Darkfall

softly, “You sure aren’t easy, baby.”
    On his desk were two books about voodoo, which he had checked out of the library yesterday. He stared at them for a long moment, then decided he needed to learn more about Bocors and Houngons before tomorrow morning. He put on his coat and gloves, picked up the books, tucked them under one arm, and went down to the subterranean garage, beneath the building.
    Because he and Rebecca were now in charge of the emergency task force, they were entitled to perquisites beyond the reach of ordinary homicide detectives, including the full-time use of an unmarked police sedan for each of them, not just during duty hours but around the clock. The car assigned to Jack was a one-year-old, sour-green Chevrolet that bore a few dents and more than a few scratches. It was the totally stripped-down model, without options or luxuries of any kind, just a get-around car, not a racer-and-chaser. The motor pool mechanics had even put the snow chains on the tires. The heap was ready to roll.
    He backed out of the parking space, drove up the ramp to the street exit. He stopped and waited while a city truck, equipped with a big snowplow and a salt spreader and lots of flashing lights, passed by in the storm-thrashed darkness.
    In addition to the truck, there were only two other vehicles on the street. The storm virtually had the night to itself. Yet, when the truck was gone and the way was clear, Jack still hesitated.
    He switched on the windshield wipers.
    To head toward Rebecca’s apartment, he would have to turn left.
    To go to the Jamisons’ place, he ought to turn right.
    The wipers flogged back and forth, back and forth, left, right, left, right.
    He was eager to be with Penny and Davey, eager to hug them, to see them warm and alive and smiling.
    Right, left, right.
    Of course, they weren’t in any real danger at the moment. Even if Lavelle was serious when he threatened them, he wouldn’t make his move this soon, and he wouldn’t know where to find them even if he did want to make his move.
    Left, right, left.
    They were perfectly safe with Faye and Keith. Besides, Jack had told Faye that he probably wouldn’t make it for dinner; she was already expecting him to be late.
    The wipers beat time to his indecision.
    Finally he took his foot off the brake, pulled into the street, and turned left.
    He needed to talk to Rebecca about what had happened between them last night. She had avoided the subject all day. He couldn’t allow her to continue to dodge it. She would have to face up to the changes that last night had wrought in both their lives, major changes which he welcomed wholeheartedly but about which she seemed, at best, ambivalent.
    Along the edges of the car roof, wind whistled hollowly through the metal heading, a cold and mournful sound.
    Crouching in deep shadows by the garage exit, the thing watched Jack Dawson drive away in the unmarked sedan.
    Its shining silver eyes did not blink even once.
    Then, keeping to the shadows, it crept back into the deserted, silent garage.
    It hissed. It muttered. It gobbled softly to itself in an eerie, raspy little voice.
    Finding the protection of darkness and shadows wherever it wished to go-even where there didn’t seem to have been shadows only a moment before-the thing slunk from car to car, beneath and around them, until it came to a drain in the garage floor. It descended into the midnight regions below.
    IV
    Lavelle was nervous.
    Without switching on any lamps, he stalked restlessly through his house, upstairs and down, back and forth, looking for nothing, simply unable to keep still, always moving in deep darkness but never bumping into furniture or doorways, pacing as swiftly and surely as if the rooms were all brightly lighted. He wasn’t blind in darkness, never the least disoriented. Indeed, he was at home in shadows. Darkness, after all, was a part of him.
    Usually, in either darkness or light, he was supremely confident and self-assured. But now, hour by hour, his self-assurance was steadily crumbling.
    His nervousness had bred uneasiness. Uneasiness had given birth to fear. He was unaccustomed to fear. He didn’t know quite how to handle it. So the fear made him even more nervous.
    He was worried about Jack Dawson. Perhaps it had been a grave mistake to allow Dawson time to consider his options. A man like the detective might put that time to good use.
    If he senses that I’m even slightly afraid of him, Lavelle thought, and