and his mind said that was supposed to be you, Larry ol' chum. He was aiming at you. There but for the grace of—
And then it was too much, too much, and the scream that had meant to come out earlier sprung full-blown to his lips as he sidled toward the door, not looking at Billy, not looking at the monster that Billy had become . . .
. . . until the Billy-monster stepped in front of him, eyes black as night and teeth whitely aglimmer. Larry tried to scream again. Billy touched him on the forehead, and he stopped.
"Shut up," Billy said, "and go to sleep . . ."
. . . and Larry went crashing to the floor without so much as a whimper. "Just like Bubba," Billy giggled. "Only not as cute."
There was somebody at the downstairs door. It was the only reason why the world wasn't down one Larry Roth. In a big way, that was good: the fewer bodies, or disappearances thereof, the better. Besides, Larry wasn't exactly a hardened criminal. He was just an asshole who was getting in the way.
"I'll get back to you in a minute," he informed his sleeping roommate. "Just let me deal with our uninvited guest."
He moved toward the door, noted that he'd set up the distinct possibility of a fire that would gut the entire building, and extinguished it with a freezing glance.
Then he went down the stairs to the first floor, past the vaguely sentient dust on the bathroom floor of Albert's apartment, and stepped into the fragrant foyer.
Two things, at that moment, caught his eye.
One of them was a slip of paper, dangling from his mailbox.
The other was Detective Hamilton, smiling at him from the other side of the door.
The paper wouldn't notice if he deferred to the detective. The converse, however, was not as true. Billy slipped the piece of paper demurely into his back pocket. Then he opened the front door and stepped outside.
"Well, howdy do?" he exclaimed cheerfully. Hamilton nodded and stepped forward. Billy shook his head and stepped forward as well, letting the door slide shut behind him.
"Not gonna invite me upstairs?" Hamilton asked, feigning hurt.
"Nope."
"Well, can you come down to the station with me, then?"
"Nope."
"Well, then I guess we'll just talk here for a couple of—"
"Nope."
"Well, then, how about doing Clint Eastwood for me? The boys up at the Twenty-second Precinct house say that it's a real pisser."
Billy stopped in mid nope and thought about it. The detective was all smiles, but there was fear and deadly earnest behind it. He had a hunch—God only knew where it came from—and he was risking his ass to follow up on it. Billy admired his guts, and hoped that they wouldn't have to wind up splattered all over the concrete.
"I don't do Clint Eastwood," Billy said.
"Oh, that's too bad." Hamilton's gaze was level. "I do a mean Wally Cox, though. Wanna hear?"
"No, thanks. It's Clint or nothing."
"What do you want?" Now it was Hamilton's turn to stop. Billy cocked his head and took a step closer. Hamilton took a step back. Delightful. "I mean, I know what you're going for, but it doesn't make sense. Why me?"
"That's exactly what I was wondering."
"Listen. Dennis." He stepped forward again. This time, Hamilton didn't back off. In its own way, it was equally delightful. "You're a good guy. I can tell. And I don't envy your position."
"You've said that before."
"So I'll say it again." It took a second to realize that he'd trapped himself on that one. He grinned admiringly. "Slick," he said.
"So how 'bout that Clint?"
"So how 'bout those Knicks?" Billy was annoyed and amused all at once. "Man, you don't seem to be getting the message. Don't worry about the Vigilante. He's not your problem, whoever he is. You've got a slasher to catch. You've got millions of innocent people to protect."
"That's just the point."
"Dennis, I think it's time for you to go."
"Billy, I think you'd better watch yourself. Up to now, I've got no quarrel with the people you've killed. I would have liked to kill them, too, I think. But if you step over the line and hurt some innocent people, I'm gonna have to come down on your ass like a ton of bricks."
And just as lifeless, too, Billy mused. He managed to keep from saying it.
"Good-bye, Dennis," he said instead.
"Good-bye, Billy. Take care."
"You, too."
Hamilton turned and walked away. Billy watched him for a minute. As pointless as the bravado was, it certainly was impressive.
Tomorrow, he mused, when I disappear from your life forever, you'll be a far luckier man. It would be a bitch to have to kill you. The commonwealth needs more honorable men like your little bad self.
Maybe five years from now, we can even get together.
The Army's always looking for a few good men.
Then he willed the door open, not even bothering with the key, and headed back upstairs. There were still a few things that he needed to tend to before the night was free to begin.
It was a half an hour later before he remembered the note in his pocket.
FORTY-FIVE
URBAN BUDDY
The transit cop got of the last car of the uptown AA train at Forty-second Street. Ramsey and Clive waited patiently, Ramsey's brand-new Master Blaster tucked firmly between them. It was like trying to hide a steamer trunk with a hankie. The sucker was huge: four-way speakers, dual Dolby cassette, five-band stereo EQ, and a ball-busting seventy watts RMS per channel. It took both of them to carry it, but the motherfucker was bad. It could probably blow this car right of the tracks.
And Ramsey and Clive were just the men to test that theory.
Just as soon as the pig trotted back to his poke.
The cop threw them a long admonitory glance before he left. Ramsey and Clive smiled back, innocent as a maiden aunt's kiss. Then the train hissed, the doors started to close, and the cop stepped out. He continued to stare at them through the windows in the doors until the train lurched into motion, taking them out of each other's view.
Ramsey and Clive just laughed and laughed, throwing in the odd unsavory expletive to punctuate their mirth. The pig was gone, the train was rollin', and it was time to party.
Ramsey kicked in the Blaster while Clive fired the joint. Musky, sweet smoke and ear-shattering music instantly filled the limited air space of the subway cat
People began to move toward the far end of the car. That was fine, too. That was funnier than hell. With their slinking stances and averted eyes, they looked more like whipped puppies than human beings.
Which made them a carload of easy pickins.
Except for one guy: a young white dude who looked like he needed a shower and shave. He had a scrap of paper in his hand that he wouldn't stop looking at. His face was intense, but it wasn't aimed at them. He seemed like he was barely there at all.
Ramsey laughed, looking at him. Ain't gonna worry 'bout ol' Barely There, he m
used. We could pro'bly pick his pocket an' he wouldn't even know it.
He cranked the Blaster up to full. Clive jumped out of his seat, joint in hand, and started "the walk" down the center of the aisle. Ramsey grinned from ear to ear: he knew the moves by heart.
Clive was gettin' ready to fuck somebody up.
The party was about to begin.
The train hissed to a stop on Fiftieth Street. Several passengers got off in a very big hurry. Ramsey doubted very seriously that it was the stop they wanted. He watched several of them scurry up to the car beyond, in fact. No problem. There were plenty left.
As the doors slid shut.
And the train rolled on.
And the real party began.
Billy had already read the note a hundred times in the last five minutes. That wasn't the problem. That wasn't the point.
The point was that he could smell the trouble brewing like fresh-perked Colombian coffee, and he had never been in less of a tolerant mood. The guy at the other end was about to do something ugly; the guy at this end was only about a thousand percent too loud.
The guy at this end was closer.
Billy went for him first.
"Turn it off," he said.
The guy with the Blaster just stared at him, stunned. Maybe it was drugs. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe it was both. It didn't matter.
"Now," Billy stressed. "And I won't say it again."
The guy just kept staring, and that wouldn't do.
So Billy walked over, took the Blaster away, and rammed it through the nearest window.
Everyone in the car was attracted by that: one brief explosion of glass, and then everything got awfully quiet. Billy could feel the heat of the eyes upon him, none hotter than the man who leapt to his feet before him now.
The man had pulled a weapon. Billy laughed when he saw it. It was a nasty bit of business that he'd seen advertised in the back pages of Eagle and Soldier of Fortune magazines.
In context, it was one of the silliest things that had ever met his gaze.
They called it the Urban Buddy: three inches of razor-sharp stainless steel on a no-slip neoprene-covered t-bar handle. The ads liked to talk about how a ninety-eight-pound weakling could bring down a Zulu chieftain, sever major muscle groups, dispatch packs of hugger-mugger-pervo-devo-freaks—yes, the Urban Buddy was one hell of a weapon. The survivalist mags loved 'em.
Standing there with the arrow-shaped death-dealer floating inches from his face, Billy wondered just how much the survivalist mags would enjoy the idea of a Zulu chieftain/hugger-mugger-pervo-devo-freak wielding one of their $39.95 specials.
It cracked him up. He couldn't help it. The look of confusion on his assailant's face only made it worse. The guy was practically hopping with rage, but Billy's laughter had him paralyzed.
"Man!" the man cried shrilly. "I'll cut'choo—"
"Oh, Margaret!" Billy laughed swishily, in his best Bugs Bunny voice. Then he waved his hand limp-wristedly at the blade and said, "Why don't you take that little thing and shove it right up your . . ."
Clive could not believe his eyes. When the Blaster had gone through the window, he'd moved back up, wanting in on the action; this homeboy was clearly some whitemeat that needed to die.
But now Ramsey was screaming, and the back of his pants were running red, and Clive could not flicking believe it. When the homeboy turned to look at him, with those eyes like flaming coals, he started backing up rapidly, thinking oh, man, you ain't gettin' your hooks into me.
A leg went out behind him, ankle high. He never even saw it. The next thing he knew, he was toppling backward, his head going clang against the center pole. The last second of free-fall was blissfully thought-free.
Then consciousness returned, and they were upon him: all those little sheeplike people, turned to werewolves in the space of a second. His eyes opened just in time to watch a black patent-leather shoe slam into his teeth, folding them back and snapping them. Another shoe, narrow and pointed and feminine, dug its spiked heel into his crotch. He tried to scream with his mouth full. It didn't work.
And then they were kicking him everywhere: his kidneys, his ribs, his temples. All four of his limbs were pinned by stomping feet. The pain took him to the edge of unconsciousness, but it also kept him awake a little longer than he might have hoped. The last one he was alive for was the one that took out his right eye.
Then he rose above his body, lingering for a moment of violent voyeurism before toppling back down into Hell. . .
And as the Vigilante left the car, each of the newborn avengers had their own unique interpretation of just who that person was. He was a Jew. He was a goy. He was a brother. She was a sister.
The Vigilante was a mirror.
The Vigilante was themselves.
And the Power held dominion over them all.
FORTY-SIX
CONCOMITANCE
Dave was entertaining when the knock came upon his door. No big deal: just some close friends and band members over to cut loose and kick some ideas around. But it was nevertheless a closed affair, and everyone who was invited was either already there or accounted for.
So when he opened the door, his first thought was what the hell are you doing here?
Followed by what the hell happened to you? Followed by a simple what the hell . . .
"Dave. Don't talk," his visitor said. "Just take this, okay? And leave it at that."
Dave kept his mouth shut, though his mind reeled in the face of what stood before him. It was difficult to accept that someone could deteriorate so rapidly, in so little time. Just two days ago they had sat in a bar together, Dave marveling at the transformation from shadow to substance.
And now . . .
Billy was saying something that Dave wasn't catching. He glitched back to the present tense and heard, ". . . so it's probably all for the best, this way."
"Come again?" Dave said. "I'm sorry. I—"
Billy stiffened, looked like he was ready to take it all back.
"No, really. I'm sorry. I just spaced out for a—"
"Read the note," Billy said, and turned away.
Dave stared at the folded piece of paper in his hand, stared at the retreating back. He took a couple of rapid steps forward and took his visitor by the slumped shoulders. "Billy, wait—" he began.
Billy stopped and turned. Dave's breath caught in his throat. The expression on Billy's face was annoyance, no doubt, but it came off a thousand times worse than that. Dave imagined that even sublime elation would look like murder on the face that Billy wore just now. It was a terrifying face.
It was the face of a man who had nothing left to lose.
Dave had been thinking about inviting him in: a beer, a toot, a jam with the boys. There was a peace pipe in his heart that he wanted Billy to smoke with him.
But there was no way. Dave could see that now.
"Just take care of her, man," Billy said. And was gone.
Hours later, when the last of his guests had gone, Dave finally worked up the nerve to let the mystery unfold.
By the time he understood, it was too late.
FORTY-SEVEN
NOTES FROM BEYOND
Mona awoke at nine-forty. She awoke suddenly and completely, with no trace of sleeper's cobwebs and no sense of having dreamed.
The bedroom was dark, and she was alone in it. The spot beside her, where Billy had been, had long since gone cold. The neon letters from the digital clock were her only frame of reference, and they only served to disorient her more.
"Billy?" she called out, trying to adjust to the lateness, the fact that she'd slept a solid sixteen hours. "Billy, are you out there?"
Movement, from the living room.
"Billy?" she said again; and as the words left her lips, she knew that it wasn't Billy. Without a doubt. Billy would have answered. Billy didn't move like that.
Whatever it was, it wasn't Billy.
It wasn't even human at all.
Terror st
ole through her, overwhelming her tongue with its copper blood taste. She sat up in bed, searching beside it for the sock full of pennies that she'd rigged for just such an occasion. Who or whatever it was, she would beat its brains out if it came within three feet of her, so help her God. Her teeth were gritted as her fingers connected with the loaded argyle, tugged at the weight, began to lift . . .
. . . and then the black shape leapt up onto the bed, sticking its cold snoot in her face, bringing its warm wet tongue out to lap her cheek . . .
. . . and she let go of the sock, let it thud to the floor. "Oh, Bubba!" she cried, laughing despite herself. "Oh, Bubba, you scared the shit out of me!"
Bubba wriggled and lapped at her face some more, incorrigible. She told him so. It had no marked effect. She stroked his big blunt head and floppy ears, warmed by his brainlessly loving presence. Her fingers ran down the stubby neck, danced over the studded collar . . .
. . . and cut themselves on a piece of paper, folded and tucked beneath it.
"Ow!" she cried, quickly followed by another. "Ow!" She sucked at the slice in her skin, then pulled the note out from under Bubba's collar with her left hand while her right flicked on the bedside lamp.
Light flooded the room and assaulted her eyes. Bubba blinked, too, then trained his warm brown eyes intensely upon her. Slowly, unhappily, she unfolded the note. She had a grim, sinking feeling that it was nothing she wanted to read.
She was right.
Mona,
This is the hardest thing I've ever done, short of identifying Lisa this morning. I don't expect it to be any less tough on you.
But my life has gotten too dangerously crazy for us to go on any longer as lovers. Or friends. Or even casual acquaintances. I can't tell you why. You don't want to know. Believe me, baby, when I tell you that finding out would be the worst move you ever made.
So I'm saying good-bye, and that is absolutely final. But I can't let you go without saying that I love you, I will always love you, the heat death of the universe may wipe out all the cockroaches at last but it won't touch a hair on the head of my love for you. Please believe that.
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