of otherworldly forces into this world, their mere existence was an
intolerable abrasion of the nerves, the soul. He assumed they were
Lavelle’s hellish emissaries, bent on the brutal destruction of the
Carramazza family, for to the best of his knowledge there was no other
Bocor in New York who could have summoned such creatures from the
Underworld.
He sipped his Scotch. He wanted to get roaring drunk. But he wasn’t
much of a drinking man. Besides, this night of all nights, he must
remain alert, totally in control of himself. Therefore, he allowed
himself only small sips of whiskey.
The Gates had been opened. The very Gates of Hell.
Just a crack. The latch had barely been slipped. And through the
applicator of his formidable powers as a Bocor, Lavelle was holding the
Gates against the crush of demonic entities that sought to push forth
from the other side. Carver could sense all of those things in the
currents of the ether, in the invisible and soundless tides of benign
and malevolent energies that ebbed and flowed over the great metropolis.
Opening the Gates was a wildly dangerous step to have taken. Few Bocors
were even capable of doing it.
And of those few, fewer still would have dared such a thing. Because
Lavelle evidently was one of the most powerful Bocors who had ever drawn
a sieve, there was good reason to believe that he would be able to
maintain control of the Gates and that, in time, when the Carramazzas
were disposed of, he would be able to cast back the creatures that he
had permitted out of Hell.
But if he lost control for even a moment .
Then God help us, Carver thought.
If He will help us.
If He can help us.
A hurricane-force gust of wind slammed into the building and whined
through the eaves.
The window rattled in front of Carver, as if something more than the
wind was out there and wanted to get in at him.
A whirling mass of snow pressed to the glass. Incredibly, those
hundreds upon hundreds of quivering, suspended flakes seemed to form a
leering face that glared at Hampton. Although the wind huffed and
hammered and whirled and shifted directions and then shifted back again,
that impossible face did not dissolve and drift away on the changing air
currents; it hung there, just beyond the pane, unmoving, as if it were
painted on canvas.
Carver lowered his eyes.
In time the wind subsided a bit.
When the howling of it had quieted to a moan, he looked up once more.
The snow-formed face was gone.
He sipped his Scotch. The whiskey didn’t warm him.
Nothing could warm him this night.
Guilt was one reason he wished he could get drunk.
He was eaten by guilt because he had refused to give Lieutenant Dawson
any more help. That had been wrong. The situation was too dire for him
to think only about himself. The Gates were open, after all. The world
stood at the brink of Armageddon-all because one Bocor, driven by ego
and pride and an unslakeable thirst for blood, was willing to take any
risk, no matter how foolish, to settle a personal grudge. At a time
like this, a Houngon had certain responsibilities. Now was an hour for
courage. Guilt gnawed at him because he kept remembering the
midnight-black serpent that Lavelle had sent, and with that memory
tormenting him, he couldn’t find the courage he required for the task
that called.
Even if he dared get drunk, he would still have to carry that burden of
guilt. It was far too heavy-immense-to be lifted by booze alone.
Therefore, he was now drinking in hope of finding courage. It was a
peculiarity of whiskey that, in moderation, it could sometimes make
heroes of the very same men of whom it had made buffoons on other
occasions.
He must find the courage to call Detective Dawson and say, I wont to
help.
More likely than not, Lavelle would destroy him for becoming involved.
And whatever death Lavelle chose to administer, it would not be an easy
one.
He sipped his Scotch.
He looked across the room at the wall phone.