seem to need something a little stronger than apple cider."
FOURTEEN
There's an old tradition at Lighthouse, one that goes back… jeez, must be all of four years (The Lighthouse
Shelter has only been in existence for five). It's Thanksgiving in the gym of Holy Name High School on West
Congress Street. A bunch of the drunks decorate the place with orange and brown crepe paper, cardboard
turkeys, plastic fruit and vegetables. American reap-charms, in other words. You had to have at least two
weeks' continuous sobriety to get on this detail. Also—this is something Ward Huckman, Al McCowan, and
Don Callahan have agreed to among themselves—no wet brains are allowed on Decoration Detail, no
matter how long they've been sober.
On Turkey Day, nearly a hundred of Detroit's finest alkies, hypes, and half-crazed homeless gather at Holy
Name for a wonderful dinner of turkey, taters, and all the trimmings. They are seated at a dozen long tables
in the center of the basketball court (the legs of the tables are protected by swags of felt, and the diners eat in
their stocking feet). Before they dig in—this is part of the custom—they go swiftly around the tables ("Take
more than ten seconds, boys, and I'm cutting you off, " Al has warned) and everyone says one thing they're
grateful for. Because it's Thanksgiving, yes, but also because one of the principal tenets of the AA program is
that a grateful alcoholic doesn't get drunk and a grateful addict doesn't get stoned.
It goes fast, and because Callahan is just sitting there, not thinking of anything in particular, when it's his
turn he almost blurts out something that could have caused him trouble. At the very least, he would have
been tabbed as a guy with a bizarre sense of humor.
"I'm grateful I haven't…" he begins, then realizes what he's about to say, and bites it back. They're looking at
him expectantly, stubble-faced men and pale, doughy women with limp hair, all carrying about them the
dirty-breeze subway station aroma that's the smell of the streets. Some already call him Faddah, and how do
they know ? How could they know ? And how would they feel if they knew what a chill it gives him to hear
that? How it makes him remember the Hitler Brothers and the sweet, childish smell of fabric softener? But
they're looking at him. "The clients. " Ward and Al are looking at him, too.
"I'm grateful I haven't had a drink or a drug today," he says, falling back on the old faithful, there's always
that to be grateful for. They murmur their approval, the man next to Callahan says he's grateful his sister's
going to let him come for Christmas, and no one knows how close Callahan has come to saying "I'm grateful
I haven't seen any Type Three vampires or lost-pet posters lately."
He thinks it's because God has taken him back, at least on a trial basis, and the power of Barlow's bite has
finally been cancelled. He thinks he's lost the cursed gift of seeing, in other words. He doesn't test this by
trying to go into a church, however—the gym of Holy Name High is close enough for him, thanks. It never
occurs to him—at least in his conscious mind—that they want to make sure the net's all the way around him
this time. They may be slow learners, Callahan will eventually come to realize, but they're not no learners.
Then, in early December, Ward Huckman receives a dream letter. "Christmas done come early, Don! Wait'll
you see this, Al!" Waving the letter triumphantly. "Play our cards right, and boys, our worries about next
year are over!"
Al McCowan takes the letter, and as he reads it his expression of conscious, careful reserve begins to melt.
By the time he hands the letter to Don, he's grinning from ear to ear.
The letter is from a corporation with offices in New York, Chicago, Detroit, Denver, Los Angeles, and San
Francisco. It's on rag bond so luxurious you want to cut it into a shirt and wear it next to your skin. It says
that the corporation is planning to give away twenty million dollars to twenty charitable organizations
across the United States, a million each. It says that the corporation must do this before the end of the
calendar year 1983. Potential recipients include food pantries, homeless shelters, two clinics for the
indigent, and a prototype AIDS testing program in Spokane. One of the shelters is Lighthouse. The signature
is Richard P. Sayre, Executive Vice President, Detroit. It all looks on the up-and-up, and the fact that all
three of them have been invited to the corporation's Detroit offices to discuss this gift also seems on the upand-
up. The date of the meeting—what will be the date of Donald Callahan's death—is December 19th,
1983. A Monday.
The name on the letterhead is THE SOBRA CORPORATION.
FIFTEEN
"You went," Roland said.
"We all went," Callahan said. "If the invitation had been for me alone, I never would've. But, since they were
asking for all three of us… and wanted to give us a million dollars… do you have any idea what a million
bucks would have meant to a fly-by-night outfit like Home or Lighthouse? Especially during the Reagan
years?"
Susannah gave a start at this. Eddie shot her a nakedly triumphant look. Callahan clearly wanted to ask the
reason for this byplay, but Roland was twirling his finger in that hurry-up gesture again, and now it really
was getting late. Pressing on for midnight. Not that any of Roland's ka-tet looked sleepy; they were tightly
focused on the Pere, marking every word.
"Here is what I've come to believe," Callahan said, leaning forward. "There is a loose league of association
between the vampires and the low men. I think if you traced it back, you'd find the roots of their association
in the dark land. In Thunderclap."
"I've no doubt," Roland said. His blue eyes flashed out of his pale and tired face.
"The vampires—those who aren't Type Ones—are stupid. The low men are smarter, but not by a whole lot.
Otherwise I never would have been able to escape them for as long as I did. But then—finally—someone else
took an interest. An agent of the Crimson King, I should think, whoever or whatever he is. The low men were
drawn away from me. So were the vampires. There were no posters during those last months, not that I saw;
no chalked messages on the sidewalks of West Fort Street or Jefferson Avenue, either. Someone giving the
orders, that's what I think. Someone a good deal smarter. And a million dollars!" He shook his head. A small
and bitter smile touched his face. "In the end, that was what blinded me. Nothing but money. 'Oh yes, but it's
to do good!' I told myself… and we told each other, of course. 'It'll keep us independent for at least five
years! No more going to the Detroit City Council, begging with our hats in our hands!' All true. It didn't
occur to me until later that there's another truth, very simple: greed in a good cause is still greed."
"What happened?" Eddie asked.
"Why, we kept our appointment," the Pere said. His face wore a rather ghastly smile. "The Tishman Building,
982 Michigan Avenue, one of the finest business addresses in the D. December 19th, 4:20 p.m."
"Odd time for an appointment," Susannah said.
"We thought so, too, but who questions such minor matters with a million dollars at stake? After some
discussion, we agreed with Al—or rather Al's mother. According to her, one should show up for important
appointments five minutes early, no more and no less. So we walked into the lobby of the Tishman Building
at 4:10 p.m., dressed in our best, found Sombra Corporation on the directory board, and went on up to the
thirty-third floor."
"Had you checked this corporation out?" Eddie asked.
Callahan looked at him as if to say duh. "According to what we could find in the library, Sombra was a
closed corporation—no public stock issue, in other words—that mostly bought other companies. They
specialized in high-tech stuff, real estate, and construction. That seemed to be all anyone knew. Assets were a
closely guarded secret."
"Incorporated in the U.S.?" Susannah asked.
"No. Nassau, the Bahamas."
Eddie started, remembering his days as a cocaine mule and the sallow thing from whom he had bought his
last load of dope. "Been there, done that," he said. "Didn't see anyone from the Sombra Corporation, though."
But did he know that was true? Suppose the sallow thing with the British accent worked for Sombra? Was it
so hard to believe that they were involved in the dope trade, along with whatever else they were into? Eddie
supposed not. If nothing else, it suggested a tie to Enrico Balazar.
"Anyway, they were there in all the right reference books and yearlies," Callahan said. "Obscure, but there.
And rich. I don't know exactly what Sombra is, and I'm at least half-convinced that most of the people we
saw in their offices on the thirty-third floor were nothing but extras… stage-dressing… but there probably is
an actual Sombra Corporation.
"We took the elevator up there. Beautiful reception area— French Impressionist paintings on the walls, what
else?—and a beautiful receptionist to go with it. The kind of woman—say pardon, Susannah—if you're a
man, you can almost believe that if you were allowed to touch her breast, you'd live forever."
Eddie burst out laughing, looked sideways at Susannah, and stopped in a hurry.
"It was 4:17. We were invited to sit down. Which we did, feeling nervous as hell. People came and went.
Every now and then a door to our left would open and we'd see a floor filled with desks and cubicles. Phones
ringing, secretaries flitting hither and yon with files, the sound of a big copier. If it was a setup—and I think
it was—it was as elaborate as a Hollywood movie. I was nervous about our appointment with Mr. Sayre, but
no more than that. Extraordinary, really. I'd been on the run more or less constantly since leaving 'Salem's Lot
eight years previous, and I'd developed a pretty good early-warning system, but it never so much as chirruped
that day. I suppose if you could reach him via the Ouija board, John Dillinger would say much the same
about his night at the movies with Anna Sage.
"At 4:19, a young man in a striped shirt and tie that looked just oh so Hugo Boss came out and got us. We
were whisked down a corridor past some very upscale offices—with an upscale executive beavering away in
every one, so far as I could see— and to double doors at the end of the hall. This was marked conference
room. Our escort opened the doors. He said, 'God luck, gentlemen.' I remember that very clearly. Not good
luck, but god luck. That was when my perimeter alarms started to go off, and by then it was far too late. It
happened fast, you see. They didn't…"
SIXTEEN
It happens fast. They have been after Callahanfor a long time now, but they waste little time gloating. The
doors slam shut behind them, much too loudly and hard enough to shiver in their frames. Executive
assistants who drag down eighteen thousand a year to start with close doors a certain way—with respect for
money and power—and this isn't it. This is the way angry drunks and addicts on the jones close doors. Also
crazy people, of course. Crazy people are ace doorslammers.
Callahan's alarm systems are fully engaged now, not pinging but howling, and when he looks around the
executive conference room, dominated at the far end by a large window giving a terrific view of Lake
Michigan, he sees there's good reason for this and has time to think Dear Christ—Mary, mother of God—
how could I have been so foolish? He can see thirteen people in the room. Three are low men, and this is his
first good look at their heavy, unhealthy-looking faces, red-glinting eyes, and full, womanish lips. All three
are smoking. Nine are Type Three vampires. The thirteenth person in the conference room is wearing a loud
shirt and clashing tie, low-men attire for certain, but his face has a lean and foxy look, full of intelligence
and dark humor. On his brow is a red circle of blood that seems neither to ooze nor to clot.
There is a bitter crackling sound. Callahan wheels and sees Al and Ward drop to the floor. Standing to either
side of the door through which they entered are numbers fourteen and fifteen, a low man and a low woman,
both of them holding electrical stunners.
"Your friends will be all right, Father Callahan. "
He whirls around again. It's the man with the blood-spot on his forehead. He looks about sixty, but it's hard
to tell. He's wearing a garish yellow shirt and a red tie. When his thin lips part in a smile, they reveal teeth
that come to points. It's Sayre, Callahan thinks. Sayre, or whoever signed that letter. Whoever thought this
little sting up.
"You, however, won't, " he continues.
The low men look at him with a kind of dull avidity: here he is, finally, their lost pooch with the burned paw
and the scarred forehead. The vampires are more interested. They almost thrum within their blue auras. And
all at once Callahan can hear the chimes. They're faint, somehow damped down, but they're there. Calling
him.
Sayre—if that's his name—turns to the vampires. "He's the one," he says in a matter-of-fact tone. "He's
killed hundreds of you in a dozen versions of America. My friends"—he gestures to the low men—"were
unable to track him down, but of course they seek other, less suspecting prey in the ordinary course of things.
In any case, he's here now. Go on, have at him. But don't kill him!"
He turns to Callahan. The hole in his forehead fills and gleams but never drips. It's an eye, Callahan thinks, a
bloody eye. What is looking out of it? What is watching, and from where?
