"Why?"
"Maybe He's given you these extra two hours as an edge over the undead. Two hours during which you can move about while they can't."
Joe thought about that. Two hours ... if he was going to make a strike against the undead, those two hours offered the perfect windows. He didn't know about God Himself arranging this, but he knew a good thing when he saw it. He was not going to waste this advantage.
"I like the way you think, Carole. But first we need an agenda. And the first thing on that agenda should be contacting the church and letting those people know I'm still alive."
"But you can't let them see you like this, or let them know you—"
"Absolutely not. We'll have to think of something that'll keep them together and fighting on without me. Because I'll be fighting my own war. I want to take the fight to the undead, get in their faces and hit them where it will really hurt: New York."
Yes. Franco. He wanted to see that smug son of a bitch again—and when he did, it would be on his terms, not Franco's.
"What's this about 'my' war?" Lacey said. Joe turned to see her standing behind them, rubbing her eyes. "This is our fight too, Unk."
He smiled. "I could use the help, but..."
The thought of either of these two precious people getting hurt because of him ... he couldn't go there.
"But what?" Lacey said. "You're afraid we'll get killed or something? I figure we're as good as dead if we do nothing, so we might as well go down doing something. Better than sitting on our asses and waiting for the ax to fall."
Carole rolled her eyes. "You have such a way with words."
Lacey shrugged. "Am I right or am I right?"
Joe had to admit she was right. He faced the reddened, swollen sun as it neared the rooftops. He could look at it now, and it barely heated his skin.
"Okay then," he said. "But we'll have to run this like a military operation."
"Does that mean you want to be made general?" Lacey said through another yawn.
"No. Carole's the most experienced. She should be our general."
Carole waved her hands. "Oh, no. Not me."
Lacey squinted at him. "You know much about military operations?"
"Not a thing. But I figure we need reconnaissance and intelligence. And most of all, we need to practice before we head for New York."
Lacey nodded. "Sort of like an out-of-town tryout before hitting Broadway, right?"
"Right. And I think the local nests can provide just the sort of rehearsals we'll need."
LACEY . . .
"We have to tell the parishioners something" Joe said. "Any ideas?"
Lacey watched him, looking for the first signs of what she knew must come. They were back in the bungalow, seated around the cocktail table in the same places as last night. A single candle set on the glass top lit their faces.
"Why don't we tell them the truth?" Carole said.
Lacey shook her head. "This is one case where the truth shall not set them free. Besides, it's too . .. complicated."
"How about a form of the truth?" Joe said. "We'll tell them that the vampires attacked me, tried to turn me, but failed. I survived but I'm badly hurt. I need time to recover and until I do... until I'm back to my old self"— which will be never, he thought grimly—"I've got to stay out of sight."
"Right," Lacey said, liking the idea. "You're in hiding until you heal up because they're out there looking for you, trying to finish the job they started."
"Works for me," Joe said. "How about you, Carole?"
"Well..." She frowned. "It's not exactly true."
"But it's not exactly false," he said.
She shrugged. "I've no objection, but if I were in their place I'd be wondering why you wouldn't want to heal up among them ... safety in numbers and all that."
Joe didn't answer. All of a sudden he seemed distracted. Lacey watched his right hand trail down to his abdomen and press on it.
Her heart sank. The hunger ... it was starting.
She force-fed brightness into her tone. "We'll just say that you feel it's safer to stay away. Your presence there might trigger an assault on the church, causing unnecessary casualties. When you're fully healed you'll return. But till then they must be brave and vigilant and keep up the fight, blah-blah-blah."
Joe nodded absently, both hands over his stomach now. "Good . . . sounds good."
Carole said, "Then the next question is, how do we get this message to them?"
Lacey kept her eyes on her uncle. "How about a letter, hand written by their Father Joe himself? You and I could 'find' it and read it to the parishioners."
Carole shook her head. "They don't know his handwriting. Some of them will think it's a fake. Doubt will spread, ruining the whole plan."
Carole was right. Lacey searched for an alternative. She thought of having Joe sneak up to the church at night and speak from the shadows to someone he trusted—Carl, maybe—but discarded the idea. Too chancy. Too many ways it could backfire, especially if anyone caught sight of his ruined face. They'd think he was an impostor.
Then it came to her, so obvious she kicked herself for not thinking of it immediately.
"We'll tape you! All we need is to get hold of a little cassette recorder and have you record your message. We leave it at the church for someone to find. It'll have a note saying it's from you. They'll play it and recognize your voice. No doubters then."
Carole nodded. "Brilliant. I know a Radio Shack not far from here that ought to have a cassette recorder."
Lacey looked at Joe. His teeth were clenched. He didn't seem to be listening. She grabbed the flashlight and headed for the bathroom. Not that there was any water pressure in the town's system to make the bathroom useful for its intended functions, but she needed to be away from Carole. She placed the flashlight on the glass shelf under the medicine cabinet. . . next to the steak knife she'd left here earlier just for this purpose.
Picking up the knife, she called, "Uncle Joe? Could you come in here a sec?"
When she heard him approaching, she bit her lip and sliced the pad of her left index finger. She jumped with the pain, almost dropping the knife.
Damn, that hurt!
She placed the knife in the sink and cupped her right hand under the finger.