Companions of the Night, Page 3

  The owner finally closed his Bible. "Marcia?" he asked.

  Even before he shook, his head, Kerry knew that Roth wouldn't have said "Somebody" if it was one of their own.

  Sidowski knew it, too—probably even the owner knew it—but Sidowski said, "No time. Not even if she found the damn batteries at home." He pulled his gun from under his arm and placed it directly against the side of Ethan's head. "Vampire or not," he said, "it'll make an awful mess."

  Ethan closed his eyes and didn't make a sound, doubled over in pain as he was.

  Somebody pulled on the locked door, twice, then rapped knuckles on the glass.

  "Police?" the owner asked Roth in a hushed voice, frozen where he was.

  Kerry thought of her slipshod parking job and fervently hoped it was the police.

  But Roth answered, whispering also, "Customers. They're carrying laundry."

  Not the police, and not Dad, either. But Dad isn't someone to wish for, she told herself. She fought away a mental picture of him bursting into the place ready to yell at her and finding Sidowski instead.

  The owner was asking, "Do you think they heard—"

  The customers knocked again.

  Roth shook his head. "They probably saw me looking out, though."

  "Hey," a voice called. College girl, Kerry thought. And even though just the one word had been spoken, she could tell: one who'd been drinking.

  There was some giggling from outside. Two girls. The second one said, "Let us in. This is an emergency."

  The owner raised his voice. "We're closed."

  "It's an emergency," the first girl echoed her companion. "Tonya barfed on my bed, and I don't have any extra blankets."

  "We're closed," the owner repeated.

  "'Twenty-four-hour laundry,'" the second girl said. "Says it right here on the door. And on the sign. And on the window. What the hell is this? You on a twenty-five-hour day?"

  "The machines are broken," the owner called out. "The pipes are frozen. No water. We're closed."

  One of the girls kicked the door. "Says twenty-four hours right on the goddamn door," she muttered.

  But Kerry could hear them moving away, heard the car doors open and slam shut. Several times. The engine roared to life and the girls took off, squealing the car's tires to show their disdain.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Sidowski lowered his gun. He didn't put it away. He looked as though he was considering taking up again where he'd left off. Like he was evaluating pistol-whipping versus kicking.

  Roth said, "Why don't you just leave him alone? You're making the girl crazy; you're making everybody jumpy. He isn't going to say anything worth hearing till we put the fear of dawn in him."

  "But he keeps—"

  "Put the gag back on him, then," Roth snapped.

  "No," Kerry said. "He'll choke." Ethan had managed to hold back his coughing while the girls were at the door, but he'd started again. For the moment he wasn't bringing up blood, but that could change, especially if Sidowski resumed kicking him.

  "I think we should keep the two of them apart," the owner suggested.

  "I think we should keep the two of them real close by," Sidowski countered.

  The owner put his Bible back in the drawer. "I'm going out for some fresh air." He slammed the drawer shut to show he was upset at how things were going.

  Big deal, Kerry thought. He disapproves of Sidowski beating Ethan to death, but all he'll do is leave so he doesn't have to watch. Surely that wasn't what all that reading had told him to do.

  Sidowski grabbed his arm. "Don't be an idiot," he said.

  "I'll be right outside," the owner told him, "waiting for Marcia."

  "Let him go," Roth said.

  Sidowski held on a moment longer, as if to show that—however the evening had started—he was taking no orders from the owner and he was taking no orders from Roth.

  Kerry waited till after the owner slammed the door behind him so that they wouldn't think she was trying to use him as a diversion. Then she got up, slowly, so they could see she wasn't trying anything, and got a cup from the dispenser and filled it at the drinking fountain.

  She suspected Sidowski was considering knocking it out of her hand, but Roth said, calmly, "Just leave them alone She'll see soon enough."

  Sidowski jammed the gun back in its holster.

  Kerry knelt beside Ethan and held the cup to his lips, her hand shaking so much he was lucky to get any water at all.

  He was watching her over the rim of the paper cup. People in movies were adept at passing along silent secret messages with their eyes, but she couldn't even be sure if he was trying to tell her something. After rinsing out his mouth, he spat the bloody water onto the floor, which was pretty much all he could do. Given the circumstances—what they were accusing him of—the last thing he should do was swallow it. But he spat to the left, in the direction of Sidowski, which couldn't have been coincidence no matter how lightheaded he was: dangerous, foolhardy provocation.

  "Later," Sidowski promised equably.

  Ethan took the rest of the water, and this time he swallowed it.

  "Do you want some more?" Kerry asked.

  He shook his head. "Thank you." His voice was a husky whisper. He leaned back wearily against the laundry tub, looking shaken. Things had probably caught up with him; he'd realized the risk he'd taken, to no possible advantage.

  Kerry picked up the wet paper towels she'd dropped when she'd attempted to stop Sidowski from beating him. She sighed, looking at Ethan's injured leg. Mom had always been good at medical emergencies—levelheaded and not the least bit squeamish. Kerry knew enough to see that his pants leg needed to be cut away, but the men were no more likely to let her have scissors or a knife than to call for an ambulance. "Motorcycle?" she asked, remembering Sidowski saying they'd pulled him off his bike and remembering a much, much less serious version of this same type of injury when she'd been about ten years old and had fallen off a skateboard. She recognized the effects of a high-speed skid on gravel.

  Ethan took in a sharp breath as she laid the towel on his leg. "Bicycle," he corrected her.

  She was about to tell him that he was crazy to be riding a bicycle in December, vampire hunters notwithstanding, even if it hadn't snowed yet. But then she took into account the fact that he was wearing only a sweatshirt while the rest of them all had jackets. A bicycle was probably all the transportation a college freshman could afford. No telling how he'd make do once winter set in seriously.

  Sidowski finally got bored enough to back away. He hoisted himself up to sit on the counter a whole seven, maybe eight feet distant. Still, he watched every move they made. Roth continued to look out into the street from his position by the front door.

  "You staying at the college?" she asked Ethan, simply to say something, to keep his mind—and hers—off of what she was doing. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him shake his head, he was biting his lip, concentrating on not shouting or smacking her clumsy hands away from him. Then she remembered he couldn't smack her hands away, no matter how much she hurt him. "Sorry," she whispered.

  He nodded.

  She went to get some fresh towels. So he was older than she had assumed, she thought. Only juniors and seniors were allowed off-campus housing. Stop it, she told herself. They were in too much trouble for her to be concerned because he was too old for her.

  She was uncomfortably hot in her jacket but didn't dare unzip it. For one thing, she wasn't wearing a bra. For another, Sidowski would probably take the message on her nightshirt, IF IT'S MORNING, DON'T TALK, TO ME, as a clear confession that she was a vampire.

  When she got back to Ethan, he was leaning his head against his upraised good knee.

  "Do you want me to stop?" she asked.

  He shook his head, but it seemed more an I-don't-care gesture than an acknowledgment that her first aid was helping.

  She knelt beside him, hesitating, unsure whether she was making things worse rather than better.

&
nbsp; He turned his face to her without lifting his head, making it harder, should Sidowski be listening, to be overheard. "I'm not what they say I am," he whispered. "I'm not a vampire."

  Kerry bent over his leg and whispered also. "I know that." She was chagrined that he felt he had to tell her.

  "I never saw any fourth man," Ethan said. "I didn't kill anybody."

  "Shh," she warned, lest their whispering attract attention. Obviously Sidowski could see that they were talking; but if he knew it was more than I hope this doesn't hurt, he was likely to interfere again.

  But Ethan wasn't finished. "They're going to kill me," he whispered.

  Kerry shook her head. "Once they see that the sunlight doesn't affect you—"

  "They're going to find some excuse," Ethan insisted. "The sky is going to be too overcast, or it needs to be the noonday sun, or ... I don't know, but they're going to find some excuse and they're going to kill me."

  Kerry had been so intent on surviving till dawn, she didn't know what to say now that he told her dawn wouldn't be the end of it. Ethan flinched as she pressed too heavily. "Sorry," she said automatically.

  "Besides," he whispered, "I think they have some sort of idea that I can tell them where other vampires are. I think they figure that the closer it is to dawn, the more frantic I'll become, and they might be able to ... get me to give them some names and addresses."

  Kerry bit at her lip, suspecting he was right, suspecting that getting him to cooperate would probably involve a good deal more than just the threat of sunlight. "No," she said. "They've sent for a video camera. They won't kill you. They want recorded proof that the sun will do that." But even as she said it, she knew they didn't think they could kill him. Just rough him up. Cause him some pain. They'd keep on beating him, thinking that the sun would destroy his body and once they had that on film, nobody would question what they'd done before. She glanced at Sidowski, who was watching attentively. She didn't think he could hear what she and Ethan were saying, but she couldn't be sure. "What should I do?" she asked Ethan in an even lower whisper.

  "I truly don't think you're in danger," Ethan said. "Just don't keep riling them."

  "I'm not," she protested.

  "Keep away from me Do whatever they say. But as soon as it gets to be dawn—as soon—demand to be released: that's the time to make a fuss. Once they realize they've killed a mortal man, they're going to know they have to cover up."

  Kill the witness, was what he meant. Kerry was finding it hard to breathe.

  "My name is Ethan Bryne," he repeated. "I live at my uncle's house at 3747 Brockport—Bergen Road, but he's out of the country. Nobody's going to miss me until I don't show up for classes for a couple days."

  Kerry bit her lip, forcing herself not to cry. Ethan was making plans for her, trying to see to her safety because there was no hope for him.

  But Sidowski saw her. "What the hell is he telling you?" he demanded, sliding off the counter.

  "Nothing," she and Ethan said simultaneously.

  Sidowski took a step forward, but Roth saved Ethan for the second time that night. Roth announced, "Marcia's pulling up."

  Chapter Three

  THE NUMBER OF bad guys in the room was about to increase. If she was ever going to do anything, Kerry knew that now was her last chance.

  As Sidowski turned and headed for the back door, she whispered into Ethan's ear, "Lean forward," and shoved against his shoulder to get him as far away from the laundry tub as she could. Ethan was between her and the door, some protection against Sidowski's seeing what she was up to. But if Roth turned from the front window, it would be all over.

  The razor blade nicked her fingers again as she got it unwrapped from the paper towel and out of her pocket. No time to think of that. She could hear a car pulling up in front of the laundry.

  Behind Ethan's back, it was a case of good news / bad news. The good news was that the laundry owner had secured Ethan to the tub's leg by wrapping a rope around the first rope, the one that already bound his wrists. This meant all she had to do was cut through the rope that held his hands behind his back, and the other would automatically fall free. The bad news was that whichever one of the men had tied Ethan's wrists together in the first place had wrapped the rope around both wrists three or four times, crisscrossing in between.

  There wasn't time. There just wasn't time to cut through all that rope. Kerry froze, staring at the impossible mess.

  She heard Roth, at the front window, mutter, "Geez, Marcia, give it a rest." He rapped his knuckles loudly on the glass. "Just park the damn thing!" he shouted, and Kerry took in the fact that she hadn't heard the car engine turn off yet.

  She's having a hard time parallel parking, Kerry realized. She could sympathize. But even better, Marcia was going by daytime-everything's-normal parking rules and didn't want to block the fire hydrant.

  Maybe there was a chance after all. Kerry began sawing at the rope where it passed over Ethan's right wrist. She ran the risk of cutting him badly, but if she worked at the tangle of strands in the middle, there was no chance at all.

  The car engine turned off, just as Kerry made it through one thickness of the rope. Only three more to go.

  A car door opened, then another one, so rapidly afterward that Kerry guessed the laundry owner had come around the front and was opening the passenger door to get the long-awaited video camera.

  Halfway through the second rope, both doors slammed shut. She pressed harder and the blade slipped, gouging Ethan's wrist. He jumped but didn't make a sound. She froze. Blood, a shocking amount of it, ran down his hands and onto the floor. Slitting their wrists was a way people committed suicide. How long did it take for them to bleed to death?

  "Keep going," he whispered at her. Could he tell how serious an injury his would-be rescuer had just inflicted on him? Not that it made any difference at this point.

  She gritted her teeth and set the razor blade once more on the rope, though the blood made it hard to see what she was doing.

  She felt the second strand give as Sidowski opened the laundry's back door, and she had already started on the third when he finished saying, "About time."

  But then Sidowski turned and saw her. "Hey!" he yelled. "What are you doing?"

  Kerry sliced the rest of the way through the rope. Ethan took in a sharp breath as she laid open his wrist a second time.

  All for nothing, she realized, with another strand left and no way to cut through it with Sidowski about ten quick steps away. She dropped the razor blade to the floor and wiped her left hand, the less bloody of the two, on her pants leg. "Nothing," she said. "Just getting my brother's bear." She reached her left hand for Footy, who'd been kicked in that general direction when she'd first dropped him; he was now sort of near where she was sitting.

  Not near enough for anybody to be fooled, of course.

  She picked up the bear and held him up for them to see: Roth behind her, and in front Sidowski, the laundry owner, and a woman with blond hair piled up on her head the way only hairdressers ever wear it. Kerry could see Ethan's blood under her fingernails. The others probably couldn't, but it didn't make any difference.

  Sidowski took a step toward her. And another. Kerry could make out the individual motions, as though everything had slowed. And yet, by Sidowski's third step Kerry saw that she had vastly miscalculated and that it would take more like five steps rather than ten for him to reach them, but at that point Ethan jerked his hands apart, the final strand of rope coming loose.

  On Sidowski's fourth step, Ethan swept up the razor blade. Considering the amount of blood already on his hands, there was no way to tell if he cut himself further, but Kerry figured he pretty much had to.

  From the other side, Roth yelled, "He's loose!" which the others probably couldn't see yet—

  —as Sidowski's fifth step brought him alongside Ethan. But he hadn't realized Ethan was loose, and he hadn't seen the razor yet. He'd been heading for her, one hand just starting to mov
e, to reach down and over Ethan to grab her hair. Kerry could see it in his face as he took in Roth's words, as he took in the changed situation.

  Kerry was sure Ethan was going to use the razor blade on Sidowski: slash open arm or leg or belly or face—the kind of thing that during movies she'd always hide her eyes for. Not that she saw he had much choice.

  But Ethan had gotten his good leg under him, and he jabbed his left elbow into Sidowski's groin with all the force the momentum of getting up gave him. Sidowski doubled over, and Ethan hit him again, this time on the chin.

  Ethan was on his feet faster than Kerry would have thought possible, and the one he went after was not Sidowski, in a helpless heap on the floor, but Marcia.

  Marcia yelped but didn't have time to struggle before he was behind her, left arm around her waist, right hand holding the blade to her throat, while from his slashed wrist blood spread alarmingly quickly over the front of her powder blue ski jacket.

  "Back off," he warned, his voice still barely more than a whisper.

  Roth, who'd almost made it to where Kerry still knelt on the floor, said, "Just take it easy. She's been home all evening. She hasn't done anything to hurt you."

  The laundry owner dropped the video camera. Shock, Kerry thought, seeing his face. But the sudden noise made Ethan jerk his arm tighter around Marcia's neck. Marcia squealed in anticipation of pain. From where she was, Kerry could see that Ethan hadn't cut her; the blood was still all his. Off to the side, the laundry owner—Marcia must be Mrs. Laundry Owner—cried out, "No!" Roth took a step closer, but Ethan wasn't as distracted as all that.

  "I have," Ethan warned softly, "nothing to lose."

  "Roth," the laundry owner pleaded.

  For one incredibly long second they all stood there watching each other, gauging intent, searching for weaknesses. Then Roth stepped back.

  Sidowski had regained enough breath to start swearing.

  Ethan ignored him. "Kerry, you drove?"

  She nodded.

  "You still have the keys?"

  She had to think about it. She was still kneeling on the floor, Footy in her left hand. The keys turned up in her jeans pocket. She stuffed Footy into her jacket pocket and stood.