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and then I saw one of those very ancient churches, churches that
went back to the Dutch days of Manhattan, with a little fenced
graveyard attached to it with stones that would read awesome statistics
such as 1704, or even 1692.
It was a Gothic treasure of a building, a tiny bit of the glory of St.
Patrick's, and possibly even more intricate and mysterious, a
welcome sight for all its detail and organization and conviction amid the
big-city blandness and wastes.
I sat on the church steps, rather liking the carved surfaces of the
broken arches, rather liking to sink back in the darkness against
sanctified stone.
I realized very carefully that the Stalker was nowhere about, that
tonight's deeds had brought me no visits from another realm, or
horifying footsteps, that the great granite statue had been inanimate,
and that I still had Roger's identification in my pocket, and this
would give Dora weeks, perhaps even months, before her peace of
mind was disturbed by her father's disappearance, and she would now
never know the details.
So much for that. The end of the adventure. I felt better, far better
than when I'd spoken with David. Going back, looking at that
monstrous granite thing, it had been the perfect thing to do.
Only problem was that Roger's stench clung to me. Roger. He'd
been "the Victim" until when? Now I was calling him Roger. Was
that emblematic of love? Dora called him Roger and Daddy and
Roge and Dad. "Darling, this is Roge," he'd say to her from Istanbul.
"Can you meet me in Florida, just for a few days. I have to talk to
you...."
I pulled out the phony identification. The wind was harsh and
cold, but no more snow, and the snow that was on the ground was
hardening. No mortal would have sat here like this, in this shallow
high broken arch of a church door, but I liked it.
I looked at this fake passport. Actually it was a complete set of
false papers, some of which I didn't understand. There was a visa for
Egypt. Smuggling from there, no doubt! And the name Wynken
made me smile again because it is one of those names that makes even
children laugh when they hear it. Wynken, Blinken, and Nod.
Wasn't that the poem?
It was a simple matter to tear all this into tiny fragments, and let it
blow away into the night, over the tiny upright stones of the small
graveyard. What a gust. It went like ashes, as if his identity had been
cremated and the final tribute was being paid.
I felt weary, full of blood, satisfied, and foolish now for having
been so afraid when I talked to David. David no doubt thought I was
a fool. But what had I really ascertained? Only that the Thing
stalking me wasn't particularly protective of Roger, the Victim, or had
nothing to do with Roger. Hadn't I already known this? It didn't
mean the Stalker was gone.
It just meant the Stalker chose his own moments and maybe they
had nothing to do with what I did.
I admired the little church. How priceless and ornate and
incongruous among the other buildings of lower Manhattan, except that
nothing in this strange city is exactly incongruous anymore because
the mix of Gothic and ancient and modern is so very thick. The
nearby street sign said Wall Street.
Was I at the very foot of Wall Street? I rested back against the
stones, closed my eyes. David and I would confer tomorrow night.
And what of Dora? Did Dora sleep like an angel in her bed in the
hotel opposite the cathedral? Would I forgive myself if I took one last
secret, safe, forlorn peek at Dora in her bed before letting go of the
whole adventure? Over.
Best to get the idea of the little girl out of my mind; forget the
figure moving through the huge dark corridors of that empty New
Orleans convent with the electric torch in hand, brave Dora. Not at
all like the last mortal woman I'd loved. No, forget about it. Forget
about it, Lestat, you hear me?
The world was full of potential victims, when you began to think
in terms of an entire life pattern, an ambience to an existence, a
complete personality, so to speak. Maybe I'd go back down to Miami if I
could get David to go with me. Tomorrow night David and I could
talk.
Of course he might be thoroughly annoyed that I'd sent him to
seek refuge in the Olympic Tower and was now ready to move south.
But then maybe we wouldn't move south.
I became acutely aware that if I heard those footsteps now, if I
sensed the Stalker, I'd be trembling tomorrow night in David's arms.
The Stalker didn't care where I went. And the Stalker was real.
Black wings, the sense of something dark accumulating, thick
smoke, and the light. Don't dwell on it. You have done enough
gruesome thinking for one night, haven't you?
When would I spot another mortal like Roger? When would I see
another light shining that bright? And the son of a bitch talking to
me through it all, talking through the swoon! Talking to me! And
managing to make that statue look alive somehow with some feeble
telepathic impulse, damn him. I shook my head. Had I brought that
on? Had I done something different?
By tracking Roger for months had I come to love him so much
that I was talking to him as I killed him, in some soundless sonnet of
devotion? No. I was just drinking and loving him, and taking him
into myself. Roger in me.
A car came slowly through the darkness, stopping beside me.
Mortals who wanted to know if I needed shelter. I gave a wave of my
head, turned, crossed the little graveyard, stepping on grave after
grave as I made my way through the headstones, and was off towards [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]