Thump!
The lights went out.
Penny gasped.
The thumping stopped.
In the sudden darkness, the weird and unsettlingly eager animal sounds rose on all sides of Penny, not just from the landing overhead, and she detected movement in the claustrophobic blackness. There wasn't merely one unseen, unknown creature in the cellar with her; there were many of them.
But what were they?
Something brushed her foot, then darted away into the subterranean gloom.
She screamed. She was loud but not loud enough. Her cry hadn't carried beyond the cellar.
At the same moment, Mrs. March, the music teacher, began pounding on the piano in the music room directly overhead. Kids began to sing up there. Frosty the Snowman. They were rehearsing for a Christmas show which the entire school would perform for parents just prior to the start of the holiday vacation.
Now, even if Penny could manage a louder scream, no one would hear her, anyway.
Likewise, because of the music and singing, she could no longer hear the things moving in the darkness around her. But they were still there. She had no doubt that they were there.
She took a deep breath. She was determined not to lose her head. She wasn't a child.
They won't hurt me, she thought.
But she couldn't convince herself.
She shuffled cautiously to the foot of the stairs, the carry-all in one hand, her other hand out in front of her, feeling her way as if she were blind, which she might as well have been.
The cellar had two windows, but they were small rectangles set high in the wall, at street level, with no more than one square foot of glass in each of them. Besides, they were dirty on the outside; even on a bright day, those grimy panes did little to illuminate the basement. On a cloudy day like today, with a storm brewing, the windows gave forth only a thin, milky light that traveled no more than a few inches into the cellar before expiring.
She reached the foot of the stairs and looked up.
Deep, deep blackness.
Mrs. March was still hammering on the piano, and the kids were still singing about the snowman that had come to life.
Penny raised one foot, found the first step.
Overhead, at the top of the stairs, a pair of eyes appeared only a few inches above the landing floor, as if disembodied, as if floating in the air, although they must have been attached to an animal about the size of a cat. It wasn't a cat, of course. She wished it were. The eyes were as large as a cat's eyes, too, and very bright, not merely reflective like the eyes of a cat, but so unnaturally bright that they glowed like two tiny lanterns. The color was odd, too: white, moon-pale, with the faintest trace of silvery blue. Those cold eyes glared down at her.
She took her foot off the first step.
The creature above slipped off the landing, onto the highest step, edging closer.
Penny retreated.
The thing descended two more steps, its advance betrayed only by its unblinking eyes. Darkness cloaked its form.
Breathing hard, her heart pounding louder than the music above, she backed up until she collided with a metal storage shelf. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide.
The thing was now a third of the way down the stairs and still coming.
Penny felt the urge to pee. She pressed back against the shelves and squeezed her thighs together.
The thing was halfway down the stairs. Moving faster.
Overhead, in the music room, they had really gotten into the spirit of Frosty the Snowman, a lilt in their voices, belting it out with what Mrs. March always called “gusto.”
From the corner of her eye, Penny saw something in the cellar, off to the right: a wink of soft light, a flash, a glow, movement. Daring to look away from the creature that was descending the stairs in front of her, she glanced into the unlighted room — and immediately wished she hadn't.
Eyes.
Silver-white eyes.
The darkness was full of them. Two eyes shone up at her from the floor, hardly more than a yard away, regarding her with a cold hunger. Two more eyes were little farther than a foot behind the first pair. Another four eyes gleamed frostily from a point at least three feet above the floor, in the center of the room, and for a moment she thought she had misjudged the height of these creatures, but then she realized two of them had climbed onto the worktable. Two, four, six pair of eyes peered malevolently at her from various shelves along the far wall. Three more pair were at floor level near the fire door that led to the furnace room. Some were perfectly still; some were moving restlessly back and forth; some were creeping slowly toward her. None of them blinked. Others were moving out from the space under the stairs. There were about twenty of the things: forty brightly glowing, vicious, unearthly eyes.
Shaking, whimpering, Penny tore her own gaze away from the demonic horde in the cellar and looked at the stairs again.
The lone beast that had started slinking down from the landing no more than a minute ago had now reached the bottom. It was on the last step.
VI
Both to the east and to the west of Vincent Vastagliano's house, the neighbors were established in equally large, comfortable, elegantly furnished homes that might as well have been isolated country manors instead of townhouses. The city did not intrude into these stately places, and none of the occupants had seen or heard anything unusual during the night of blood and murder.
In less than half an hour, Jack and Rebecca had exhausted that line of inquiry and had returned to the sidewalk. They kept their heads tucked down to present as small a target as possible to the wind, which had grown steadily more powerful. It was now a wicked, icy, lashing whip that snatched litter out of the gutters and flung it through the air, shook the bare trees with almost enough violence to crack the brittle limbs, snapped coattails with sharp reports, and stung exposed flesh.
The snow flurries were falling in greater numbers now. In a few minutes, they would be coming down too thick to be called flurries any more. The street was still bare black macadam, but soon it would boast a fresh white skin.
Jack and Rebecca headed back toward Vastagliano's place and were almost there when someone called to them. Jack turned and saw Harry Ulbeck, the young officer who had earlier been on watch at the top of Vastagliano's front steps; Harry was leaning out of one of the three black-and-whites that were parked at the curb. He said something, but the wind ripped his words into meaningless sounds. Jack went to the car, bent down to the open window, and said, “Sorry, Harry, I didn't hear what you said,” and his breath smoked out of him in cold white plumes.
“Just came over the radio,” Harry said. “They want you right away. You and Detective Chandler.”
“Want us for what?”
“Looks as if it's part of this case you're working on.
There's been more killing. More like this here. Maybe even worse… even bloodier.”
VII
Their eyes weren't at all like eyes should be. They looked, instead, like slots in a furnace grate, providing glimpses of the fire beyond. A silver-white fire. These eyes contained no irises, no pupils, as did human and animal eyes. There was just that fierce glow, the white light from within them, pulsing and flickering.
The creature on the stairs moved down from the last step, onto the cellar floor. It edged toward Penny, then stopped, stared up at her.
She couldn't move back even one more inch. Already, one of the metal shelves pressed painfully across her shoulder blades.
Suddenly she realized the music had stopped. The cellar was silent. Had been silent for some time. Perhaps for as long as half a minute. Frozen by terror, she hadn't reacted immediately when Frosty the Snowman was concluded.
Belatedly she opened her mouth to scream for help, but the piano started up again. This time the tune was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which was even louder than the first song.
The thing at the foot of the stairs continued to glare at her, and although
its eyes were utterly different from the eyes of a tiger, she was nevertheless reminded of a picture of a tiger that she'd seen in a magazine. The eyes in that photograph and these strange eyes looked absolutely nothing alike, yet they had something in common: They were the eyes of predators.
Even though her vision was beginning to adjust somewhat to the darkness, Penny still couldn't see what the creatures looked like, couldn't tell whether they were well-armed with teeth and claws. There were only the menacing, unblinking eyes, adance with white flame.
In the cellar to her right, the other creatures began to move, almost as one, with a single purpose.
She swung toward them, her heart racing faster than ever, her breath caught in her throat.
From the gleam of silvery eyes, she could tell they were leaping down from the shelves where they'd perched.
They're coming for me.
The two on the work table jumped to the floor.
Penny screamed as loud as she could.
The music didn't stop. Didn't even miss a beat.
No one had heard her.
Except for the one at the foot of the stairs, all the creatures had gathered into a pack. Their blazing eyes looked like a cache of diamonds spread on black velvet.
None of them advanced on her. They waited.
After a moment she turned to the stairs again.
Now, the beast at the bottom of the stairs moved, too. But it didn't come toward her. It darted into the cellar and joined the others of its kind.
The stairs were clear, though dark.
It's a trick.
As far as she could see, there was nothing to prevent her from climbing the stairs as fast as she could.
It's a trap.
But there was no need for them to set a trap. She was already trapped. They could have rushed her at any time. They could have killed her if they'd wanted to kill her.
The flickering ice-white eyes watched her.
Mrs. March pounded on the piano.
The kids sang.
Penny bolted away from the shelves, dashed to the stairs, and clambered upward. Step by step she expected the things to bite her heels, latch onto her, and drag her down. She stumbled once, almost fell back to the bottom, grabbed the railing with her free hand, and kept going. The top step. The landing. Fumbling in the dark for the doorknob, finding it. The hallway. Light, safety. She slammed the door behind her. Leaned on it. Gasping.
In the music room, they were still singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
The corridor was deserted.
Dizzy, weak in the legs, Penny slid down and sat on the floor, her back against the door. She let go of the carry-all. She had been gripping it so tightly that the handle had left its mark across her palm. Her hand ached.
The song ended.
Another song began. Silver Bells.
Gradually, Penny regained her strength, calmed herself, and was able to think clearly. What wet those hideous little things? Where did they come from? What did they want from her?
Thinking clearly wasn't any help. She couldn't come up with a single acceptable answer.
A lot of really dumb answers kept occurring to her, however: goblins, gremlins, ogres…. Cripes. It couldn't be anything like that. This was real life, not a fairy tale.
How could she ever tell anyone about her experience in the cellar without seeming childish or, worse, even slightly crazy? Of course, grown-ups didn't like to use the term “crazy” with children. You could be as nuts as a walnut tree, babble like a loon, chew on furniture, set fire to cats, and talk to brick walls, and as long as you were still a kid, the worst they'd say about you — in public, at least — was that you were “emotionally disturbed, “ although what they meant by that was “crazy.” If she told Mr. Quillen or her father or any other adult about the things she had seen in the school basement, everyone would think she was looking for attention and pity; they'd figure she hadn't yet adjusted to her mother's death. For a few months after her mother passed away, Penny had been in bad shape, confused, angry, frightened, a problem to her father and to herself. She had needed help for a while. Now, if she told them about the things in the basement, they would think she needed help again. They would send her to a “counselor,” who would actually be a psychologist or some other kind of head doctor, and they'd do their best for her, give her all sorts of attention and sympathy and treatment, but they simply wouldn't believe her — until, with their own eyes, they saw such things as she had seen.
Or until it was too late for her.
Yes, they'd all believe then—when she was dead.
She had no doubt whatsoever that the fiery-eyed things would try to kill her, sooner or later. She didn't know why they wanted to take her life, but she sensed their evil intent, their hatred. They hadn't harmed her yet, true, but they were growing bolder. Last night, the one in her bedroom hadn't damaged anything except the plastic baseball bat she'd poked at it, but by this morning, they had grown bold enough to destroy the contents of her locker. And now, bolder still, they had revealed themselves and had threatened her.
What next?
Something worse.
They enjoyed her terror; they fed on it. But like a cat with a mouse, they would eventually grow tired of the game. And then…
She shuddered.
What am I going to do? she wondered miserably. What am I going to do?
VIII
The hotel, one of the best in the city, overlooked Central Park. It was the same hotel at which Jack and Linda had spent their honeymoon, thirteen years ago. They hadn't been able to afford the Bahamas or Florida or even the Catskills. Instead, they had remained in the city and had settled for three days at this fine old landmark, and even that had been an extravagance. They'd had a memorable honeymoon, nevertheless, three days filled with laughter and good conversation and talk of their future and lots of loving. They'd promised themselves a trip to the Bahamas on their tenth anniversary, something to look forward to. But by the time that milestone rolled around, they had two kids to think about and a new apartment to get in order, and they renegotiated the promise, rescheduling the Bahamas for their fifteenth anniversary. Little more than a year later, Linda was dead. In the eighteen months since her funeral, Jack had often thought about the Bahamas, which were now forever spoiled for him, and about this hotel.
The murders had been committed on the sixteenth floor, where there were now two uniformed officers — Yeager and Tufton — stationed at the elevator alcove. They weren't letting anyone through except those with police ID and those who could prove they were registered guests with lodgings on that level.
“Who were the victims?” Rebecca asked Yeager. “Civilians?”
“Nope,” Yeager said. He was a lanky man with enormous yellow teeth. Every time he paused, he probed at his teeth with his tongue, licked and pried at them. “Two of them were pretty obviously professional muscle.”
“You know the type,” Tufton said as Yeager paused to probe again at his teeth. “Tall, big hands, big arms; you could break ax handles across their necks, and they'd think it was just a sudden breeze.”
“The third one,” Yeager said, “was one of the Carramazzas.” He paused; his tongue curled out, over his upper teeth, swept back and forth. “One of the immediate family, too.” He scrubbed his tongue over his lowers. “In fact—” Probe, probe. “-it's Dominick Carramazza.”
“Oh, shit!” Jack said. “Gennaro's brother?”
“Yeah, the godfather's little brother, his favorite brother, his right hand,” Tufton said quickly, before Yeager started to answer. Tufton was a fast-spoken man with a sharp face, an angular body, and quick movements, brisk and efficient gestures. Yeager's slowness must be a constant irritant to him, Jack thought. “And they didn't just kill him. They tore him up bad. There isn't any mortician alive who can put Dominick back together well enough for an open-casket funeral, and you know how important funerals are to these Sicilians.”
“There'll be blood in the stre
ets now,” Jack said wearily.
“Gang war like we haven't seen in years,” Tufton agreed.
Rebecca said, “Dominick…? Wasn't he the one who was in the news all summer?”
“Yeah,” Yeager said. “The D.A. thought he had him nailed for—”
When Yeager paused to swab his yellowed teeth with his big pink tongue, Tufton quickly said, “Trafficking in narcotics. He's in charge of the entire Carramazza narcotics operation. They've been trying to put him in the stir for twenty years, maybe longer, but he's a fox. He always walks out of the courtroom a free man.”
“What was he doing here in the hotel?” Jack wondered.
“I think he was hiding out,” Tufton said.
“Registered under a phony name,” Yeager said.
Tufton said, “Holed up here with those two apes to protect him. They must've known he was targeted, but he was hit anyway.”
“Hit?” Yeager said scornfully. He paused to tend to his teeth and made an unpleasant sucking sound. Then: “Hell, this was more than just a hit. This was total devastation. This was crazy, totally off the wall; that's what this was. Christ, if I didn't know better, I'd say these three here had been chewed, just chewed to pieces.”
The scene of the crime was a two-room suite. The door had been broken down by the first officers to arrive. An assistant medical examiner, a police photographer, and a couple of lab technicians were at work in both rooms.
The parlor, decorated entirely in beige and royal blue, was elegantly appointed with a stylish mixture of French provincial and understated contemporary furniture. The room would have been warm and welcoming if it hadn't been thoroughly splattered with blood.
The first body was sprawled on the parlor floor, on its back, beside an overturned, oval-shaped coffee table. A man in his thirties. Tall, husky. His dark slacks were torn. His white shirt was torn, too, and much of it was stained crimson. He was in the same condition as Vastagliano and Ross: savagely bitten, mutilated.
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