PART 4
CAPTURE THE TREMENDOUS

Chapter 12

October 22, 1971 - Friday
Collinwood

Burke struck before sunrise.

Collinwood hulked in the dark, its massive shape a black more dense than the gloom surrounding it. There was nobody to witness the approach of the man who came there except the trees, their skeletal branches gently creaking in the wind.

In the blackness, he hit aggressively against the doors of Collinwood until Roger wrenched them open, apoplectic.

"Devlin!" he shouted. Caught by surprise, he plunged his hand into the pocket of his bathrobe, fingers scrabbling for the big cross he carried there. Forgetting the one that hung at his neck.

Burke thrust him aside without looking at him and strode into the shadowy foyer.

Roger was disheveled with sleep, his hair standing untidily all about his head. "Get out!" he demanded, following the intruder. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Damned if I know," Burke sighed. He dropped a sack onto the tabletop, contents jangling. "Do me a favor and get the kids up, and Maggie, and whoever else slaves away for you in this house."

"Do you actually expect me to waken the household at this hour, at your command?" Roger cried. His hands fisted at his sides, he hurried to the door and slammed it shut, locking it. "It's, it's" — turning to glare at the grandfather clock— "four-twenty in the morning!"

"Sure," Burke replied wearily. "Here I am before sunup. Get them down here, or we'll go upstairs to them. I'll help you. There's David, and then how many little girls? Three?"

"Explain yourself instantly," said the imperious Roger, "or I'll phone the sheriff and have you …"

His sentence dried up in his throat as Burke simply stared at him, and for a second, the silence was electric.

"You'll have me what, thrown into prison?" Burke finished for him, his features darkening. "You're a piece of work, Collins. You're the lousiest person I know, and yet here I am, like an idiot, trying to help you. I don't give a damn what happens to you, but I won't see David unprotected, or Maggie, or the rest of them. Not after what Barnabas and Julia said has happened to Liz. Look here."

He seized the sack and upended it. Roger snapped on the electric candelabra and came to join the other man, blinking at what was on the table. Despite himself, his anger vanished as he gazed.

Before them on the table was a tangled assemblage of rosaries, crosses and crucifixes. Some were made of wood, others of metal. All displayed different craftwork and glittering ornamentation. Some of the holy articles were on leather thongs, others on fine or heavy chain. Roger marveled. There were literally pounds of religious implements here.

"Where did you get all this?" he asked.

"South America," Burke said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Some were blessed by the Pope. Good people gave these to me, and later I collected one or two myself, after a bad run of luck down there."

Watching Burke pick through the holy objects, Roger realized, with sinking spirits, that there was no way Burke could be the vampire. Here he was like Santa Claus, delivering a bag of sacred relics to Collinwood. He could see a chain around Burke's neck from which a cross presumably hung. Roger and the others had planned to swarm the Inn a few hours from now, intent upon catching Burke in an undead sleep. Plans would have to change. He bit his lip. He wasn't sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed.

"Go get everybody, or I'm going upstairs myself," Burke warned him again, throwing him a disfavoring glance. Roger decided to show Burke his cross; he reached into the throat of his robe and pulled it out, warm on the chain he wore about his neck, and dangled it before the other man, who glanced at it.

"Everyone's protected already," he said softly. "There are nine people in the house, each wearing a cross. We saw to it last night."

Burke rested against the foyer table and studied Roger speculatively. After a moment he said, "You didn't instigate that yourself. Your pride would have strangled you first. Stokes made you do it."

Roger ignored the barb. "He did. Until this abomination is put down, we will wear the cross."

"Well," the other sighed, "I've got one on also, and a St. Jude medal." Silently, he brought his hand to his collar and tented his fingers beneath the chain of the thick silver cross that had been hanging inside his shirt. "I don't know. If you people are serious about there being monsters in Collinsport maybe we ought to put out a public notice." He leaned over, actively searching through the jewelry. Roger came close and also looked down on the multiple chains and crosses.

"I have two here that are special," Burke muttered. "One's for Davey and the other's for Maggie. They can wear these on top of whatever else they've got." He drew the two necklaces toward himself on the tabletop, separating them carefully from the rest of the pile and poking them with his finger.

"These were blessed by devout men. This one for David, I thought; anyway, I had him in mind when I picked it up. And the little one for Maggie. It's rather exquisite."

"It is," Roger agreed quietly, studying the other man. "I don't understand why you're here in the dead of night. Can you explain?"

Burke looked at him with glinting eyes. "The matter is relatively urgent," he said wryly. "Would you have listened to me if maybe I'd called you up on the phone? You'd have heard my voice and hung up. I wasn't going to waste my time, and I couldn't rest until I knew that Davey and Maggie at least were protected. Waiting til the sun was up sort of defeats the purpose. So I dug out my Brazil stuff and drove over."

"Well, look," Roger said awkwardly, one hand to the stubble on his chin, "perhaps you want to speak to Stokes. We've investigated several people we thought might be the vampire, and we seem to be down to one last person: a painter named Kim Jansing. There is apparently a dangerous young woman in town also; Stokes is certain that she, too, is a vampire. We think that they are somehow connected. If you're serious about helping, Stokes will probably want you with us."

Burke nodded. "And I might go. So you, Barnabas and Stokes are the vampire hunters? If there's room, I'll be glad to be in on destroying the thing."

Roger paused as Burke began scooping the jewelry back into the bag.

"How strange to think," Roger remarked, feeling the need to reach out to Burke, "that you and I have hunted together before. More than once, in fact. There was a time when we stood in this very hallway, loading rifles against a common enemy. Do you remember?"

Burke looked away. "Are you sure? Seems to me that if you and I were both armed, one of us would've had his guts blown out."

He stopped fiddling with the bag and leaned once more against the table. "If you and Stokes think you know who hurt Liz, then you're damned right I want to be in on bringing him down. We're supposed to wait til sunup in case the guy's some kind of vampire, is that it?" He scrubbed his face with his hands. "Well, I'm glad I came over here when I did. No use trying to sleep with so much on my mind. I think Veronika's going to prescribe me some sleeping pills so that I can get my nights back on track."

Roger tried to overlook Burke's using his fiancée's first name. "Well, probably the best thing for you."

"Yes," Burke said absently, then straightened. He leveled his dark eyes at Roger. "I did get in one good night this week. Not this past night; the night before. One good night. My absolute best, in fact," he said slowly.

Roger returned the man's stare. What did he care that Burke had had a good night's sleep?

"Twice," Burke concluded softly, holding Roger's gaze, "meaning that I had a fantastic sleep, woke up refreshed, and then ... had it again. But it was just that one night."

Roger stared back.

"We none of us can have it perfect all the time," Burke said softly.

"No," Roger returned. He had the brief, niggling feeling that he was missing something. "No, I don't suppose any of us can."

The crypt, before sunrise.

Elizabeth.

Alone on her cot, she watched the air around her begin to prickle.

Darkness encroached at the very outer tips of her vision; two pools of transparent black, one on either side of her. She tried not to move her eyes, as she didn't want anything to interrupt the sublimity of this moment.

She could barely perceive the cones of black about her, but then little stars began to blink slowly and luridly in each. She could feel both vacuums of space, feel them with her eyes and her nipples and her belly. She calmly knew that this vision was demonic, and also knew that this was the reason she had been born. To twine into the Master. To be baptized into the infernal heaven of nightmare that made her forget she had given birth to Carolyn or had loved her nephew David. She had no memory of Cary Olivo, the man who passionately cherished her.

Eyelids lowered, eyes almost closed, she replayed the memory of how her veins had shaken at the pull of the Beloved's sweet mouth on her neck.

Slow flushes of ecstasy pulsed in her at random. Wanting to feel them again and again, she didn't move.

Little comets made deranged orbits in the transparent black circles about her.

Elizabeth knew that only she could see them, and exulted in what remained of her soul.

The vampire materialized before the women in the crypt. All three stood, the grief of their need in their eyes. They would not approach unless beckoned.

There was very little time; sunrise was imminent.

As the first chosen, Elizabeth spoke. "They were here to sprinkle salt in front of the entrances," she eagerly told the Master, her eyes glittering strangely. "We worked together and swept it all away—it's over there beneath that cot. And they left crosses, but we took our shoes in our hands and used them to push the crosses away. They're covered by that blanket."

"Master," Angelique begged softly. "We are frightened at being trapped here, unable to come when you call. You can do anything, won't you take us with you?" The monster stared at her lovingly, and Angelique grew calm. "If you want us to remain here," she continued in uncertainty, "we will." She bowed her head in submission.

Feeling the vampire's magnificent eyes on her, Julia Hoffman lifted her tired head.

There was no way she could express all the love she felt. She wanted to wade deep into the thrashing darkness, be caught up and fully embraced by this Beloved, for all time. Julia's mind had lost Barnabas. No other love had ever touched her being with such force, except once.

Once, she had been the slave of the vampire Tom Jennings. That devotion had been as strong.

When she spoke, she tried to keep her voice level and not betray the galvanic need to surrender her blood.

Words failed her. She did the best that she could.

"Do it to me again," she implored, unable to think beyond desire. Her voice was dull. "Do it to me again."

The demon took care of each of them and then drew back a little, smiling.

"It is well," she whispered.