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What did I have that Carl, and Arturo for that matter, didn’t? The Midnight Hour.
chapter 10
I called Mom in the morning. She didn’t answer her phone. Dad didn’t answer his. They’d already left for the hospital I was guessing. Mom never gave me an answer to my question. No—that was the answer. She hadn’t changed her mind. She wouldn’t let me save her. We’d have to trust the doctors and modern medical science to do it.
To tell the truth, I was glad. And if science didn’t work, if the surgery didn’t remove it all, well . . . I could ask her again. And again . . .
I left a message apologizing for not being there. She’d want the whole family there as they wheeled her into surgery. She’d be disappointed. But right now I felt like the best way I could protect my family was by staying away from them.
We had a plan, but had to wait to put it in motion, and it was killing me. The show wasn’t until Friday night. I had to make it all the way through Friday, first. We had a lot to do to get ready.
And if we were on the move
, Carl couldn’t find us.
Ben and I drove to Longmont to take a look at Cormac’s storage unit.
The Jeep was parked at Ben’s mother’s house, a bungalow near downtown, one of those cute little houses built in the thirties, all brick and tiny rooms, with a porch in front and a shed out back.
“I still haven’t met your mom,” I said as we walked around back to the end of the driveway.
“She’s at work now. Let’s get this over with, I don’t want to explain to her why we’re getting into Cormac’s Jeep.”
I couldn’t blame him. Cormac hunted vampires and werewolves because that was what his father—Ben’s mother’s brother—had done, and their father before him. It ran in the family. Ben’s mother knew enough to guess what kind of trouble we’d gotten involved in. Ben hadn’t yet told her that he’d been infected with lycanthropy, that he’d become one of the family’s enemies. I wasn’t sure she knew that we’d shacked up together.
It was all just as well.
The key was right where Cormac said it would be, and Ben knew the storage place it went with. Cormac had rented a small unit, the size of a walk-in closet. This was somehow comforting. I’d been afraid that Cormac needed a warehouse to contain his arsenal.
“Yeah, this’ll definitely be useful,” Ben said after stepping into the closet and turning on the light. “I think some of it’s my dad’s. Cormac moved it off the ranch when it looked like the Feds were going to haul him in.”
Ben’s father—Cormac’s uncle—had been active in a militia in the nineties. He was now serving time for illegal weapons possession and conspiracy charges. Ben hadn’t spoken to him in almost a decade.
Most of the stash was organized, stacked neatly on shelves, rifle cases on the bottom, other boxes and metal cases higher up, boxes of bullets, and I didn’t have to look to know that many of them were silver. In the back, longer weapons lay propped in a corner: javelins, spears—even some of those tips gleamed silver. Several crossbows of various shapes and strengths lay on another shelf. Cormac could kill anything, almost any way he wanted to with this stuff. He must have been gathering the collection for years. Or maybe he’d inherited it. The wood on some of the pieces seemed well varnished and smelled of age.
Ben brought an empty box from the car and started putting items into it. He opened cases, chose or rejected individual weapons based on no criteria I could name. Then he packed several boxes of ammunition and covered a pair of the crossbows with a tarp before bringing them into the light and loading them into the trunk.
“Point of no return,” I said softly.
“Hm?”
“Is this going to work? What if I get everyone killed?”
“Second thoughts?” he said, leaning on the doorframe.
“It’s got to be done. I don’t know how else to do it.”
Ben gave my arm a comforting squeeze. I was too startled to respond.
It had been my idea to go to the shooting range next and get some more practice. I had a feeling I needed all the practice in the world, and it still wouldn’t be enough. We spent an hour shooting, burning through several boxes of plain ammunition.
I was starting to understand the attraction of shooting things. Mostly it was the noise. Even with the earphones, each shot burst like an explosion in my head. The noise traveled through my bones. It rattled loose everything else, the worries, anxieties, fears. All that remained was the noise and the punctured target a couple dozen yards away. I was getting better. All the shots hit the paper now. Most hit the center of the black target.
Ben and I didn’t say a word to each other.
Back at the car, Ben put on gloves and reloaded the clips with silver bullets.
“Where does Cormac get those?” I asked. “Is there some kind of mail order catalog? A Web site?”
