HOLY SATURDAY . . .
Carole awoke to the wail of sirens. She sat up in bed, blinking in the morning light.
A dream . . . please, God, show me that last night was all a dream.
But her throat tightened at the sight of Bernadette's empty mattress on the floor beside her bed. No ... not a dream. A living nightmare.
She'd stayed up till dawn, then she'd pulled the bedspread from the window and fallen into exhausted sleep.
The sirens. . . closer now. She crept to the window and peeked at the street below. Two police cars, red and blue lights flashing, roared past the front of the convent and made squealing turns into the church parking lot.
The police! They've come!
Carole rose and hurried across the hall to Bern's room in time to see them slow to a stop before the church.
Thank you, God, she thought. All is not lost. The police are still on the job.
Before pushing away from the window she searched the lawn to the left of the church for the remains of the vampire she'd killed last night. A bright, clear, unconscionably beautiful morning, with a high trail of brown smoke drifting from the east. She couldn't find the vampire, but she spotted Bernadette's wooden cross lying in a man-shaped puddle of brown ooze on the grass. Could that be all that remained of—?
Can't worry about that now, she thought as she dashed back into the hall and down the rear stairs. She had to get to the police, tell them about Bernadette. They'd take her to a morgue or a funeral home where Carole could arrange for a proper burial.
She reached the rear door and had just turned back the deadbolt when she glanced through the glass. The sight of a lean, wolfish man, all in denim, uncoiling from the front passenger seat of the first car froze her heart. He settled a cowboy hat over his long brown hair and looked around, smirking as if he owned the world. A tattooed blond woman in a leather vest got out of the driver seat while two more men in rough clothes slithered from the second car. The first wore his long black hair in a single braid down the middle of his back; the second was sandy haired and balding, wearing a scraggly beard to compensate for what he'd lost on his scalp. All four wore wraparound sunglasses and had silvery earrings dangling from their right lobes.
Carole ducked away from the door and jammed her hands against her mouth. She'd seen these people before, last night, leading the caravan of trucks carrying the undead into town. It seemed so long ago, a lifetime. But this could only mean that the police had lost. The undead and their caretakers were in control now.
But what were they doing here at St. Anthony's?
She crept away from the door and down the hall toward the kitchen. The windows over the sink looked out toward the church. She could watch from there and see without being seen. She needed to know what they were up to. She leaned over the big double sink and cranked the window open an inch or two, just enough to hear what they were saying.
She sniffed the air that wafted through the opening. Something burning somewhere. .. smelled like some sort of meat. She glanced at the brown smoke trailing across the sky. Could that be—?
A car door slammed. She watched the one in the cowboy hat heft a crowbar as he walked from his police car to the side door of the church. Swinging it like a baseball bat he started bashing the hooked end against the doorknob. The clang of metal on metal echoed like a church bell through the eerie silence of the morning. Then he reversed his grip and rammed the tip of the long end between the door and the frame. A few hard yanks and the door popped open.
The woman and the two other men ran inside while the cowboy returned to the police car. He leaned against the fender and lit a cigarette; he carelessly bounced the crowbar against the hood, denting it with every bounce.
A few minutes later the two other men emerged, dragging Father Palmeri between them. The priest had a bloody nose and was blubbering in fear, begging them to let him go.
The sandy-haired man laughed. "Found him hiding in the basement! Lookit him! Peed his pants!"
Carole shook her head in dismay when she saw the darker stain on Father
Palmeri's black cassock. God forgive her, she'd never liked the man, and after last night when he could have saved Bernadette simply by letting her into the church, well, she liked him even less. He was a man of God. He was supposed to set an example.
Then the woman appeared. She'd draped herself in Father Palmeri's long white chasuble and came out dancing and skipping behind the whimpering priest.
Carole felt her anger begin to boil. How dare this . . . this tramp sully holy vestments like that. It was sacrilege.
"You like basements, priest?" the cowboy said, grinning. "Good. 'Cause you're gonna be seeing a lot of them from now on."
Carole's stomach dropped. What did that mean? Were they going to turn him into a vampire? Oh, no. They couldn't do that. Not to a priest.
She had to help him, but what could she do? She was one woman and there were four of them. She watched as they locked Father Palmeri in the caged rear compartment of one of the cars. Then they started toward the convent, the cowboy in the lead, the crowbar on his shoulder.
No! Not here! Not now! And she'd unlocked the door.
Hide! The basement? No. She had to pass the rear door to reach it. They'd see her for sure. She could make it to the second floor but couldn't think of anyplace to hide up there.
She did a quick turn and her gaze came to rest on the big institutional-size oven to her left. She yanked down the door and looked inside. Could she fit? Maybe, maybe not. But even if she did fit, the plate glass window in the door would give her away. But no. A closer look showed that it was fogged with baked-on grease. Bless old Sister Mary Margaret's bad eyes. Last week was her turn to clean the oven. She never did a good job, for which Carole was now grateful.
Moving as quickly as she could without causing a racket, she slid out the two metal racks and slipped them between the oven and the neighboring cabinet. She pulled a long-handled metal spatula from the wall rack and bent the end into an acute angle. Then she sidled into the close space, her flannel nightgown sticking to the grease-splattered surfaces, and tucked her knees against her chest.
She fit. Barely. Now to get the door closed. She reached out with the spatula, hooked its bent end around the upper edge of the oven door, and pulled. It barely budged. These old oven doors were heavy. Straining her muscles, she managed to pull it a quarter of the way closed when the spatula slipped off. The door fell back with a clank.
She felt her heart kick into a higher gear as she tried again. The cowboy and his gang would be walking in any—
She heard the back door slam open and a woman's voice say, "Nice of them to leave the place unlocked."
"Probably means it's empty," said a voice she recognized as the cowboy's. "Check it out anyway. See if we can put a nun on Gregor's plate, too"
The woman snickered. "Yeah! A priest-and-nun combo platter!"
"A three-way!" someone else said.
Lots of laughter at that. But for Carole, only terror clawing at her gut. She had to close this door. Now.
She stretched out and again hooked the spatula end over the edge. The handle slipped in her sweaty palm. She tightened her grip and began to pull.
"I'll take this floor," said the cowboy's voice. "Al, you and Kenny check out upstairs. Jackie, you take the basement."
Carole heard feet moving, some away, some pounding up the stairs, and one set moving closer, toward the kitchen. The oven door was a third of the way up now. Her arm was aching. If only she could use both hands. She set her teeth and gave the door a yank. To her shock it snapped toward her once it passed the halfway mark and she had to release the spatula to keep it from slamming shut. She eased it closed just as someone walked into the room.
Carole closed her eyes and shuddered with relief, but that vanished when she opened them again and saw the spatula still hooked on the door.
She stifled a bleat of terror. The business end was sticking outside.
She looked through the grimy glass and saw a pair of denim-clad legs enter the kitchen and stop directly before the oven. The cowboy—had he spotted the spatula?
Sweet Jesus, don't let him see it!
Carole almost wept when the legs moved on.
"Let's see what we got here," she heard him say.
She heard cabinet doors swing open, heard their contents hit the floor, heard drawers pulled from their slots and dropped. He couldn' t be looking for a person—not in those spaces. What was he after?
"Ay, here we go."