They Thirst Part 18

He whirled around and stared into the dark distance. It was that G.o.dd.a.m.ned house, he thought suddenly, that castle where some maniac had sawed Orion Kronsteen's head off. The place was preying on his mind, intruding into his thoughts both day and night, making him crazy. He thought he could see the castle even now outlined against the darkness in bloodred neon. Crazy, he thought, I'm going f.u.c.kin' crazy!

And from the corner of his eye, he saw the light go off in his office. Gideon stared at the black window, his heart beating rapidly. Chill b.u.mps had risen on his arms and legs beneath the silk pajamas. My G.o.d, he thought. Oh, my G.o.d . . .

did I unlock the doors for someone else? He walked back across the parking lot to the building's threshold. The only sound in the entire funeral home seemed to be the ticking of a large grandfather clock at the far end of the central corridor where a wide marble staircase with black cherrywood banisters curved gracefully up to the second floor. Gideon moved along that corridor until he could make out the hands on the clock-two-ten. He'd closed his eyes in his own bedroom at just after twelve o'clock.

From somewhere upstairs there came a m.u.f.fled, soft thump. Gideon knew what that sound was from years of hearing it-the noise of a coffin lid closing, probably in the first of the three display rooms. He came to the end of the corridor, the grandfather clock ticking madly in his head. And he started up the long stairway, hand clenching the bannister. There was another corridor on the second floor and several rooms on either side; at the corridor's end a shorter stairway led up to the third floor and the administrative offices. Gideon's searching hand found the wall switch, and instantly the corridor was lit by a dozen wall-mounted electric candles. On the first of the polished oak doors there was a golden plaque that said Blue Room, and underneath that in white plastic letters pressed against a black velvet background, Mr. William R. Tedford.

Gideon opened the door and pressed another wall switch. A sapphire-colored chandelier blazed to life. Everything in the room was blue-walls, ceiling, carpet, sofa, and chairs. Blue flowers peeked from azure vases; a six-foot statue of a blue angel with unfolding wings stood in a corner; the guest book, powder blue, sat atop an indigo pedestal. But the room's main fixture, supported on a royal blue dais, was a closed ebony coffin containing the remains of a certain Mr. Tedford.

From farther along the hallway came the quiet sound of a door closing. "Who's there?" Gideon said, his voice sounding weak and defenseless in the thick silence. He stood where he was for a moment, listening, and then moved forward past the Gold Room, past the Green Room, past the Amber Room. He peered cautiously into the Red Room, switching on a chandelier that lit up the place like the center of an inferno. He could almost smell the sulphur and smoke. But then he saw that the coffin's lid was propped open and, as he neared it, he realized with a start of alarm that the corpse-an elderly woman in a pale pink gown-was smoking a cigarette.

Or rather, a burning cigarette had been forced between the dead lips. It was almost out now because, of course, she wasn't inhaling. A few ashes lay on her cheek, gray against artificial peach. Someone's playing a joke, Gideon thought angrily as he plucked out the cigarette and tossed it aside. It's not very funny. Not very funny at all!

He was answered by a single peal of laughter from one of the other display rooms. He went back out to the corridor, trembling, wanting to run but knowing he couldn't hide. "Where are you?" he shouted. "What do you want with me?" There were two more rooms farther along the hall-the Violet Room and the White Room.

Gideon looked from door to door, his legs refusing to move. "What do you want?"

he shouted again. "I'm going to call the police if you don't get out of here!" Dead silence.

Gideon threw open the door to the Violet Room. It crashed against the wall, knocking down a gilt-framed picture of purple flowers in a dark green and lilac field. He approached the coffin and looked in, recoiling instantly. The corpse-a shrunken old man with sharply protruding cheekbones-had been painted to look like a clown. There were red spots of lipstick covering his cheeks and the bulb of his nose, the lips had been painted bright red and the sewn-shut eyelids as well. Gideon slammed down the coffin's lid and backed away into the corridor, where he turned to face the White Room's door.

He stepped inside, holding his breath in this place of glacial, heavenly whiteness. In this room, the most expensive and ornate of all the display rooms, even the coffin was white with trim. There was a white grand piano with gold-plated keys replacing the black ones, and a long black-and-white checked sofa. Two tall, golden candelabra stood on either side of the coffin dais, each holding six electric candles that now guttered with golden light. But there was no one in here, no one at all. "C Gideon, bloated with relief, turned toward the door. And then the ice-white coffin began to open. He whirled around, a long whine beginning in his throat. The coffin's lid rose, pushed by a bare arm. When it was fully open, the corpse sat up. It was a young Chicano boy with s.h.i.+ning black hair, wearing a white T-s.h.i.+rt and dirty jeans. Gideon could see that he'd been lying on top of the other corpse in the coffin, a blue-haired society matron who'd kicked off in her sleep, and now the boy started to climb out of the coffin, his dark eyes transfixing Gideon. He reached out, felt the silk lining of the coffin, and grinned. "Real nice, man," he said softly. "You know how to make 'em real good, don't you?" Gideon couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't think.

"Just trying it on for size, Mr. Gideon," the boy said, his gaze flicking to the corner.

And the black-haired girl who'd been standing there reached for Mitch Gideon's throat.

FIVE.

"Ah," Prince Conrad Vulkan said softly, pressing his white fingers to his temple. He opened his green cat eyes and looked across the room at Phillip Falco. "There. Mitch Gideon is ours. We can begin ma.s.s production tomorrow night."

"Sir, if you'll allow me," Falco began quietly, "you took a great risk in bringing him down from his home like that . . ."

"Risk? What risk?" Vulkan's eyes moved, green marbles in a pallid face, toward his servant. "If the police had stopped him, he simply would have awakened from his trance. That's all. We need the coffins; we need his factory. And what military leader in all of history has been a stranger to risks?" He sat motionless for a moment, then rose to his feet and moved across the stone-floored room to the huge fireplace. It was large enough to hold more than a cord of wood, but now only six or seven logs blazed in there, and the yellow-orange glow splashed across the vampire's face. There were crates scattered about the room, some of them open, with old rare books spilling out. Beautiful paintings, many of them cracked and faded but obviously the work of masters, hung on the walls along with delicate fragments of rotted tapestries. At the center of the room there was a large blue-and-red Oriental carpet and a long, polished table on which sat a silver candelabra and eight guttering black candles. Before Vulkan's black velvet chair were maps of L.A., Torrence, Glendale, Pasadena, Compton, and most of Orange and Los Angeles counties. Vulkan stared into the fire, his eyes glittering. Soon the servant who called himself Roach would be bringing him his food for the night, and the prospect of drinking hot blood made him eager and impatient. He had missed his feeding last night because he felt it unwise to use that human again so quickly. He'd been reading the newspapers Falco brought to him, and he knew that it would be foolish to do something that would call needless attention to his servant.

"Roach will be here soon," he said, watching a log burst into flame. He pondered what had to be done tonight; fast or slow, that was the question.

"Master," Falco said, stepping closer. "That man is dangerous. He takes chances. He's going to cause you harm . . ."

"Why should you care?" the prince asked softly.

Falco paused for a moment, watching the slight figure dappled red and black by the flames. "I only mean to say, Master, that the police are bound to catch him sooner or later. I know you've chosen him because you found his mind most . . .

receptive, but the time is coming for you to dispose of him. I could bring them for you. Why not let me?"

Vulkan turned toward the other man, smiling slightly. "Let you? Let you, Phillip? Time has used you all up. There's nothing left of you. You're old and weak, and the women would get away from you too easily. No Roach is young, strong, and . . . new." Vulkan regarded him in silence for a moment, then shook his head. "No, Phillip. If anyone causes me harm, it will be you. Won't it?"

"Me?" A cold flame of terror flared in Falco's soul. "I don't understand what you're-"

"Oh, yes, you do. It's time to stop the charade. Do you think just because I sleep during the day I know nothing of what transpires? You sadly misjudge me, Phillip." Vulkan's voice had dropped to a soft, gentle whisper. "How unfortunate. The Headmaster visits me as I sleep, Phillip. He sees everything, even what hides in your heart and mind. That is how I know you've been thinking of betraying me . . ."

"No!" Falco said, his eyes widening. "No! I swear it isn't true!"

"Oh, but it is. Ever since we left Hungary, you've grown more and more . . . how shall I put it? ... penitent? Now you sink to your knees and pray to a G.o.d who will have nothing to do with you. You pray, and you repent-for what good it does you. And you have been thinking of going to the police."

"NO!".

"The Headmaster told me, Phillip. And he never lies. Never." Vulkan turned his back on Falco and watched the fire burn. "I've given you a good life," he said after another moment. "Why did you want to hurt me?" Falco trembled, his mind reeling. He put his hands to his face and drew in a tortured breath. Above him in the high rafters of the room, he could hear the wind moaning like a chorus of doomed souls. "It's . . . it's not right!" he blurted out, a strangled sob breaking from his throat. "It's perverted, unholy . . .!".

"You can do better than that."

"I ... I remember in Budapest, when I was a young art dealer and . . . the old man came to see me . . ."

"Kovak," Vulkan whispered. "A loyal and true servant."

". . . with that priceless Byzantine woodcarving, so beautiful it stunned me. And I remember he said there were more pieces of art like that one, hundreds more in a monastery atop Mount Jaeger. He said his ... his Master had heard of the auction I'd arranged for the Koppe estate, and perhaps I could arrange an auction for Prince Vulkan as well." Falco's eyes grew cold. "Vulkan. The first time I ever heard your name I felt . . . contaminated."

"And of course, when you saw my collection ... or, I should say, the collection" my father began . . . you ceased to care what sort of creature I was. Even after I'd killed Kovak, you helped the others throw his body from the cliff. Do you remember that as well?"

Falco shuddered.

"Look around you, Phillip," Vulkan whispered softly. "Look at the beauty you sacrificed your soul to be near."

Falco blinked and looked at the walls where the medieval tapestries and the ancient works of Byzantine art hung. There were more modern works as well pieces by Lorrain, Ingres, Delacroix, Nolde, Degas, Lorenzo De Credi, and the Hungarian artists Laszlo Paal, Jozsef Borsos, and Simon Hollosy. In the dim firelight magnificent black horses galloped on their canvas fields peasant celebration done in earth tones, swirled across a village square; a bright red Nolde demon giggled while a poet struggled with his verses; wind moved, cold and silent, across a gold and purple autumnal scene, sending a gaggle of black crows flying from an amber field; Degas ballerinas wearing pink masks pirouetted on a shadowy stage; the somber face of a Hungarian n.o.bleman in black stared out from his canvas, a golden coronet around his head the only hint of light or color. The paintings filled the room, their subjects bright and dark, colors muted and sparkling. The beauty, Falco thought; oh, the terrible beauty . . .

Prince Vulkan took a step toward him, but his face remained in shadow. "It comes to an end, Phillip. The one who calls himself Roach is bringing me food tonight. He'll be staying here with me. In your place." Falco's mouth opened. He whispered, "Please," then whirled away from the prince, racing across the huge room toward the slab of a door on the other side. Before he reached it, Vulkan raised a finger and formed a triangle in the air; Falco found himself grasping for a doork.n.o.b that was no longer there. Now a rough stone wall stood before him. "Illusion!" Falco shrieked. "There's a door here! I know there is!" His fingers scrabbled over the stone frantically, and then he began beating at it with his fists. Vulkan giggled-the giggle of a spoiled young boy-and called out in a high singsong, "Phillip can't get out, can't get out, can't get out . . . can you?"

"G.o.d help me!" Falco shrieked, his voice cracking. "G.o.d help-"

"STOP THAT!" Vulkan shouted, clapping his hands to his ears. His face had sharpened, the mouth half-open to show the vicious fangs. "I'll tear you to pieces for that!"

Falco whirled around, his back to the cold stone, and watched in horror as the prince approached. "Master!" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely and began to sink to his knees. "Master, please, I'm begging you! I'm begging you! Don't kill me, don't kill me ... make me like you! You said you would someday! Do it now! Make me like you!"

Vulkan stood over him, smiling slightly. "No, Phillip, you've aged too much to be of any further use to me. And you know too many of my secrets, too many of my plans . . ."

"Don't kill me!" the old man on the floor whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"The world belongs to the young," Vulkan said. "The old have no place in it. I give the gift of everlasting youth, and soon this world will be mine. Think of Alexander, Phillip. During his campaigns on Tyre and Babylon, he left behind the stragglers and invalids who would hold back his march. You are now worth as much to me as a straggler was to Alexander . . ."

Falco hid his face in his hands. "G.o.d save my sinning soul, I have sinned, Father, and I-"

"YOU FOOL!" VulKan shouted, and gripped his palms around Falco's temples. The fingers tensed; Falco's eyes widened in shock. There was a soft cracking sound and a fine thread of blood spread from the crown of Falco's head to the bridge of his nose. Vulkan's eyes blazed green, the pupils darkening. Then Falco screamed, the scream echoing eerily against the walls as it was drawn up with the wind toward the high ceiling. Drops of blood were being squeezed from Falco's forehead, streaming down to the tip of the nose, spattering onto his s.h.i.+rt. The cracking noise grew louder, and Falco began babbling in terror.

Vulkan's wrists suddenly twisted. Most of Falco's face and the top of his skull ' caved in, blood exploding from the ruined nose and the crack that zigzagged from his forehead to the back of his head. The body began kicking frantically, eyes filling up with blood. Vulkan applied more pressure, and the head became a mora.s.s of flesh, bone, and brains. Vulkan loosened his grip, and the corpse gave out a soft sigh as it crumpled into a formless heap. Blood had spattered across the vampire's face, and now he took a thick drop of it on the end of a finger and licked it off. Then he waved that finger in a triangle opposite the first one, and the door reappeared like a photograph coming up on blank paper. The figures that had been pressed against it on the other side, listening and laughing softly, scurried away into the corridor's darkness when Vulkan opened the door. He called sharply, "Kobra!" and one of them stopped and came back along the corridor.

"Master?" Kobra said softly. The flesh of his face was tight and masklike, veined with blue at the temples. His eyes were as red as a rat's, his white hair matted and dirty. He stepped into the room, following Vulkan, and stared down at the b.l.o.o.d.y figure on the floor.

"Drink," Vulkan said, motioning vaguely toward the corpse. Kobra's eyes blazed in antic.i.p.ation. He gasped and went down on his knees, fastening his fangs in the throat and drinking greedily as his chest heaved up and down.

The prince walked across the room and sat back down in his chair, watching Kobra feast. Every so often Vulkan giggled. Kobra was young and inexperienced and didn't yet know the rich difference between living and dead food. These young t ones were so easy to please and so eager to learn. Soon, though-very soon-he and the others would learn some of the secrets that Vulkan had kept for almost eight hundred years-how to summon dogs and rats, bats and flies in thick, noxious clouds; how to peer into the mind of a human and read the secret thoughts waiting to be tapped. How to tell from a single drop of blood how old a human was, or what his diet had consisted of-the tastes a hundred thousand complex variations of sweet and sour, coppery and salty, tart or flat, poor or fine like wine aged in old Belgian kegs. How to drain the blood from a living human to the dregs and in so doing transform that person into a brother or sister of the night. So many things to learn.

Vulkan leaned back in his chair. Kobra glanced up, wasting the blood that dripped from his pale lips, and then returned to his work. This one is dedicated. He actually loves me, thought the prince. What to do with Falco's carca.s.s? His gaze moved toward the huge fireplace. The logs had caught now, and the blaze filled the room with dancing orange specters. He wondered if the dogs in the castle's lower regions would like their meat roasted tonight. And so he sat and waited for the Roach.

SIX.

Startled, Palatazin raised his head and glanced at his watch. He'd fallen asleep for a few minutes. Three-twenty. Coronado Street seemed deserted. Even the Club Feliz had closed its doors and cut the lights. The two shapes in the parked car across the street weren't moving, and Palatazin wondered if they were sleeping, too. Should've brought some coffee, he told himself irritably. Then another thought -what if this Benefield isn't the one we're looking for?

The killings have stopped. Perhaps he's gone for good. Or have they stopped?

Is the Roach just lying low?

A car's headlights winked from the far end of Coronado Street. Palatazin sat upright, his heart starting to beat a little faster. The car approached very slowly, and in another minute Palatazin saw that it was a light-colored Volkswagen Beetle. His throat went dry. The car pulled up to the curb perhaps thirty yards away, and Palatazin ducked down in his seat. The headlights went out. A car door opened and closed. Footsteps sounded on concrete. When he lifted himself up, he caught a quick glimpse of the man disappearing into the Mecca. That's him, Palatazin thought. That's the man! After a moment or so Zeitvogel came across the street and peered into Palatazin's car. "Do we go up after him now, captain?"

"No. Let's wait awhile and see what he does. If he comes back out, we'll follow him, and if he stays in, we'll have plenty of time to make the arrest."

"This is him, isn't it? The Roach, I mean?"

"We'll see. You stay alert."

Zeitvogel nodded and dashed back to his car.

Palatazin stared fixedly at the building's front door. When it opened again and Benefield stepped out onto the sidewalk, Palatazin felt his heart kick as if it had been given a charge of electricity. The man was carrying a small paper bag-what could that be? he wondered. One of those rags soaked in that noxious brew? Then maybe he was going to strike tonight? Benefield reached his car, looked up and down the street-Palatazin ducked his head so fast his neck cracked-and then got in. The Volkswagen's engine fired, the headlights came on, and the car pulled away from the curb. It moved slowly past Palatazin to the end of Coronado, then turned right on 6th.

Palatazin quickly started his engine, make a tight U-turn, and followed. He saw Zeitvogel's lights, about fifty yards behind in his rearview mirror. The gray Volkswagen turned on Western Avenue, and Palatazin realized the man was driving right up into Hollywood. His pulse was pounding, the palms of his hands sweaty against the steering wheel. He kept as far back as possible, driving with his lights out so Benefield wouldn't notice his tail. In a few minutes the Volkswagen turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, which was still ablaze with neon from the bars, discos, ma.s.sage parlors, and p.o.r.no bookstores. There was still a good deal of traffic on the boulevard, too, so Palatazin had to turn his lights on and speed up. He hung back a few car lengths behind the Volkswagen. From the sidewalks young girls in tight denims or slit skirts, T-s.h.i.+rts or halters called out invitations to the drivers, waving at them and holding up fingers to indicate their price. Most of the girls, hopeful starlets from every state in the country, were very pretty; perhaps they'd modeled once or twice or done bit parts or even starred in a skin flick or two, but now for a variety of reasons their luck had just turned bad. They were the throwaways, the tissues some agent, director, or disco smooth-talker had sneezed into and then tossed out with the trash. All of them potential victims.

Up ahead under a huge red "X" that proclaimed a p.o.r.no triple-bill, the Volkswagen swerved. The car plowed through traffic toward the curb. His head was filled with the Master's voice, so he knew he had to hurry. He'd driven past several girls who'd tempted him, but tonight he was looking for one who was just right. There were so many to choose from-all colors, all sizes, the greatest candy store in the world. He had an erection already, but he wouldn't have an o.r.g.a.s.m until he clamped the chemical-soaked cloth against her mouth and nostrils.

And then he saw her, standing beneath the red "X" of the Hollywood Adult Cinema.

She had long waves of blond hair, lips pouting sensually in a face that looked more like a little girl's than a woman's. She was wearing a shocking pink dress and pink stockings, and best of all, she wasn't nearly as thin as the others. Lj There was something about her eyes and her mouth that reminded him of Bev. Of ; '" "',, course, all the girls did in one way or another, but this one ... yes, this one was Bev! It really was! He thought he'd found her so many times, that she'd been sorry for leaving him and had come back, but always he realized that it wasn't her, that he'd been tricked again. And so he had to kill the nasty, evil b.i.t.c.hes. They were helping Bev hide; they were laughing at him behind his back-with their ugly, painted lips. But this was her-he was sure of it. Oh, the Master would be so glad he'd found Bev!

Tears brimmed in his eyes as he pulled up to the curb and motioned the girl over. She looked around for something better and then shrugged as she stepped over to the Volkswagen, peering in at the man with her heavy-lidded, dark eyes.

"I won't go for less than seventy-five," she said disinterestedly, in a thin voice. She had wanted to sing backup for somebody like Bob Seger, but it was really hard getting a gig in this town.

"Fifty," Roach said. He started digging for his wallet.

"You talking a quickie or what?" the girl asked.

"Yeah. A quickie."

"You want some lip service?" He looked like a creep, but fifty bucks would buy her those new shoes she'd been wanting over at The Broadway. There was a funny smell in the car, too. Alcohol? Aftershave lotion? She'd just gotten a whiff of it, and now it was gone. Well what the h.e.l.l? She slid into the car. "My name's Vicki," she said, and gave his thigh a quick squeeze. He smiled and pulled back into the flow of traffic. "I know what your name is. You can't fool me."

"Huh?" Kim muttered. Some nut. G.o.d, she thought, maybe he's the Roach. The idea chilled her, but then she pushed it aside. Everything about this guy was little except his hands; his c.o.c.k was probably as big as a shrimp. That made her giggle a little bit.

"What are you laughing at?" he said sharply.

"Oooooh," Kim said in a little girl voice, "don't bite baby's head off, sweetheart. Why don't you turn in that alley, sugar, and let baby give you what you need?"

"Okay," he said. "Yeah. Fine." He turned off the boulevard but drove right through the alley onto Franklin Avenue.

"Hey! Where are you taking me?"

"You'll see," he told her, cutting across Franklin and driving north toward Yucca Street. "You just sit quiet, you'll see."

"Stop the car!" Kim said suddenly. "I want to get out!"

"No, you don't. You'll run away. I've looked for you for a long time, Bev, and I'm not going to let you go again . . ."

Dull terror hit the girl. Her breath quickened. "Let me out," she whispered, and whirled to open the door, but one of the man's hands flashed out and caught her by the back of the neck. "DON'T DO THAT!" he shouted. "THIS ISN'T THE WAY IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE!" He turned onto Palmero Street and followed it to a dead end where a couple of dark apartment buildings stood. There was a mound of dirt and rubble piled at the center of a weed-infested lot, Kim was struggling, scratching at him now. "STOP THAT!" and when his grip relaxed, she turned and dug her nails into his cheek, then lunged for the door again. He caught her hair and throat and pulled her back.

And then he realized the truth, as he realized it every time, every single time-this wasn't Bev. This was somebody who'd tried to fool him, somebody who was laughing at him. This was someone who was wicked and who could be saved only by the Master's touch.

"You're not Bev!" Roach said. "You're not, you're not, you're . . ." He reached down beneath the seat for the cloth and brought it quickly up into Kirn's face.

She gave a m.u.f.fled scream and fought harder, but he wrenched her head back and pressed the wet cloth firmly against her nostrils.

And then he was caught in a blaze of headlights.

EIGHT.

Palatazin and Zeitvogel had hit their lights at about the same time, and Zeitvogel shouted, "Police! Hold it!"

Benefield twisted around frantically. In the next instant he threw open the pa.s.senger door and kicked the blonde out. She staggered to her knees and then pitched forward, unconscious. The Volkswagen's engine roared as the car plunged forward, then turned in a wild circle on the vacant lot and came screaming back along Palmero Street toward the makes.h.i.+ft roadblock formed by Palatazin and Zeitvogel's cars. The Volkswagen tried to turn aside at the last instant, but Zeitvogel accelerated and slammed into Benefield's side. The Roach scrambled out, his eyes enormous circles of fear behind his gla.s.ses. He started to run for the darkness as Palatazin leapt from his car and drew his .38. "STOP OR I'LL SHOOT!" he shouted. Benefield kept running. Palatazin fired into the air, and immediately Benefield fell to the ground in a trembling heap. Holding his gun at arm's length, Palatazin approached the man. "Hold it!" he said tersely. "Don't move, not even a finger!" Behind him he could hear the chatter of Zeitvogel's radio, and Farris came running up beside him like a bull.

When he reached Benefield, Palatazin saw that the man had contorted himself like a fetus and was sucking his thumb. Farris hauled him to his feet, snapped handcuffs on his wrists, and read him his rights. Benefield's eyes were glazed and empty, and he kept staring up into the hills.

Palatazin walked back to the empty lot and bent down beside the girl. Her breathing was ragged, but otherwise she seemed to be okay. On the ground near her was a piece of cloth that smelled so strongly of the liquid substance they had found in Benefield's apartment that tears came to his eyes. Sirens were coming nearer. In another moment two prowl cars came roaring along Palmero Street, followed by an ambulance. One of the attendants broke open a plastic ampule under the girl's nose, and she began coughing; she sat up in another moment, rivulets of black mascara streaming down her face with her tears. The night was filled with flas.h.i.+ng lights and the metallic crackle of police radios. Farris was frisking Benefield at the side of a prowl car, and Palatazin put his gun away and came over to them.

The man was babbling like a lunatic... calling me, I hear him calling me, he's not going to let you do this, he's going to protect me, he will he will "Sure he will," Farris said. "Now get in that car and shut your face." But Benefield turned his full gaze onto Palatazin. "He won't let you put me away! He knows what you're doing! He sees everything, all the wickedness in the whole world!" He looked up into the night past Palatazin's shoulder.