A two-way radio squawked. Joe saw Barrett unclip it from his belt. He turned away and spoke into it. Joe looked around for an escape route, but even if he could break away from the pair who held him, the lobby area was acrawl with Vichy.
After Barrett finished his call, they led him past the remnants of metal detectors that had been kicked down and smashed, past a newsstand with outdated papers and magazines, a ruined souvenir shop, a deserted Au Bon Pain, then to a bank of elevators with black and chrome doors. Only two cars seemed to be working. The others stood open, dark, and empty. After a short ride with the suit, the beard, and two others to the third floor, Joe was propelled down a hallway to a large, desk-filled room lined with computers and monitors. A few scurvy Vichy lounged around, but three other men, older, more conventionally dressed, worked the equipment. They appeared to be under guard.
"Search him," Barrett said. "And I don't mean just pat him down. Search him. Confiscate any contraband here and dispose of it."
He was hiding nothing, of course. He'd been armed with his silver cross back in Lakewood but that had been stripped from him and left behind.
Barrett's words filtered through to his muddled brain. Confiscate? Contraband? Barrett didn't fit the typical Vichy mold. He dressed like a Wall Street broker and spoke like an educated man. What was he doing here?
BARRETT . . .
James Barrett watched Neal search the priest, making sure he didn't miss anything. Neal was not the brightest bulb in the box.
But he did a good job this time, turning all the priest's pockets inside out, removing his socks and shoes.
"He's clean," Neal said.
"You'd better be sure."
"I'm sure."
They hustled him back down to the first floor for a swift, ear-popping ride toward the top of the building. The red numbers on the readout counted the passing floors by leaps of ten. Barrett had always liked that. It was the way he'd planned his career at Bear Stearns to go: to the top by leaps and bounds. But being a hotshot investment banker these days was like being a poster boy for obsolescence.
He heard Neal chuckle. He was grinning through his beard at the priest and shaking his head. "I'm glad I ain't you. Holy shit, am I glad I ain't you. I don't know what Franco's got planned but it ain't gonna be pretty, I can tell you that."
Barrett watched the priest clench his fists. He was scared. Doing a decent job of hiding it, but not perfect. He looked like he wanted to ask who Franco was but said nothing. Probably afraid his voice would crack or waver and betray his terror.
When the elevator stopped on the eightieth floor, Neal shoved him out.
"Come on, god-boy," Barrett said. "Still one more leg to go."
They guided him around a corner to the other bank. This ride was short— only six floors. At the eighty-sixth they pushed him out into the green marble atrium.
"Hold it right there!" said a voice.
The atrium held half a dozen undead. One of them stepped toward them.
"Ah, shit," Neal muttered. "Fuckin Artemis."
"Who's this?" said the vampire, tall and lean with a ruined left eye that was little more than a lump of scar tissue.
Artemis was head honcho of Franco's security and no one—at least no one living—knew what had happened to that eye. Whatever it was, Barrett hoped it had hurt. Artemis was a grandstanding prick.
"It's the one Franco's been waiting for," Barrett told him.
Artemis's face contorted in fury. "The vigilante priest?" he shouted. "And you bring him here like this?"
"He's been searched, and Franco—"
"I don't give a damn if he's been searched! You don't bring a terrorist up here and leave him a single place to hide anything! Here's how you bring a terrorist to Franco!"
And with that he began tearing at the priest's clothing, ripping it off him. The priest tried to fend him off but Artemis was too strong. Less than a minute later he stood naked in the atrium.
Barrett admired the priest's musculature. Especially his low back. Lots of good meat there. Big filets.
Artemis tossed the shredded clothing at Barrett.
"Now he can see Franco! I'll take it from here. You two get back to your posts."
"We want him when Franco's through with him," Neal said.
Artemis laughed. "Oh, I doubt that. Not in the condition he'll be in."
"Shit," said Neal as the doors pincered closed. "I hate that fuck."
Barrett said nothing. Who knew if the elevator camera was on and this little scene was being taped. Say or do the wrong thing now and you could face repercussions later.
Neal banged his fist against the side wall of the elevator car. "And I hate takin his shit."
So did Barrett. But sometimes that was what you had to put up with to get where you wanted to go. And Barrett knew where he wanted to go: to the top. He'd been on the fast track for advancement at Bear Stearns and he was looking for a way to fast-track himself with the undead. He needed a lever to convince Franco to turn him now instead of later.
He glanced at Neal. Just like the rest of the cowboys. Never a thought past his next meal and his next trip out to one of the cattle farms where he could screw anything in sight. Maybe he occasionally thought of someday, ten years from now, being turned and joining the ranks of the undead.
But ten years was too long for Barrett. He wanted an express route to undeadland. Once he was one of them he knew he could rocket through the ranks. They were all lazy sons of bitches. He'd show them how to get things done. If he could get himself turned, he'd have Franco's job within a year. He knew it.
"Treats us like fuckin dogs," Neal said.
No argument there. But that didn't mean you had to live in a kennel and eat dog food.
Most of the cowboys had moved mattresses into the offices and stayed right here in the Empire State Building. It was convenient, had light and power, and was safer than living outside where you could be bushwhacked by some angry living or one of the more feral undead who wouldn't be deterred by your earring.
James Barrett deserved better. He had an elegant Murray Hill brownstone all to himself. He'd hooked up a generator to power lights, a refrigerator, and an electric stove. The stove was important. It allowed him to indulge in his new passion: cooking.
Barrett had recognized long ago that there were two ways of living your life: as predator or as prey. He'd decided early on that he'd be a predator. And predators ate meat. One problem, though, was the lack of meat since the undead had taken over. Or so he'd thought until he realized that there was plenty of fresh meat to be had. Every night he and the cowboys were called upon to dispose of a new round of bloodless corpses. It had occurred to him what a shame it was to waste all that good red meat.
Long pork, as human flesh was known in certain parts of the world, was really quite tasty. He'd learned to butcher the meatier corpses and now had a good supply of steaks in his freezer.
But meaty corpses were harder and harder to come by these days. That was why it was such a shame to let someone like that priest go to waste.
But who knew? Maybe there'd be something salvageable left after Franco got through with him.
Somehow, though, he doubted it.
JOE . . .
Joe's knees felt soft and he almost stumbled as the scar-faced vampire pushed him up a short flight of steps. What were they planning for him? He wanted to shout that he wasn't a vigilante and didn't know who they were, but that would simply give them a good laugh.