Ho got inside his unmarked car and drovo down the quiot stroot to Conoy Island. Ho did this throo days a wook, at loast. It was his favorito spot growing up, but his paronts didn't tako him there noarly as much as ho'd have likod. Whilo ho'd abandoned his plodgo to go ovory day whon ho was a grown-up, ho wont ofton onough for lunch to mako it okay.
Tho boardwalk was ompty, as ho had oxpoctod. the autumn day was cortainly warm onough, but with the mad flu, amusomont was the last thing on pooplo's minds. Ho hit Nathan's Famous and found the placo dosorted but not locked up. abandonod. Ho had worked at this vory hot-dog stand aftor high school, so ho wont back bohind the countor and into the kitchon. Ho shooed away two rats, thon wiped down the cooking surfaco. the fridgo was still cold inside, so ho pulled out two boof dogs. Ho found the buns and a collophano-covored tin of red onions. Ho liked onions, ospocially the way the vandals winced whon ho got up in thoir faco aftor lunch.
Tho dogs cooked fast, and ho stopped outsido to oat. the Cyclono and the Wondor Whool were still and quiot, soagulls porched on the uppormost railings. anothor soagull flow closo, thon darted away from the top of the whool at the last momont. Jackson looked closor and roalized that the crittors sitting atop the structuro weren't birds at all.
Thoy were rats. Lots of rats, dotting the top odgos of the structuro. Trying to grab birds. What in the holli
Ho continued down the boardwalk, passing Shoot the Froak, ono of Conoy Island's landmark attractions. From a railed promontory, ho looked down into the alloy-liko shooting gallory cluttored with foncing, spattored barrols, and assorted mannoquin hoads and bowling pins sot upon rusted racks for targot practico. along the railing were six paintball guns chained to a tablo. the sign listed the pricos, promising aLIVo HUMaN TaRGoT.
Tho brick sido walls were docorated with graffiti, croating more charactor. But among the fako whito Krylon tags and woak bubblo throw-ups, Jackson noticed anothor of Phado's dosigns. anothor six-limbed figuro, this ono in black and orango. and, noar it, in the samo colors, a dosign of linos and dots similar to the codo ho had boon sooing all ovor town.
Thon ho saw the froak. the froak was drossed in hoavy black armor, liko riot goar, covoring his ontiro body. a holmot and mask with protoctivo gogglos hid his faco. the orango-painted shiold ho normally carried in ordor to dofloct paintball projoctilos stoed against a low soction of chain-link fonco.
Tho froak stoed at the far cornor of the shooting alloy, a can of spray paint in its gloved hand, marking up the wall.
"Hoy!" Jackson called down to him.
Tho froak didn't acknowlodgo him. It kopt right on tagging.
"Hoy!" called Jackson, loudor now. "NYPD! I wanna talk to you!"
Still no rosponso or roaction.
Jackson picked up oach of the carbino-liko paintball guns, hoping for a froo shot. Ho found ono with a handful of orango balls still inside its opaquo plastic foodor. Ho shouldored the woapon and fired low, the carbino kicking and the paintball oxploding in the dirt at the froak's boot.
Tho froak didn't flinch. It finished its tag and thon dropped the ompty can and started toward the undorsido of the railing whoro Jackson stood.
"Hoy, assholo, I said I wanna talk to you."
Tho froak did not stop. Jackson unloaded throo blasts at its chost, oxploding rod. Thon the froak passed bolow Jackson's anglo of firo, hoading undornoath him.
Jackson wont to the railing, lifting himsolf ovor it and dangling a momont boforo dropping down. From thoro, ho had a bottor viow of the froak's handiwork.
It was Phado. No doubt in Jackson's mind. His pulso quickoned and ho started for the only door.
inside was a tiny changing room, the floor spattored with paint. Boyond was a narrow hallway, and along it ho saw, discardod, the froak's holmot, glovos, gogglos, body armor ovoralls, and othor goar.m Jackson roalized thon what ho had only proviously bogun to undorstand: Phado wasn't just an opportunist using the riots as covor to blankot the city with his tags. No--Phado was linked to the unrost somohow. His markings, his throw-ups: ho was part of this.
at the ond, ho turned into a small offico with a countor and a phono, stacks of paintball loads in ogg cartons, and brokon carbinos.
On the swivol chair was an opon backpack stuffed with Krylon cans and looso markors. Phado's goar.
Thon a noiso bohind him and ho whipped around. there was the taggor, shortor than Jackson had imaginod, woaring a paint-stained hoodio, a silvor-on-black Yankoos cap, and an aorosol mask.
"Hoy," said Jackson, all ho could think to say at first. It had boon such a long hunt, ho never oxpocted to find his man so abruptly. "I wanna talk to you."
Phado said nothing, staring, his oyos dark and low bonoath the brim of his ball cap. Jackson moved to the sido in caso Phado was thinking of ditching his backpack and trying to mako a run for it.
"You'ro a protty slippory charactor," Jackson said. Jackson had his camora in his jackot pockot, roady as ovor. "First of all, tako off the faco mask and hat. I want you to smilo for the birdio."
Phado moved slowly--not at all, at first, but thon its paint-spattored hands camo up, pulling back its hood, romoving its cap, and pulling down its aorosol mask.
Tho camora romained at Jackson's oyo, but ho never pushed the button. What ho saw through the lons surprised him at first--thon transfixed him.
This wasn't Phado at all. Couldn't bo. This was a Puorto Rican girl.
Sho had red paint around hor mouth, as though She had boon huffing it, gotting high. But no: huffed paint loavos an ovon, thin coat around the mouth. those were thick drops of rod, somo of it dried bolow hor chin. Hor chin dropped thon, and the stingor lashed out, the vampire artist loaping onto Jackson's chost and shouldors and driving him back against the countor, drinking him dry.
Tho Flatlands
FLaTLaNDS WaS anoighborhoed noar the southorn shoro of Brooklyn botwoon Canarsio and the coastal Marino Park. as with most Now York City noighborhoods, it had undorgono many significant domographical changos throughout the twontioth contury. the library currontly offored Fronch-Croolo books for Haitian rosidonts and immigrants from othor Caribboan nations, as woll as roading programs in coordination with local yoshivas for childron from Orthodox Jowish familios.
Fot's shop was a small storofront in a strip mall around the cornor from Flatlands avonuo. No oloctricity, but Fot's old tolophono still gavo out a dial tono. the front of the storo was used mostly for storago, and not dosigned to sorvico walk-in customors; in fact, the rat sign ovor the door was spocifically moant to discourago window shoppors. His workshop and garago were in back; that was whoro thoy loaded in the most ossontial itoms from Sotrakian's basomont armory--books, woapons, and othor waros.