Companions of the Night, Page 2

  Kerry nodded. She was sitting facing the young man. There was a ghastly smear of blood on the floor where they had dragged him backward, indicating an injury to his leg, though she couldn't see anything because he had his legs under him, which had to hurt. And there was more blood running down the side of his face from a cut she could, thankfully, barely glimpse under his dark hair. His eyes were blue—she'd noticed that when he'd first looked at her. Dark hair, blue eyes, fair skin. His coloring emphasized the redness of the blood that had spattered his white SUNY Brockport sweatshirt Of course, the shirt wasn't proof that he actually went to the college.

  But he looked like he might Probably a freshman—she guessed he wasn't that much older than she, maybe nineteen, which would put him at about half the age of the two men Kerry had never seen before: Roth, who looked like a football player, and the hair puller, who had the football jacket. NEW YORK GIANTS, it read. The laundry owner had to be in his fifties.

  And none of them—none of them—fit Kerry's picture of gang members or drug lords or international terrorists.

  The owner went to the pay phone on the wall behind the desk, where he dialed a number without having to look it up. Whoever he was calling must have been asleep or away from the phone, for it took the interval of several rings before he said, "Marcia?...Yeah We've got one of them....At the laundry. Ken's dead I'll explain later.... Marcia, there's no time for that now. Come around the back—the doors're locked." There was a longer pause, during which Kerry thought she was going to faint from fear: somebody was dead already. Then the owner sighed "Of all the ... Well, hurry up about it.... Yeah, I know." He hung up.

  "What now?" the man named Roth asked.

  "She needs to stop for batteries for the video camera."

  "Dimwit." Roth said it with resigned lack of enthusiasm, as though they were used to this Marcia—whoever she was—being a dimwit.

  On the other hand, judging by the look the laundry owner gave Roth, maybe Marcia was Mrs. Quick-Clean.

  "I think," said the New York Giants fan, "we don't need the camera to get started."

  Everybody turned to look at the prisoner.

  Kerry thought he was holding up a lot better than she would have. His eyes, above the gag, looked scared but defiant. She would have been crying and trying to let them know that she was willing to do or say whatever it was they wanted of her. Of course, she thought, that was easier for her to think, since she didn't know what they wanted of him.

  "Take the gag off," Roth said.

  "He isn't going to cooperate," New York Giants said. Despite what they'd said earlier, he sounded like he was looking forward to the prisoner not cooperating.

  "I think we should wait for Marcia," the owner suggested "Maybe closer to dawn he'll be more reasonable."

  New York Giants took the gag off anyway.

  He's waiting for him to say something, Kerry thought, something like "butthead" or "asshole," and then he's going to beat the hell out of him.

  But the young prisoner didn't lash out at his captors. He spoke, all in a rush, to Kerry: "My name's Ethan Bryne. When you get out of this, tell the police—"

  New York Giants kicked him, hard, in the stomach.

  He doubled over, gasping for breath.

  "Don't give her any of that bull," New York Giants said. "You don't want the police in this any more than we do. Less, even."

  "Tell them—"

  He kicked the boy again, this time in the ribs, since he couldn't get to the stomach. Then he drove his elbow into the kid's back, between his shoulders.

  Kerry put her arms up over her head to avoid seeing. And for protection. "Stop it or I'll scream!" Though she recognized the safest course was not to get involved, Kerry was screaming already—or as close to it as she could get, with her throat constricted by terror. "Stop it, stop it, stop—"

  She was expecting that they would kick her, too, and she was expecting it to be in the face, because she'd just finished with her retainers after two and a half years of braces, and getting her teeth broken was close to the worst thing she could imagine after all that.

  But Roth was yelling at New York Giants, "Geez, not in front of the kid," and—even though New York Giants was yelling back, "See, I told you she was one of them"—the laundry owner did nothing worse than clap his hand over her mouth to muffle her noise. He started dragging her backward, which she took to mean that they would continue to beat their prisoner but they wouldn't force her to watch.

  She tried to bite the owner's hand, but it was sweaty and slippery, and she did little more than pinch him.

  "Sidowski!" the owner hissed—another name to remember, along with Roth and Ethan Bryne, if she ever did make it to the police. "Knock it off!"

  Kerry stopped struggling when Sidowski stepped reluctantly back from their prisoner. Kerry was amazed that she had accomplished even that.

  "She tried to bite me," the owner told the others, holding up his hand.

  Sidowski took a step toward Kerry, looking ready to yank her head off, but the owner held him back with his other hand on his chest, still holding the bitten hand up. "Look," he said. "Look."

  What's he complaining about? Kerry thought. She hadn't even broken the skin or drawn blood.

  But perhaps that was the point, for Sidowski backed off.

  "See," the laundry owner said. "Just a kid." He grabbed hold of Kerry's shoulders and shook her. "You don't understand," he said to her. "He isn't human He isn't alive."

  "What?"

  Kerry was still looking at Sidowski, but the owner said, "Him," nodding toward Ethan Bryne.

  "What?" she repeated.

  "He's a vampire," the owner answered. "One of the living dead. He kills people to feed on their blood."

  Their prisoner shook his head, wearing an expression of horror that probably mirrored her own.

  Roth took him roughly by the jaw, forcing back his lips to reveal canine teeth that were slightly longer and sharper than normal but certainly nothing to get alarmed about.

  A vampire, Kerry thought. They think he's a vampire, and they're hoping very hard that I'm not one, too.

  It wasn't enough to step into the middle of what looked to be a ritual execution between rival gangs or druggies or international terrorists. She had to fall into a nest of grade-A crazies.

  Chapter Two

  HE'S A VAMPIRE," Kerry repeated in a noncommittal tone. Best not to let on that she knew they were out of their minds.

  Roth and the owner of the Quick-Clean Laundry both nodded. Sidowski was watching her closely, waiting—she could tell—for her to slip up and prove that she, too, was one. Ethan, their bruised and bloodied vampire, was looking at her with an expression of dazed desperation. Kerry wondered if he had a concussion and how likely he was to go into shock from his injuries. Somehow, despite the mind-numbing panic, she remembered that they kept talking about morning, and that they had called for a video camera. Things began to fall into place.

  "You're going to keep him here till dawn," she said. "See if the rising sun ... What? Causes him to melt? Burst into flame? What?"

  Perhaps they thought she was making fun of their beliefs. They just looked at her with those appraising expressions.

  She didn't dare vocalize the other. She didn't dare ask, Or do you plan to put a stake through his heart?

  "Whatever you think he's done—," she started, then quickly amended it to the less judgmental, "whatever he has done, is there any reason we can't do something to try to stop him from bleeding to death between now and morning?"

  Roth snorted. "Not likely He's not that badly hurt. This is an act for your benefit."

  Kerry moved to get to her feet, but the laundry owner put his hands down heavily on her shoulders, and Sidowski swept open his New York Giants jacket to reveal a gun nestled in a holster under his arm, a blatant reminder that they were men to be taken seriously.

  "I just"—her voice was trembling as though she were talking through the spinning blades of an elect
ric fan—"I wanted to get some of the paper towels from the desk. To try to stop the bleeding."

  "He'll survive," Sidowski said. "Vampires are stronger than normal people."

  The owner released the pressure on her shoulders. "Let her feel she's doing something useful," he told them. "Maybe it'll keep her from doing something stupid."

  "Thank you," Kerry said meekly.

  But Sidowski didn't move out of her way, which was probably meant to show her he disapproved, and she had to walk around him. Still, the advantage was that when she reached the desk, all he could see was her back.

  She hadn't been planning anything in the nature of what any of the three of them could possibly call "something stupid," but as soon as she got to the desk she saw the ashtray into which she'd dropped the razor blade she'd found on the floor under the counter. Without any clear thought of what she would do with the blade but realizing that she'd probably never have a better chance to get it—knowing that if she hesitated, if she glanced to see if anybody was watching, she'd be caught—she reached for the roll of paper towels, sweeping her fingers through the ashtray on the way.

  Though the blade sliced her fingertips, she worked at keeping her face blank. They would hurt worse later, she knew, but for the moment she kept moving till she had the towels. She pressed her fingers as tightly as she could into the roll of paper, trying to hide and at the same time stop the bleeding.

  Turning, she found herself face-to-face with the laundry owner.

  Now you've done it, she thought and braced herself for ... she wasn't sure what, but she figured it would hurt a great deal.

  He stepped out of her way, however, going around her. The desk, she realized with a sigh that she quickly tried to disguise as a sniffle. He had been heading for the desk—and not her—all along. He righted the chair that had tipped when Roth pulled her out from under there, and he sat down, opening a drawer.

  Kerry hesitated, still standing closer to the desk than to Ethan. Sitting down is good, she told herself. Sitting down is more relaxed and means he's less likely to hurt us.

  Unless, of course, he had a gun in the drawer.

  Instead of a gun, the owner pulled out his Bible. Either his place was well marked or he just opened to a random page and started reading.

  Maybe he was trying to find guidance, Kerry thought. She hoped he had opened to the part that said "Thou shalt not kill."

  Or maybe he was trying to look up justification for what they were planning. Not likely he could find that, she thought. But who knew how he could twist things? And besides, the Old Testament laws were strict and, in some cases, strange. Unbidden the thought came to her: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. If they thought Ethan was a murderous vampire, they would certainly take that as justification for killing him. Kerry fervently hoped the laundry owner would stick to the New Testament, which she remembered as being more lenient.

  Mercifully, neither of the others tried to stop or delay her as she marched purposefully to Ethan and knelt before him. She ripped off a sheet of toweling and immediately and none too gently dabbed at the wound at his temple, eager to have blood on the towel, on her hand, before anybody noticed she, too, was bleeding and wondered why.

  Ethan flinched from her rough ministrations.

  "Sorry," she muttered, catching her first good look at his nasty cut. The area around it was already swelling and turning purple. Easy, she warned her stomach. It wouldn't do her Florence Nightingale routine any good if she passed out or upchucked now. I hate this, she thought frantically. If there was anybody else here that could take charge, anybody...

  "It's all right," Ethan told her, sounding calmer than he had any right to.

  Kerry's eyes shifted to his for a second.

  This was no time to get herself distracted just because he was good looking and trying to put on a brave front for her.

  The towel was sloppy with blood already, his and hers, and she let the razor blade fall into it before she lightly crumpled it and shoved it into her jacket pocket, as though to get it out of the way. She hastily mopped up some more blood and put that sheet into her pocket, too. With the third, she was able to catch a glimpse of her fingers. The razor blade had cut two of them, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing down. She pressed the fourth sheet against his head with the two injured fingers—not daring to press against the actual wound, which would hurt, only near it. Every time she glanced at Ethan, he was watching her with those wary eyes. Which might mean that he could tell she was up to something and was afraid that she was going to get them both killed in the very near future, or it might mean that the blows to his head and the loss of blood had him confused enough to worry she was working with his captors. Or, more likely, the whole side of his head throbbed, and she was just making it worse.

  Hold on, she wished at him. I don't know exactly what I'm doing, but I'm trying to help. Out loud she asked him, "Are you all right? Can you make it till dawn?"

  He nodded, still looking—Kerry feared—awfully wobbly.

  In a disgusted tone of voice, Sidowski swore and said, "This is the most ridiculous—"

  —at the same moment Ethan shifted position.

  Kerry knew exactly what he was doing. He'd been in the same kneeling position all along. His legs had to be cramping up, even not counting that one of them was injured And he was tied to the laundry tub, which should be clear indication to all that he wasn't going far.

  But Sidowski took the slight movement as a sign of intent to escape. Or he just used it as an excuse. He kicked Ethan in the chest and Kerry heard his head crack yet again against the laundry tub.

  Ethan clenched his jaw—against an outcry of pain or just trying to maintain consciousness, Kerry couldn't tell. His head bowed submissively, he took a couple deep breaths before getting out the barest whisper: "I just need to move my leg Please."

  "Poor thing," Sidowski said, not even sneering or sounding angry Just cold hatred in that voice.

  Ethan glanced at Sidowski with a look that cut through the hazy befuddlement, a look that all but shouted, If I were a vampire, I'd rip out your throat.

  Or maybe it was just Kerry's interpretation of what he should be feeling.

  In the next instant he closed his eyes and he asked, not quite begging but with a desperate edge, "May I—please—move my legs?"

  Kerry looked over her shoulder to the laundry owner, who was still sitting at the desk, still holding his Bible, though the commotion had caused him to look up. "It's not like he can get away," she pointed out.

  Nobody said anything.

  Which, eventually, Ethan took as permission. Wincing, he leaned back and simultaneously raised himself the inch or so that the rope permitted, then gingerly managed to get his right leg out from under him and swing it around to the front.

  That was the injured one. Very obviously the injured one. The whole side of his jeans was torn and bloody, from the knee down.

  Ethan took a few seconds to catch his breath before moving, with a singular lack of grace, to get his other leg out from under.

  Kerry felt a dizzy sympathetic reaction. "I'm going to get up now," she announced, not wanting to take Sidowski by surprise. She indicated the fistful of towels in her hand. "I just want to wet these down."

  The laundry owner had resumed reading his Bible, which made Kerry so furious she wanted to knock it out of his hands and rip it up in front of his face, though she'd never had these violent inclinations toward the Bible before. Roth had moved to the main entrance, peeking out into the street from between the slats of the blinds. So she got up with only Sidowski to worry about and went to the drinking fountain, where she figured the water would be coldest and most likely to numb pain.

  There was a wastepaper basket next to the fountain, where she emptied her jacket pocket of all but the towel with the razor. With these guys having vampires on the mind, she didn't want them speculating why she'd want to hold on to bloody towels.

  She wet the fresh towels using her
left hand, so as not to get the fingers of her right hand bleeding again. By the time she made it back to Ethan, he had gotten himself resettled. He had his left knee up and was resting his head against it. The injured right leg was stretched out in front of him.

  "This is probably going to hurt," she warned.

  Like he wouldn't have guessed already.

  Sidowski swore again. "You think he's just some poor kid we took it in our heads to beat up on?" he demanded. "You think he's on the verge of dying because we pulled him off his bike and he got a couple cuts and bruises?"

  "I don't know," Kerry said, not wanting to argue.

  "He broke Ken's neck!" Sidowski shouted—Kerry jumped at the violence of his accompanying gesture. "Just like that."

  Ethan's half-bewildered gaze went from Kerry to Sidowski back to Kerry. "No," he whispered. "There were only the three of them—"

  Sidowski gave him another vicious kick.

  "Three," Ethan gasped again.

  Sidowski kicked him again.

  Ethan began coughing, great wracking coughs that brought up blood.

  "Stop it!" Kerry grabbed instinctively at Sidowski's arm.

  Though Kerry had always thought of herself as strong and able to take care of herself, Sidowski effortlessly swept her back and hurled her to the floor.

  Momentarily stunned, she knew she should roll herself into a protective ball but couldn't collect herself enough to do it. She was wide open if Sidowski chose to kick her. But he chose to kick Ethan yet again.

  "Stop it!" the owner urged in a frantic whisper. But he didn't really mean it, or he would have put the book down, he'd have gotten to his feet. Instead, he just said, "Sidowski, stop it!"

  That isn't going to stop him, Kerry thought. Sidowski was the kind of person who was proud in the conviction that nobody could give him orders. Clearly, he was tired of the others telling him to wait till morning, and he was going to beat Ethan until he died. There was nothing the owner would do to stop it, there was certainly nothing she could do; and Roth—

  But it was Roth who did stop it. Roth, standing by the door, peeking through the blinds, hissed, "Somebody's coming."