Killers of the Dawn

by Darren Shan

  "What's so funny?" I snapped. "I know my rights. I'm entitled to a phonecall and a lawyer."

  "Of course," Con crowed. "Even killers have rights." He rapped the table with his knuckles, then turned off the tape recorder. "But guess what — we're withholding those rights. We'll catch hell for it later, but we don't care. We've got you walled up here and we won't let you take advantage of your rights until you give with some answers."

  "That's illegal," I growled. "You can't do that."

  "Normally, no," he agreed. "Normally our Chief Inspector would barge in and kick up a storm if she heard about something like this. But our Chief isn't here, is she? She's been abducted by your fellow killer, Vancha March."

  I went white-lipped when I heard that and realized what it meant. With their Chief out of the way, they'd taken the law into their own hands, and were prepared to do whatever it took to find out where she was and get her back. It might cost their them careers, but they didn't care. This was personal.

  "You'll have to torture me to make me talk," I said stiffly, testing them to see how far they were willing to go.

  "Torture's not our way," Ivan said immediately. "We don't do things like that."

  "Unlike some people we could mention," Con added, then tossed a photo across the table at me. I tried to ignore it, but my eyes flicked automatically to the figure in it. I saw that it was the vampet we'd taken hostage earlier that morning in the tunnels, the one called Mark Ryter — the one Vancha had tortured and killed.

  "We're not evil," I said quietly. But I could see things from their point of view and understood how monstrous we must look. "There are sides to this you don't know about. We're not the killers you seek. We're trying to stop them, the same as you."

  Con barked a laugh.

  "It's true," I insisted. "Mark Ryter was one of the bad guys. We had to hurt him to find out about the others. We're not your enemies. You and I are on the same side."

  "That's the weakest lie I've ever heard," Con snapped. "How dumb do you think we are?"

  "I don't think you're dumb at all," I said. "But you're misguided. You've been tricked. You …" I leant forward eagerly. "Who told you where to find us? Who told you our names, that we were vampires, that we were your killers?"

  The policemen shared an uneasy glance, then Ivan said, "It was an anonymous tip-off. The caller rang from a public phone booth, left no name, and was gone when we arrived."

  "Doesn't that sound fishy to you?" I asked.

  "We receive anonymous tips all the time," Ivan said, but he looked fidgety and I knew he had his doubts. If he'd been alone, maybe I could have talked him round to my way of thinking, and persuaded him to grant me the benefit of the doubt. But before I could say anything more, Con tossed another photo across the table at me, then another. Close-ups of Mark Ryter, capturing even more of the grisly details than the first.

  "People on our side don't kill other people," he said coldly. "Even when they'd like to," he added meaningfully, pointing a finger at me.

  I sighed and let it drop, knowing I couldn't convince them of my innocence. A few seconds of silence passed, while they settled down after the exchange and composed themselves. Then they switched the tape recorder on and the questions started again. Who was I? Where had I come from? Where did Vancha March go? How many people had we killed? On and on and on and …

  The police were getting nowhere with me, and it was frustrating them. Ivan and Con had been joined by another officer called Morgan, who had pinpoint eyes and dark brown hair. He sat stiff-backed, his hands flat on the table, subjecting me to a cool, unbreaking gaze. I had the feeling that Morgan was here to get nasty, although so far he'd made no violent moves against me.

  "How old are you?" Con was asking. "Where are you from? How long have you been here? Why pick this city? How many others have your murdered? Where are the bodies? What have—"

  He stopped at a knock on the door. Turning away, he went to see who was there. Ivan's eyes followed Con as he went, but Morgan's stayed on me. He blinked once every four seconds, no more, no less, like a robot.

  Con had a murmured conversation with the person outside the door, then stood back and motioned the guard with the rifle away. The guard sidestepped over to the wall and trained his weapon on me, making sure I wouldn't try anything funny.

  I was expecting another police officer, or maybe a soldier — I hadn't seen anyone from the army since I'd been arrested — but the meek little man who entered took me by complete surprise.

  "Mr Blaws?" I gasped.

  The school inspector who'd forced me to go to Mahler's looked nervous. He was carrying the same huge briefcase as before, and wearing the same old-fashioned bowler hat. He advanced half a metre, then stopped, reluctant to come any closer.

  "Thank you for coming, Walter," Ivan said, rising to shake the visitor's hand.

  Mr Blaws nodded feebly and squeaked, "Glad to be of assistance."

  "Would you like a chair?" Ivan asked.

  Mr Blaws shook his head quickly. "No thanks. I'd rather not stop any longer than necessary. Rounds to do. Places to be. You know how it is."

  Ivan nodded sympathetically. "That's fine. You brought the papers?"

  Mr Blaws nodded. "The forms he filled in, all the files we have on him. Yes. I left them with a man at the front desk. He's photocopying them and giving the originals back to me before I leave. I have to hang on to the originals for the school records."

  "Fine," Ivan said again, then stepped aside and jerked his head at me. "Can you identify this boy?" he asked officiously.

  "Yes," Mr Blaws said. "He's Darren Horston. He enrolled with Mahler's on the …" He paused and frowned. "I've forgotten the exact date. I should know it, because I was looking at it on the way in."

  "That's OK," Ivan smiled. "We'll get it from the photocopies. But this is definitely the boy who called himself Darren Horston? You're sure?"

  Mr Blaws nodded firmly. "Oh yes," he said. "I never forget the face of a pupil, especially one who's played truant."

  "Thank you, Walter," Ivan said, taking the school inspector's arm. "If we need you again, we'll …"

  He stopped. Mr Blaws hadn't moved. He was staring at me with wide eyes and a trembling lip. "Is it true?" Mr Blaws asked. "What the media are saying — he and his friends are the killers?"

  Ivan hesitated. "We can't really say right now, but as soon as we—"

  "How could you?" Mr Blaws shouted at me. "How could you kill all those people? And poor little Tara Williams — your own classmate!"

  "I didn't kill Tara," I said tiredly. "I didn't kill anybody. I'm not a killer. The police have arrested the wrong people."

  "Hah!" Con snorted.

  "You're a beast," Mr Blaws growled, raising his briefcase high in the air, as though he meant to throw it at me. "You should be … you should … should …"

  He couldn't say any more. His lips tightened and his jaw clenched shut. Turning his back on me, he started out of the door. As he was stepping through, I reacted to a childish impulse and called him back.

  "Mr Blaws?" I shouted. He paused and looked over his shoulder questioningly. I adopted an innocent, dismayed expression. "This won't harm my grades, will it, sir?" I enquired sweetly.

  The school inspector gawped at me, then glared furiously when he realized I was teasing him, turned up his nose, showed me a clean pair of heels and clacked away down the corridor.

  I laughed aloud as Mr Blaws departed, taking absurd comfort in the annoying little man's irate expression. Con, Ivan and the guard with the gun smiled too, despite themselves, but Morgan didn't. He remained as steely-faced as ever, a terrible, unspoken menace in his sharp, mechanical eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IVAN WAS replaced by a burly police officer called Dave shortly after Mr Blaws had departed. Dave acted friendly — the first thing he did when he came in was ask me if I'd like anything to eat or drink — but I wasn't fooled. I'd watched enough TV shows to know all about the good cop/bad cop routine.<
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  "We're here to help you, Darren," Dave assured me, tearing open a sachet of sugar and pouring it into a plastic cup filled with steaming coffee. Some of the sugar spilt over the side, on to the table. I was ninety per cent certain the spill was deliberate — Dave wanted me to think he was a bumbler.

  "Taking off these handcuffs and setting me free would be a big help," I quipped, watching Dave cautiously as he tore open another sachet of sugar. Morgan worried me the most — Con might knock me around a bit, if things got rough, but I believed Morgan was capable of worse — but I'd have to be extra careful with Dave, or he'd worm my secrets out of me. I'd been awake a long time. I was drained and light-headed. Prone to slips.

  "Take off your handcuffs and set you free," Dave smirked, winking at me. "Good one. Of course, we both know that isn't going to happen, but there are things I can do. Get you a lawyer for one. A bath. A change of clothes. A nice bunk for the night. You're going to be with us a long time, I fear, but it doesn't have to be an unpleasant stay."

  "What do I have to do to make it pleasant?" I asked cagily.

  Dave shrugged and sipped the coffee. "Ouch! Too hot!" Fanning his lips with a hand to cool them down, he smiled. "Not much," he said in answer to my question. "Tell us your real name, where you're from, what you're doing here. That kind of stuff."

  I shook my head wryly — new face, same old questions.

  Dave saw I wasn't going to answer, so he changed tack. "That routine's stale, right? Let's try something else. Your friend, Harkat Mulds, says he needs his mask to survive, that he'll die if exposed to air for more than ten or twelve hours. Is that true?"

  I nodded cautiously. "Yes."

  Dave looked glum. "This is bad," he muttered. "Very, very bad."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "This is a prison, Darren. You and your friends are murder suspects. There are rules … guidelines … things we must do. Taking objects like belts, ties and masks from possible killers when they're admitted is one of the rules."

  I stiffened in my chair. "You've taken away Harkat's mask?" I snapped.

  "We had to," Dave said.

  "But he'll die without it!"

  Dave rolled his shoulders carelessly. "We've only your word for that. It's not enough. But if you tell us what he is and why normal air is deadly for him … and if you tell us about your other friends, Crepsley and March … maybe we can help."

  I glared hatefully at the policeman. "So it's rat on my friends or you'll let Harkat die?" I sneered.

  "That's a horrible way to put it," Dave protested warmly. "We don't intend to let any of you die. If your short, unusual friend takes a turn for the worse, we'll hurry him down to the medical wing and patch him up, like we're doing for the man you took hostage. But—"

  "Steve's here?" I interrupted. "You've got Steve Leopard in the medical wing?"

  "Steve Leonard," he corrected me, unaware of Steve's nickname. "We brought him here to recover. Easier to guard him from the media."

  That was great news. I thought we'd lost Steve. If we could get to him when we were escaping and take him with us, we could use him when it came to trying to save Debbie's life.

  I stretched my chained hands above my head and yawned. "What's the time?" I asked casually.

  "Sorry," Dave smiled. "That's classified information."

  I lowered my arms. "You know you asked me earlier if there was anything I wanted?"

  "Uh-huh," Dave replied, eyes narrowing hopefully.

  "Would it be OK if I walked around for a few minutes? My legs are cramping up."

  Dave looked disappointed — he'd been anticipating a more involved request. "You can't leave this room," he said.

  "I'm not asking to. A couple of minutes pacing from one side to the other will be fine."

  Dave checked with Con and Morgan to see what they thought.

  "Let him," Con said, "as long as he stays on his own side of the table."

  Morgan didn't say anything, just nodded once to show it was OK.

  Pushing my chair back, I stood, stepped away from the table, jangled the chain linking my ankles together, loosening it, then walked from one wall to the other, stretching my legs, working the tension out of my muscles, formulating an escape plan.

  After a while I stopped at one of the walls and rested my forehead against it. I began lightly kicking the lower part of the wall with my left foot, as if I was nervous and claustrophobic. In reality I was testing it. I wanted to know how thick the wall was and if I could break through.

  The results of the test were unpromising. By the feel of the wall, and the dull echoes from my kicks, it was made of solid concrete, two or three blocks thick. I could bust through eventually, but it would take a lot of work and — more crucially — time. The guard by the door would have ample opportunity to raise his weapon and fire.

  Levering myself away from the wall, I started walking again, eyes flicking from the door to the wall at the front of the cell. The door looked pretty solid — steel — but maybe the wall it was set in wasn't as thick as the others. Perhaps I could break through it quicker than through the sides or back. Wait until it was definitely night, hope the police left me alone in the cell, then smash through and …

  No. Even if the police left me, the video cameras set in the corners above the door wouldn't. Someone would be watching all the time. The alarm would sound as soon as I attacked the wall, and the corridor outside would fill with police within seconds.

  It had to be the ceiling. From where I stood, I'd no idea whether it was reinforced or normal, if I could punch a way through or not. But it was the only logical escape route. If I was left alone, I could knock out the cameras, take to the rafters, and hopefully lose my pursuers along the way. I wouldn't have time to search for Harkat and Mr Crepsley, so I'd just have to hope they made it out by themselves.

  It wasn't much of a plan — I still hadn't figured out how I was going to get the policemen to leave; I didn't think they'd withdraw for the night to let me catch up on my beauty sleep — but at least it was the beginning of one. The rest would fall into place along the way.

  I hoped!

  I walked for a few minutes more, then Dave asked me to sit again, and we were back to the questions. This time they came quicker than before, more urgently. I got the sense that their patience was nearing its end. Violence couldn't be far off.

  The police were increasing the pressure. The offers of food and drinks were no longer being made, and Dave's smile was a slim shadow of its former self. The large officer had loosened his collar button and was sweating freely as he pounded me with question after question. He'd given up asking about my name and background. Now he wanted to know how many people I'd killed, where the bodies were, and if I was just an accomplice or an active member of the murderous gang.

  In reply to his questions I kept saying, "I didn't kill anyone. I'm not your enemy. You have the wrong person."

  Con wasn't as polite as Dave. He'd started slamming the table with his fists and leaning forward menacingly every time he addressed me. I believed he was only minutes away from setting about me with his fists, and steeled myself against the blows which seemed sure to come.

  Morgan hadn't changed. He sat quiet and still, staring relentlessly, blinking once every four seconds.

  "Are there others?" Dave growled. "Is it just the four of you, or are there more killers in the gang that we don't know about?"

  "We're not killers," I sighed, rubbing my eyes, trying to stay alert.

  "Did you kill them first, then drink from them, or was it the other way round?" Dave pressed.

  I shook my head and didn't reply.

  "Do you really believe you're vampires, or is that a cover story, or some sick game you like to indulge in?"

  "Leave me alone," I whispered, dropping my gaze. "You've got it all wrong. We're not your enemies."

  "How many have you killed?" Dave roared. Where are—"

  He stopped. People had poured into the corridor outside
during the last few seconds, and now it was teeming with police and staff, all shouting wildly.

  "What the hell's going on?" Dave snapped.

  "Want me to check?" William McKay — the guard with the rifle — asked.

  "No," Con responded. "I'll do it. You keep a watch on the boy."

  Going to the door, Con banged on it and called for it to be opened. There was no immediate response, so he called again, louder, and this time it swung open. Stepping out, the dark-faced officer grabbed a woman who was rushing past and quickly shook a few answers out of her.

  Con had to lean in close to the woman to hear what she was saying. When he had it straight, he let go of her and rushed back into my cell, eyes wide. "It's a breakout!" Con shouted.

  "Which one?" Dave yelled, jumping up. "Crepsley? Mulds?"

  "Neither," Con gasped. "It's the hostage — Steve Leonard!"

  "Leonard?" Dave repeated uncertainly. "But he's not a prisoner. Why should he want to break—"

  "I don't know!" Con shouted. "Apparently, he regained consciousness a few minutes ago, took stock of the situation, then murdered a guard and two nurses."

  The colour drained from Dave's face, and William McKay almost dropped his rifle.

  "A guard and two …" Dave murmured.

  "That's not all," Con said. "He's killed or wounded another three on his way out. They think he's still in the building."

  Dave's face hardened. He started for the door, then remembered me, paused, and looked back over his shoulder.

  "I'm not a killer," I said quietly, staring him straight in the eye. "I'm not the one you want. I'm on your side."

  This time, I think he half-believed me.

  "What about me?" William McKay asked as the two officers filed out. "Do I stay or go?"

  "Come with us," Con snapped.

  "What about the boy?"

  "I'll take care of him," Morgan said softly. His eyes hadn't strayed from my face, even while Con was telling Dave about Steve. The guard hurried out after the others, slamming the door shut behind him.

  I was alone at last — with Morgan.