He gave the leash a yank and headed east on Louisiana Avenue. His route never varied: a few blocks down New Jersey, a block west on New York, and then a couple more back up Ohio Avenue and home. It was a short run: five minutes, as long as Deuce didn’t get too busy sniffing some other dog’s mess.
As he made the turn onto New Jersey Avenue, he saw the Deloach boys sitting on their front porch in the dark. A strong smell of weed drifted toward him, followed by some whispering, giggling, and then finally, a falsetto voice: “Nice hamster you got there, Mr. O’Herlihy.”
Peckerwoods. He ignored them and picked up his pace a little, forcing Deuce into a trot.
He should start taking a cigarette with him on these walks. That would make it enjoyable, at least. Take tonight, for instance: Molly would be down at New Jerusalem until at least ten, planning for the upcoming game night and silent auction. But no: she’d smell it on his breath when she came home.
He could see the intersection with New York Avenue ahead. Deuce stopped to investigate a big-ass turd, but Terry was in no mood and yanked him away. “No fun tonight, boy.” At this rate, he’d make it home in a hot minute.
The wind shifted, and suddenly he heard more noise. But this wasn’t coming from downtown: it seemed to be coming from the direction of the cemetery. And it wasn’t cheering and clapping: it sounded more like screams.
As he stared curiously in that direction, he saw a dark cloud rise up into the heavy sky. But clouds didn’t rise like that. And clouds didn’t have wings.
Deuce began squeaking and barking hysterically, jerking on the leash. But Terry didn’t notice. He was staring at the thing in the sky.
Skeletal wings beating slowly, it rose up, glowing a pale blue in the ghostly light of the moon. Even from this distance, he could see it had a body like a dry leather sack. As Terry watched, it hovered briefly, then—flap, flap—it glided over the Placentia Canal. It circled the industrial area hard by the cemetery, its hideous little head moving this way and that as if searching for something. And then, quite abruptly, it veered away and shot off like an arrow.
It was headed for downtown.
Terry watched until it vanished in the smoky late-spring night. Even when it was gone, he remained still for a moment. Then he shuffled around and made his way—slowly, stiff-legged—through people’s backyards and driveways in a beeline for his own house. The moment he opened the door, Deuce shot inside and burrowed under the couch. Still, Terry paid him no heed. He headed past the living room, down a hallway, and into the spare bedroom. In the back of the closet, he found the loose panel of veneer and reached into the space behind it. He felt around, grabbed the carton of cigarettes, and pulled it out. But he tossed it aside, reached in again, and found a bottle of Old Overholt. Ignoring the cigarettes, he made his way back to the living room couch, sat down, and—cracking open the bottle—began sipping slowly and meditatively as the distant sounds of the night began to change.
62
PENDERGAST HAD TAKEN THE notebook off the worktable and was consulting it. Now he held it in his left hand, open for reference, while with his right he gently grasped a lever that rested on two metal supports. Beside it was a large meter with a black dial.
“That doesn’t look like an on switch to me,” said Coldmoon.
“It’s called a knife switch. Primitive, and it will easily electrocute the careless user.” He consulted the notebook again. “It would be advisable if you both stepped back. I believe that whatever is going to manifest itself will do so in the space you’re currently occupying—where those two giant electrodes are pointing.” And he indicated the polished steel wands, each topped with a small copper globe.
Coldmoon hastily stepped back, followed by Constance.
“This”—Pendergast indicated a dial on the face of the machine, with two hand-drawn tick marks labeled I and II—“would seem to indicate a choice of power levels. We shall start with the lower of the two.”
“Are you sure about this?” Coldmoon asked.
“Not entirely.” Pendergast gingerly swung the knife switch over to the opposite bracket. There was a loud spark when it made contact, and then a low vibration began. Pendergast stepped back and joined them at the far wall, and together they watched the machine warm up. A computer monitor winked into life, and various data began scrolling up several windows.
Coldmoon felt his heart pounding. He didn’t think it was a good idea to just turn the damn machine on like that. But he had no alternate suggestion to make. And besides, there was no point—there never was—in arguing with Pendergast.