That was when it became visible.
He was frozen. He stood, hands on the edge of the basin, his mouth and throat and nose and sinuses thick with the taste and smell of chicken Creole, and watched the incredible yet prosaic thing that was happening just behind him.
I am, he thought dimly, watching a vampire take a piss.
It seemed to go on forever — the bloody urine striking the porcelain, becoming visible, and swirling down the drain. Dees stood with his hands planted on the sides of the basin into which he had thrown up, gazing at the reflection in the mirror, feeling like a frozen gear in some vast jammed machine.
I’m almost certainly dead meat, he thought.
In the mirror he saw the chromed handle go down by itself. Water roared.
Dees heard a rustle and flap and knew it was a cape, just as he knew that if he turned around, he could strike the ‘almost certainly’ from his last thought. He stayed where he was, palms biting the edge of the basin.
A low, ageless voice spoke from directly behind him. The owner of the voice was so close Dees could feel its cold breath on his neck.
‘You have been following me,’ the ageless voice said.
Dees moaned.
‘Yes,’ the ageless voice said, as if Dees had disagreed with him. ‘I know you, you see. I know all about you. Now listen closely, my inquisitive friend, because I say this only once: don’t follow me any more.’
Dees moaned again, a doglike sound, and more water ran into his pants.
‘Open your camera,’ the ageless voice said.
My film! part of Dees cried. My film! All I’ve got! All I’ve got! My pictures!
Another dry, batlike flap of the cape. Although Dees could see nothing, he sensed the Night Flier had moved even closer.
‘Now.’
His film wasn’t all he had.
There was his life.
Such as it was.
He saw himself whirling and seeing what the mirror would not, could not, show him; saw himself seeing the Night Flier, his batty buddy, a grotesque thing splattered with blood and bits of flesh and clumps of torn-out hair; saw himself snapping shot after shot while the auto-winder hummed . . . but there would be nothing.
Nothing at all.
Because you couldn’t take their pictures, either.
‘You’re real,’ he croaked, never moving, his hands seemingly welded to the edge of the basin.
‘So are you,’ the ageless voice rasped, and now Dees could smell ancient crypts and sealed tombs on its breath. ‘For now, at least. This is your last chance, my inquisitive would-be biographer. Open your camera . . . or I’ll do it.’
With hands that seemed totally numb, Dees opened his Nikon.
Air hummed past his chilly face; it felt like moving razor blades. For a moment he saw a long white hand, streaked with blood; saw ragged nails silted with filth.
Then his film parted and spooled spinelessly out of his camera.
There was another dry flap. Another stinking breath. For a moment he thought the Night Flier would kill him anyway. Then in the mirror he saw the door of the men’s room open by itself.
He doesn’t need me, Dees thought. He must have eaten very well tonight. He immediately threw up again, this time directly onto the reflection of his own staring face.
The door wheezed shut on its pneumatic elbow.
Dees stayed right where he was for the next three minutes or so; stayed there until the approaching sirens were almost on top of the terminal; stayed there until he heard the cough and roar of an airplane engine.
The engine of a Cessna Skymaster 337, almost undoubtedly.
Then he walked out of the bathroom on legs like stilts, struck the far wall of the corridor outside, rebounded, and walked back into the terminal. He slid in a pool of blood, and almost fell.
‘Hold it, mister!’ a cop screamed behind him. ‘Hold it right there! One move and you’re dead!’
Dees didn’t even turn around.
‘Press, dickface,’ he said, holding up his camera in one hand and his ID card in the other. He went to one of the shattered windows with exposed film still straggling from his camera like long strips of brown confetti, and stood there watching the Cessna accelerate down Runway 5. For a moment it was a black shape against the billowing fire of the genny and the auxiliary tanks, a shape that looked quite a lot like a bat, and then it was up, it was gone, and the cop was slamming Dees up against the wall hard enough to make his nose bleed and he didn’t care, he didn’t care about anything, and when the sobs began to tear their way out of his chest again he closed his eyes, and still he saw the Night Flier’s bloody urine striking the porcelain, becoming visible, and swirling down the drain.
He thought he would see it forever.
Popsy
Sheridan was cruising slowly down the long blank length of the shopping mall when he saw the little kid push out through the main doors under the lighted sign which read COUSINTOWN. It was a boy-child, perhaps a big three and surely no more than five. On his face was an expression to which Sheridan had become exquisitely attuned. He was trying not to cry but soon would.
Sheridan paused for a moment, feeling the familiar soft wave of self-disgust . . . though every time he took a child, that feeling grew a little less urgent. The first time he hadn’t slept for a week. He kept thinking about that big greasy Turk who called himself Mr. Wizard, kept wondering what he did with the children.
‘They go on a boat-ride, Mr. Sheridan,’ the Turk told him, only it came out Dey goo on a botrahd, Messtair Shurdunn. The Turk smiled. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t ask any more about it, that smile said, and it said it loud and clear, without an accent.
Sheridan hadn’t asked any more, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t kept wondering. Especially afterward. Tossing and turning, wishing he had the whole thing to do over again so he could turn it around, so he could walk away from temptation. The second time had been almost as bad . . .
the third time a little less . . . and by the fourth time he had almost stopped wondering about the botrahd, and what might be at the end of it for the little kids.
Sheridan pulled his van into one of the handicap parking spaces right in front of the mall. He had one of the special license plates the state gave to crips on the back of his van. That plate was worth its weight in gold, because it kept any mall security cop from getting suspicious, and those spaces were so convenient and almost always empty.
You always pretend you ‘re not going out looking, but you always lift a crip plate a day or two before.
Never mind all that bullshit; he was in a jam and that kid over there could solve some very big problems.
He got out and walked toward the kid, who was looking around with increasing panic. Yes, Sheridan thought, he was five all right, maybe even six — just very frail. In the harsh fluorescent glare thrown through the glass doors the boy looked parchment-white, not just scared but perhaps physically ill. Sheridan reckoned it was just big fear, however. Sheridan usually recognized that look when he saw it, because he’d seen a lot of big fear in his own mirror over the last year and a half or so.
The kid looked up hopefully at the people passing around him, people going into the mall eager to buy, coming out laden with packages, their faces dazed, almost drugged, with something they probably thought was satisfaction.
The kid, dressed in Tuffskin jeans and a Pittsburgh Penguins tee-shirt, looked for help, looked for somebody to look at him and see something was wrong, looked for someone to ask the right question — You get separated from your dad, son? would do — looking for a friend.
Here I am, Sheridan thought, approaching. Here I am, sonny — I’ll be your friend.
He had almost reached the kid when he saw a mall rent-a-cop ambling slowly up the concourse toward the doors. He was reaching in his pocket, probably for a pack of cigarettes. He would come out, see the boy, and there would go Sheridan’s sure thing.
Shit, he thought, but at least he wouldn’t be seen talking to the kid when the cop came out.
That would have been worse.
Sheridan drew back a little and made a business of feeling in his own pockets, as if to make sure he still had his keys. His glance flicked from the boy to the security cop and back to the boy.