The letter is from a corporation with offices in New York, Chicago, Detroit, Denver, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. It’s on rag bond so luxurious you want to cut it into a shirt and wear it next to your skin. It says that the corporation is planning to give away twenty million dollars to twenty charitable organizations across the United States, a million each. It says that the corporation must do this before the end of the calendar year 1983. Potential recipients include food pantries, homeless shelters, two clinics for the indigent, and a prototype AIDS testing program in Spokane. One of the shelters is Lighthouse. The signature is Richard P. Sayre, Executive Vice President, Detroit. It all looks on the up-and-up, and the fact that all three of them have been invited to the corporation’s Detroit offices to discuss this gift also seems on the up-and-up. The date of the meeting— what will be the date of Donald Callahan’s death— is December 19th, 1983. A Monday.
The name on the letterhead is THE SOBRA CORPORATION.
FIFTEEN
“You went,” Roland said.
“We all went,” Callahan said. “If the invitation had been for me alone, I never would’ve. But, since they were asking for all three of us… and wanted to give us a million dollars… do you have any idea what a million bucks would have meant to a fly-by-night outfit like Home or Lighthouse? Especially during the Reagan years?”
Susannah gave a start at this. Eddie shot her a nakedly triumphant look. Callahan clearly wanted to ask the reason for this byplay, but Roland was twirling his finger in that hurry-up gesture again, and now it really was getting late. Pressing on for midnight. Not that any of Roland’s ka-tet looked sleepy; they were tightly focused on the Pere, marking every word.
“Here is what I’ve come to believe,” Callahan said, leaning forward. “There is a loose league of association between the vampires and the low men. I think if you traced it back, you’d find the roots of their association in the dark land. In Thunderclap.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Roland said. His blue eyes flashed out of his pale and tired face.
“The vampires—those who aren’t Type Ones—are stupid. The low men are smarter, but not by a whole lot.
Otherwise I never would have been able to escape them for as long as I did. But then—finally—someone else took an interest. An agent of the Crimson King, I should think, whoever or whatever he is. The low men were drawn away from me. So were the vampires. There were no posters during those last months, not that I saw; no chalked messages on the sidewalks of West Fort Street or Jefferson Avenue, either. Someone giving the orders, that’s what I think. Someone a good deal smarter. And a million dollars!” He shook his head. A small and bitter smile touched his face. “In the end, that was what blinded me. Nothing but money. ‘Oh yes, but it’s to do good!’ I told myself… and we told each other, of course. ‘It’ll keep us independent for at least five years! No more going to the Detroit City Council, begging with our hats in our hands!’ All true. It didn’t occur to me until later that there’s another truth, very simple: greed in a good cause is still greed.”
“What happened?” Eddie asked.
“Why, we kept our appointment,” the Pere said. His face wore a rather ghastly smile. “The Tishman Building, 982 Michigan Avenue, one of the finest business addresses in the D. December 19th, 4:20 p.m.”
“Odd time for an appointment,” Susannah said.
“We thought so, too, but who questions such minor matters with a million dollars at stake? After some discussion, we agreed with Al—or rather Al’s mother. According to her, one should show up for important appointments five minutes early, no more and no less. So we walked into the lobby of the Tishman Building at 4:10 p.m., dressed in our best, found Sombra Corporation on the directory board, and went on up to the thirty-third floor.”
“Had you checked this corporation out?” Eddie asked.
Callahan looked at him as if to say duh. “According to what we could find in the library, Sombra was a closed corporation—no public stock issue, in other words—that mostly bought other companies. They specialized in high-tech stuff, real estate, and construction. That seemed to be all anyone knew. Assets were a closely guarded secret.”
“Incorporated in the U.S.?” Susannah asked.
“No. Nassau, the Bahamas.”
Eddie started, remembering his days as a cocaine mule and the sallow thing from whom he had bought his last load of dope. “Been there, done that,” he said. “Didn’t see anyone from the Sombra Corporation, though.”
But did he know that was true? Suppose the sallow thing with the British accent worked for Sombra? Was it so hard to believe that they were involved in the dope trade, along with whatever else they were into? Eddie supposed not. If nothing else, it suggested a tie to Enrico Balazar.
“Anyway, they were there in all the right reference books and yearlies,” Callahan said. “Obscure, but there.
And rich. I don’t know exactly what Sombra is, and I’m at least half-convinced that most of the people we saw in their offices on the thirty-third floor were nothing but extras… stage-dressing… but there probably is an actual Sombra Corporation.
“We took the elevator up there. Beautiful reception area— French Impressionist paintings on the walls, what else?—and a beautiful receptionist to go with it. The kind of woman—say pardon, Susannah—if you’re a man, you can almost believe that if you were allowed to touch her breast, you’d live forever.”
Eddie burst out laughing, looked sideways at Susannah, and stopped in a hurry.
“It was 4:17. We were invited to sit down. Which we did, feeling nervous as hell. People came and went.
Every now and then a door to our left would open and we’d see a floor filled with desks and cubicles. Phones ringing, secretaries flitting hither and yon with files, the sound of a big copier. If it was a setup—and I think it was—it was as elaborate as a Hollywood movie. I was nervous about our appointment with Mr. Sayre, but no more than that. Extraordinary, really. I’d been on the run more or less constantly since leaving ‘Salem’s Lot eight years previous, and I’d developed a pretty good early-warning system, but it never so much as chirruped that day. I suppose if you could reach him via the Ouija board, John Dillinger would say much the same about his night at the movies with Anna Sage.
“At 4:19, a young man in a striped shirt and tie that looked just oh so Hugo Boss came out and got us. We were whisked down a corridor past some very upscale offices—with an upscale executive beavering away in every one, so far as I could see— and to double doors at the end of the hall. This was marked conference room. Our escort opened the doors. He said, ‘God luck, gentlemen.’ I remember that very clearly. Not good luck, but god luck. That was when my perimeter alarms started to go off, and by then it was far too late. It happened fast, you see. They didn’t…”
SIXTEEN
It happens fast. They have been after Callahanfor a long time now, but they waste little time gloating. The doors slam shut behind them, much too loudly and hard enough to shiver in their frames. Executive assistants who drag down eighteen thousand a year to start with close doors a certain way— with respect for money and power— and this isn’t it. This is the way angry drunks and addicts on the jones close doors. Also crazy people, of course. Crazy people are ace doorslammers.
Callahan’s alarm systems are fully engaged now, not pinging but howling, and when he looks around the executive conference room, dominated at the far end by a large window giving a terrific view of Lake Michigan, he sees there’s good reason for this and has time to think Dear Christ—Mary, mother of God—
how could I have been so foolish? He can see thirteen people in the room. Three are low men, and this is his first good look at their heavy, unhealthy-looking faces, red-glinting eyes, and full, womanish lips. All three are smoking. Nine are Type Three vampires. The thirteenth person in the conference room is wearing a loud shirt and clashing tie, low-men attire for certain, but his face has a lean and foxy look, full of intelligence and dark humor. On his brow is a red circle of blood that seems neither to ooze nor to clot.
There is a bitter crackling sound. Callahan wheels and sees Al and Ward drop to the floor. Standing to either side of the door through which they entered are numbers fourteen and fifteen, a low man and a low woman, both of them holding electrical stunners.