HELSING: The scene you witnessed was doubtless unpleasant to watch. But the same might be said, I suppose, for open heart surgery, or the process of embalming, or even a typical workday in any slaughterhouse.
Talbot stands suddenly, sending his teacup and saucer crashing to the floor, where they shatter.
TALBOT: I don’t believe you two! Listen to me: it has taken me a solid month to find you two brave “werewolf hunters.” Do you know what that means? The moon is full again, and as we all sit here talking about “parameters,” the Skorzenys are out there in California, once again becoming spawn of the Devil!
HELSING (mildly): What you’ve been describing doesn’t sound particularly “devilish,” Reverend.
Exasperated, Talbot paces for a few moments. In the process, he crushes the pieces of teacup and saucer into fragments, but Talbot neither notices nor cares. When he finally speaks, his voice and manner gradually take on the characteristics of a “fire and brimstone” sermon.
TALBOT: Of course it’s devilish! The Lord God lifted us up above the animals, gave us dominion over them, and created us in His own image. To deliberately reverse that process, to abandon our human nature and become an animal, even temporarily, is to embrace the aims of Satan! It is, I tell you, an abomination before the Lord and anathema to all those who truly believe in him!
Hull and Helsing exchange very concerned looks. They appear uncomfortable with the vehemence of this display.
Talbot seems to realize that he is losing control of himself. He stops, and takes several deliberate deep breaths before continuing in a more reasonable-sounding tone.
TALBOT: I don’t know where your reluctance comes from, I really don’t. I wouldn’t have thought there would be enough werewolves running around to give you fellows a lot of work. (Beat) You understand that money’s not a problem. I’ll meet your price for the job, plus all expenses.
HULL: And the “job” would be what, exactly?
TALBOT: Exterminate these foul creatures, all four of them. And the sooner the better.
Hull and Helsing sit looking at him silently.
TALBOT (cont’d.): And if you refuse to take on this holy work — although why a couple of real werewolf hunters would be reluctant to go and hunt werewolves is beyond me — well, then, I’ll find a gunsmith to make me up a box of silver bullets, and come next full moon Rey Martinez and I’ll go back to that hill. Only this time, we’ll bring along a couple of hunting rifles and do the job ourselves.
HELSING: Reverend Talbot—
TALBOT (talks over him): Silver bullets always seem to work in the movies. I don’t know if they’ll be effective in real life, but if you two won’t take the job, then I guess I’ll just have to find out. (Beat) But, one way or another, I will eradicate these monstrosities from God’s earth.
HULL: Please, Reverend— sit down. I believe you can be said to have made your point.
Talbot resumes his seat.
HELSING: Indeed, you have. It seems quite clear that Mister Hull and I have no choice but to involve ourselves in this matter.
TALBOT: Good. You’ll take the assignment, then.
HELSING: Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that, Reverend. There is another matter we need to clear up first.
TALBOT: What’s that? If it’s money, I’ve already told you—
HELSING: No, Reverend, not at all. Money is the least of our concerns at the moment. This is rather more, um, fundamental, I’m afraid. Helsing stands up. For what I’m about to explain, Reverend, something of a demonstration is necessary. And for that, if you will indulge me, we need to set the stage.
There is an old-fashioned lamp on the desk, the kind with a green shade that is found in some libraries. Helsing reaches over and switches it on. It creates a bright but relatively small pool of illumination.
HELSING (cont’d): Mister Hull, if you would, please?
Hull stands up also.
HULL: Of course, Mister Helsing.
Hull walks over near the door.
HELSING: Mister Hull is about to extinguish the other lights, Reverend. Please don’t be alarmed.
A moment later there is a click, and all the lights in the room go out, except for the lamp on Helsing’s desk. Beyond the limited range of the lamp, the room is full of shadows now.
Talbot’s face shows confusion and more than a little suspicion as he looks from one man to the other.
Helsing unbuttons his suit coat and slips it off, placing it carefully over the back of his desk chair. Moving briskly, with no hint of seductiveness, he unknots his tie and pulls it off. Then he starts to unbutton his shirt.
TALBOT: Hold it right there, buster! I don’t know what you’re doing, but if you and your boyfriend over there think you’re going to pull me into one of your disgusting faggot sex games, then you damn well better think some more!
Helsing continues his efficient undressing.
HELSING: (genuinely confused) Faggot? (Beat) Oh, you mean homosexual. (laughs) Goodness, Reverend, neither Mister Hull nor I is a homosexual!
Hull, who is still standing in shadow over near the door, can be dimly seen to be undressing also.
HULL: Gosh, no. What an idea!
HELSING: And if we were of that particular persuasion, I certainly hope we would not attempt to initiate any, um, overture in such a crude fashion.
Helsing finishes undressing. He is nude now, his body surprisingly lithe for one of his apparent age.
HELSING (cont’d): No, it’s simply that for this kind of demonstration, clothes are not only unnecessary, but an actual impediment.
Helsing walks over to the window, and continues speaking as he pulls the cord to open the heavy, elegant drapes. There is a window shade in place behind them.
HELSING (cont’d): The problem is, Reverend, there seems to be some confusion here about the services that Mister Hull and I actually provide.
Hull speaks from his position near the door, and in the uncertain light reaching him it is clear that he is now nude, also.
HULL: It’s a matter of semantics, really.
HELSING: Exactly. A matter of semantics.
Talbot is starting to show some fear now.
TALBOT: What the hell are you two babbling about?
HELSING: Well, it appears, Reverend Talbot, that you have, um, misinterpreted our business card. You see, Mister Hull and I are not, precisely, werewolf hunters.
Helsing grasps the bottom of the drawn shade and gives it a yank downward to release the locking mechanism.
HELSING (cont’d): Rather, we are, in fact, werewolf hunters.
Helsing lets go of the shade, which immediately flies upward to the top of the window. Bright moonlight floods the room.
Talbot’s face shows dawning comprehension, which quickly gives way to terror.
Hull begins his transformation into a werewolf.
Talbot twists in his chair to look toward Hull, still in the darkness near the door, although the moonlight has touched him, as well.
Hull is also in mid-transformation into a werewolf. He looks up at Talbot, and his eyes are glowing red.
Talbot, terrified, SCREAMING, struggles to rise out of his chair.
Helsing is fully transformed into a werewolf now, his own eyes glowing red, as well. He advances toward Talbot, and for a moment his body blocks the view of the camera.
The camera then tracks toward the window. We hear the GROWLING of the werewolves and Talbot’s screams.
The camera approaches the window.
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. SKY OVER CHICAGO — NIGHT
The camera pans up to frame and hold on the full moon. On the soundtrack, the growling and screams reach a crescendo as the werewolves tear Talbot to pieces.
FADE OUT
* * * * *
Reunion
> Conroy never had much trouble putting a crew together. People were always willing to work with him— the professionals were, anyway, and Conroy never worked with amateurs.
He wasn’t any kind of legend in the business, like Willie Sutton or Dillinger. That was all right — in fact, he preferred it that way. Legends often attract the wrong kind of attention, and they have a tendency to die young.
But Conroy did have a reputation for doing solid, reliable work. He was a good planner, for one thing — he never went into a bank, or a jewelry store, or a private home without knowing exactly where the loot was, how best to get at it, and how much time he could afford to spend there before the law was likely to take an interest.
He had good control, too, Conroy did. No matter how long you’ve been in the business, taking down a score produces one hell of an adrenaline rush — kind of like bungee-jumping, but the jazzed-up feeling lasts longer. People with that much juice pounding through their veins tend to be excitable. Combine that with the firearms that are tools of the heist artist’s trade, and sometimes the result is unnecessary casualties.
But Conroy never “lost it” while working, and he always tried hard to steer the men on his crew away from needless bloodshed. The cops look for you a lot longer and harder when you leave dead citizens behind after a score.
One good thing about the plan for taking down the armored car company was that very few civilians were going to be around when Conroy’s crew made their hit. Only a couple of guards were assigned to the night shift, and they could be handled without much trouble.
It was a maxim in the business: the fewer people involved in a score, on both sides, the less that can go wrong.
* * *
It was just shy of 3:00 a.m. when they stashed their two cars in the parking lot of an all-night supermarket and piled into the gray mini-van that they had stolen from behind an appliance store. Seven minutes later, Conroy brought the van to a quiet halt behind the broad, low building owned by the armored car company.
It all went the way it was supposed to, at first. Everhart was one of the best lock men in the business, and he bypassed the alarm on the back door, spotted the backup alarm, neutralized that, and had the lock itself open within four minutes.
As soon as he heard Everhart whisper “Got it,” Conroy stepped into the nearby alley and used his flashlight to signal Gitner, who was standing at the alley’s other end — which put him just fifty feet from the armored car company’s front door.
Seeing the three flashes, Gitner pulled the brim of his blue Notre Dame Fighting Irish cap a little lower over his eyes and picked up the pizza box that he’d fished out of a dumpster. The box now contained a few crumbs, a stale piece of mushroom and a Browning .380 automatic with a silencer attached. Gitner walked about twenty feet along the face of the building, which brought him directly in front of the thick metal door that said “Braxton Security, Inc.” Standing in full view of the surveillance camera mounted above the door, he pushed the button under the sign that read, “Ring for Admittance.” Gitner kept the pizza box in plain view but let the hat brim darken his face with shadow.
Inside, a man wearing the blue-and-gray Braxton Security uniform heard the door buzzer, put down his thermos and looked at the monitor mounted in the wall above him. It showed him a sharp black and white image of the figure with the pizza box standing patiently at the front entrance. There was no monitor to give a similar view of the rear, since Braxton Security’s home office was too cheap to install a camera back there. Instead, company regulations stated that no employee was to unlock the back door without first looking through its fisheye lens to establish the identity of the person desiring entrance.
The man in the Braxton uniform, slightly overweight and more than slightly balding, stared at the monitor for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then he turned his head and yelled through an open doorway, “Hey, Carter!”
A couple of moments later, another man in blue and gray appeared in the doorway — a slim, medium-sized black man with very short hair and a thin mustache. “What’s up?” he asked.
The heavyset guard, whose name was Porterfield, gestured toward the monitor with his chin. “Guy at the door with a pizza,” he said. “Did you order something?”
The black man’s voice held just a touch of contempt. “I been back here most of the last hour, workin’ on the audit, right? You sittin’ next to the only phone in the place. Did you see me order up some pizza?”
“All right, all right,” Porterfield said. “I was just askin’.” He watched Carter go back into the other room, made a face, then pressed the button that worked the intercom connected to the front door. “What d’you want, buddy? Nobody in here called for anything.”
“Just a second,” Gitner told the camera, managing not to give it a clear shot of his face. He fished a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket and peered at it. “It says ‘Braxton Security, Southgate Plaza,’” he announced. “That’s you guys, right? Says so right on the door here.”
Porterfield made an annoyed sound and pushed the speaker button again. “Yeah, I know this is Braxton Security, but nobody in here sent out for any—” That was as far as he got, because suddenly three men in baseball caps and sunglasses were standing in the office doorway. They all had pistols, and all three of those guns were pointed right at Porterfield’s face.
Porterfield sat very still, moving nothing but his eyelids, which started blinking rapidly. After a long moment, one of the men held a finger to his lips to reinforce Porterfield’s silence, then made a summoning motion. Porterfield, not quick at the best of times, just sat there until the man repeated the motion, this time with his other hand, which was holding a Colt Python .357 magnum. Gestures made with such a cannon tend to get people’s attention, which was the main reason Conroy was carrying it. Porterfield slid off his stool and hesitantly walked to the door, like a small boy approaching the principal’s office.
Conroy got the guard turned around so that he was facing back the way he’d come. He pulled the automatic from the guard’s holster and handed it to Paglia, the fourth member of the crew. Like the others, Paglia wore big sunglasses and a baseball cap, his particular headgear extolling the Minnesota Timberwolves. He took the guard’s pistol from Conroy and stuck it in the back of his jeans. Then he headed off to unlock the front door and let Gitner in.
Conroy was standing right behind the guard now, murmuring in his ear. Terrified people sometimes lose their ability to think rationally. They forget to act in their own self-interest, and that makes them dangerous. Conroy wanted the guard frightened enough to do as he was told, but not so shit-scared that he’d try something dumb.
“We’re only here for the money,” Conroy said quietly. “We’re professionals, not psychos. We don’t kill people for no reason. Nobody gets stupid, then nobody gets hurt. Understand?”
The guard’s double chin wiggled as he nodded several times.
“That’s good,” Conroy said. “Now, where’s the other one, the black guy? In the back room?”
More nodding from the guard.
“All right, fine. Call him out here. And listen—” It was time to balance reassurance with threat. Conroy let the barrel of his pistol gently touch the guard’s spine as he continued, “—don’t even think of trying anything cute, like calling him by the wrong name, or something. If he comes out shooting, the first one who gets shot is going to be you. Understand me?”
Porterfield nodded again, more vigorously this time.
“Okay, then. Call him.”
The guard drew in a breath. “Hey, Carter! C’mere a second, will you?” Porterfield’s voice was a little quivery, but Conway thought it sounded good enough. He hoped, for everyone’s sake, that the other guard’s name really was Carter.
From the other room there was the sound of a chair scraping along linoleum. A second or two later, the black man came through the doorway,
looking annoyed. He was saying, “Hey, I already told you that I didn’t—” but stopped as his brain registered what his eyes were showing him. He froze for a long moment, then slowly raised his hands, palms outward, to the middle of his chest.
“Easy now,” he said, as if confronting a growling Doberman. “Let’s everybody just take it easy.”
“We will if you will,” Conroy told him, speaking in a normal volume now. “We’re just here for the money. Nobody has to get hurt.”
The black man nodded solemnly. “Works for me.”
Conroy handed the white guard over to Everhart, then said to Carter, “That’s fine. Why don’t you keep your hands like they are and come on over here. No sudden moves, right?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.” The guard walked up to Conroy, who turned him around, relieved him of his pistol, and told him to put his hands behind his back. Conroy took out one of those plastic restraint cords that cops sometimes use in place of handcuffs. He was securing the black guard’s wrists when the man said, “Listen, I don’t want you guys gettin’ pissed off, or surprised, or whatever, so you oughta know that there’s somebody else—”
At that instant, Conroy heard, coming from the back room, the utterly unexpected sound of another chair being pushed back, followed by footsteps. Damn it, there were only supposed to be two of them working this shift! He got his pistol leveled at the doorway just in time to see a woman appear there, a tall woman with auburn hair, wearing glasses, a dress of gray jersey, and a pencil behind her right ear. Conroy’s surprise at her presence was nothing compared to the shock that grabbed him an instant later when he realized that he was looking at Amanda Westlake. There was no chance that he was wrong — when you have loved a woman the way he had loved Amanda, and then lost her, her face isn’t something you forget in only four years.
You couldn’t fault Amanda’s memory, either, even if her discretion needed work. She stared at Conroy for a long moment, taking in his pistol, aviator sunglasses, and Toledo Mud Hens cap. Then she frowned, narrowed her eyes, and said, in a loud, clear voice: “Roger! What the hell are you doing here?”
The Devil Will Come Page 10