F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 by Midnight Mass (v2.1) Read Free Book Online Page B

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."
                 More
footsteps. Father Palmeri's white chasuble stopped in front of the oven. The
woman.
                  
                 "Whatcha
got there, Stan?"
                 "First,
whatcha find in the basement?"
                 "Dead
nun. Least I'm pretty sure she's a nun. She's wearin a tore-up nightie and a
raincoat, but she's got one of those veil hats on her head. And she was
bit."
                 "And
she still got her head?"
                 "Yeah.
Think she ran into that dead feral outside?"
                 "Dunno,
but someone sure kicked his ass, huh?"
                 "True
that." The woman moved out of view of the oven glass. "So whatcha got
there?"
                 "Homemade
chocolate chip cookies. Still fresh."
                 "Ooh,
gimme!"
                 Carole
bit back a sob. She and Bernadette had baked those yesterday afternoon, and now
these human slime were eating them.
                 "Yo,
Stan," said a male voice. "Nobody upstairs but we got a dead goth
chick in the front hall."
                 "Was
she bit?"
                 "Nah.
Some kinda steel pipe stickin from her gut."
                 "Whoa!
What kinda weird shit went down here last night? Sounds like my kinda
party."
                 They
laughed and then went silent. Stuffing their faces with her cookies, Carole
supposed.
                 Finally
the cowboy said, "All right. The priest house is next. We'll take these
with us. Somebody remind me we gotta come back for the bit one. We should toss
her on the pile before sunset."
                 With
that they shuffled out, leaving Carole alone and cramped and sweating in the
oven. She closed her eyes and pretended she was sitting on a pew in the cool
open spaces of St. Anthony's, savoring the peaceful air as she waited for mass
to begin.
                  
                 *
* *
                  
                 Carole
waited more than an hour before she dared to leave the oven. After slowly
straightening her cramped back, the first thing she did was peek through the
kitchen window. She sagged against the sink with relief when she saw the