Creepers

2.00 a.m.
41

"Jesus," Vinnie said.

Mack's voice broke. "What the hell is…"

As Balenger rose to his knees, he noticed that even Cora was stunned into submission.

Mack stepped toward the vault's entrance. His flashlight cast a stark shadow of her head. "Lady, how did you get in there?"

She whimpered, cowering with such desperation that it almost seemed possible she could push her way through the vault's back wall.

Mack still had the crowbar in his hand. "What happened?"

"For God's sake, you're scaring her," Tod said. "Give JD the damned crowbar, and get her out of there."

"Is he here? Is he coming?" The woman moaned.

"Is who here?"

"Did he send you?"

"Nobody sent us."

"Help me."

Mack stepped into the vault. Headlamps and flashlights cast his shadow as he reached for her. "Who did this to you?"

The woman gaped at his hand.

"Whoever he is, I'm not him," Mack said.

"… not him." The woman gaped now at the grotesque night-vision goggles dangling around Mack's neck.

"He didn't send me."

"… send you."

"But I'd sure like to know who the sick fuck is. Take my hand. Let's get you out of there."

Legs unsteady, the woman stepped across the sleeping bag. She hesitated, sobbed, and took his hand.

"How did she breathe in there?" Tod wanted to know.

Mack peered at the back of the vault. "Holes. Somebody drilled them."

"You need to…" The woman almost collapsed. Mack held her up. "Hurry. Get me away from him."

"Don't worry," JD said. "If he shows up, with us here, he's the one who'll need to worry."

"Thirsty."

"How long has it been since…"

"Don't know. No sense of time."

"Give her some water," Tod said.

She drank greedily, so desperate that she didn't seem to notice the white burn scar on Mack's cheek.

"Hurry," she pleaded. "Before he comes back."

"What's your name?" Mack took her from the passageway into the candlelight of the living room.

"Amanda." Her voice was raspy from not having been used. "Evert. Are we in Brooklyn? I live in Brooklyn."

"No. This is Asbury Park."

"Asbury…? New Jersey?" It was as if she'd been told she was thousands of miles from home. She frowned at the shadowy wreckage. "My God, what is this place?"

"The Paragon Hotel. It's abandoned."

Amanda inhaled sharply. In the candlelight, she recoiled from the tattoos rippling across Tod's cheeks.

His hand shot angrily to his face.

"You're not listening," Amanda begged. "We need to get out of here before he comes back."

"Who is this guy?" Mack asked.

"Ronnie. That's what he makes me call him."

"No last name?"

Eyes wild, Amanda shook her head desperately from side to side.

"What's he look like?"

"There isn't time," Amanda wailed, tugging at Mack to take her to the door.

"There are three of us," JD said. "Believe me, if we find him, whatever he did to you, the bastard won't be doing it anymore."

"Three? But what about…" Amanda turned toward Balenger, Vinnie, and Cora. Her gaze dropped to the duct tape binding their wrists. She moaned.

Thunder rumbled.

"To hell with this," JD said. "We found what we wanted. Let's go before the rain starts. Hey, Big Ears, were you telling the truth that the tunnels might flood?"

"That's part of what they were designed for. To carry away storm water," Vinnie said.

"Empty the knapsacks," Tod ordered. "Load them with as many coins as they'll hold. Stuff your pockets."

"But what about them?" JD pointed toward their captives.. Tod raised the pistol.

"Wait," Balenger said. "Something's wrong." A chill sped along his nerves. Through the open door, he heard the shrieking wind. Thunder boomed through the broken skylight. The smell of rain gusted in. He heard water pelting the remaining glass in the skylight, heard it splashing on the balcony and the balustrade.

"Something's wrong for sure. The storm already started." Mack dumped the equipment out of his knapsack and hurried toward the vault.

"Not what I mean." Balenger stared toward the professor leaning back on the sofa.

The light from the professor's headlamp slowly shifted, sinking until it shone on his ample chest. Then it rolled onto his lap, shining up between his legs, as if his hard hat had come loose. But Balenger remembered that Conklin's hard hat had stayed firmly on his head, even when the stairs collapsed, a chin strap holding it in place.

Legs numb, he shuffled toward the professor, not sure if he had the strength to get there. Please, God, let me be wrong. But as he forced himself dizzily closer, the smell of rain gave way to the stench of copper. Blood.

The sofa was drenched in blood. So was the professor, and it was more than a hard hat that lay pointing upward in his lap. It was his head.