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  Except for the rasp of Sandor’s hoarse breathing, the night was still. No sound emanated from the great oval of the sewer across the river, and my vision could not penetrate the flashing of flame from within.

  But the reflection of the light served me as I studied my prisoner. Like Bobo, he had the body of a child, but the face peering up at me was incongruously aged—not by wrinkles but by the grim set of his cracked lips, the gaunt hollows beneath protruding cheekbones, and the sunken circles outlining the eyes above. The eyes were old, those deep dark eyes that had witnessed far more than any child should see. In them I read a present submissiveness, but that was merely surface reaction. Beyond it lay a cold cunning, a cruel craftiness governed not by intelligence but by animal instinct, fully developed, ready for release. And he was an animal, I told myself; a predator, dwelling in a cave, issuing forth to satisfy ageless atavistic hungers.

  He hadn’t been born that way, of course. It was Le Boss who transformed the innocence of childhood into amoral impulse, who eradicated humanity and brought forth the beast beneath.

  Le Boss. What was he doing now? Surely Bobo had reached him by this time, told his tale. What was happening? I held Sandor close at knife-point, my eyes searching the swirl of firelight and shadow deep in the tunnel’s iron maw.

  Then, suddenly and shockingly, the metal mouth screamed.

  The high, piercing echo rose only for an instant before fading into silence, but I knew its source.

  Tightening my grip on Sandor’s ragged collar and pressing the knife blade close to his throat, I started toward the foot bridge.

  “No!” he quavered. “Don’t—”

  I ignored his panting plea, his futile efforts to free himself. Thrusting him forward, I crossed the swaying structure, averting my gaze from the dank depths beneath and focusing vision and purpose on the opening ahead.

  Passing between the flame-tipped teeth of the candles on either side, I dragged Sandor down into the sewer’s yawning throat. I was conscious of the odor now, the odor of carrion corruption which welled from the dark inner recesses, conscious of the clang of our footsteps against the rounded metal surface, but my attention was directed elsewhere.

  A dark bundle of rags lay across the curved base of the tunnel. Skirting it as we approached, I saw I’d been mistaken. The rags were merely a covering, outlining the twisted form beneath.

  Bobo had made a mistake too, for it was his body that sprawled motionless there. The grotesque angle of his neck and the splinter of bone protruding from an out-flung arm indicated that he had fallen from above. Fallen, or perhaps been hurled.

  My eyes sought the rounded ceiling of the sewer. It was, as I’d estimated, easily twenty feet high, but I didn’t have to scan the top to confirm my guess as to Bobo’s fate.

  Just ahead, at the left of the rounded iron wall, was a wooden ladder propped against the side of a long, broad shelf mounted on makeshift scaffolding which rose perhaps a dozen feet from the sewer’s base. Here the candles were affixed to poles at regular intervals, illuminating a vast humbled heap of handluggage, rucksacks, attache cases, boxes, packages, purses, and moldy, mildewed articles of clothing, piled into a thieves’ mountain of stolen goods.

  And here, squatting before them on a soiled and aging mattress, amid a litter of emptied and discarded bottles, Le Boss squatted.

  There was no doubt as to his identity; I recognized him by his mocking smile, the cool casualness with which he rose to confront me after I’d forced Sandor up the ladder and onto the platform.

  The man who stood swaying before us was a monster. Forgive the term, but there is no other single word to describe him. Le Boss was well over six feet tall, and the legs enclosed in the dirt-smudged trousers of his soiled suit were bowed and bent by the sheer immensity of the burden they bore. He must have weighed over three hundred pounds, and the fat bulging from his bloated belly and torso was almost obscene in its abundance. His huge hands terminated in fingers as thick as sausages.

  There was no shirt beneath the tightly-stretched suit jacket and from a cord around his thick neck a whistle dangled against the naked chest. His head was bulletshaped and bald. Indeed, he was completely hairless—no hint of eyebrows surmounted the hyperthyroid pupils, no lashes guarded the red-rimmed sockets. The porcine cheeks and sagging jowls were beardless, their fleshy folds worm-white even in the candle light which glittered against the tiny, tawny eyes.

  I needed no second glance to confirm my suspicions of what had occurred before my arrival here; the scene I pictured in my mind was perfectly clear. The coming of Bobo, the breathless, stammered story, his master’s reaction of mingled disbelief and anger, the fit of drunken fury in which the terrified bringer of bad tidings had been flung over the side of the platform to smash like an empty bottle on the floor or the sewer below—I saw it all too vividly.

  Le Boss grinned at me, his fleshy lips parted to reveal yellowed stumps of rotting teeth.

  “Well, old man?” he spoke in French, but his voice was oddly accented; he could indeed be a yougoslave.

  I forced myself to meet his gaze. “You know why I’m here,” I said.

  He nodded. “Something about a key, I take it.”

  “Your pack of thieves took it. But it’s my property.”

  His grin broadened. “My property now.” The deep voice rumbled with mocking relish. “Suppose I’m not inclined to return it?”

  For answer I shoved Sandor before me and raised the knife, poising it against his neck. My captive trembled and made mewing sounds as the blade pressed closer.

  Le Boss shrugged. “You’ll have to do better than that, old man. A child’s life isn’t important to me.”

  I peered down at Bobo’s body lying below. “So I see.” Striving to conceal my reaction, I faced him again. “But where are the others?”

  “Playing, I imagine.”

  “Playing?”

  “You find that strange, old man? In spite of what you may think, I’m not without compassion. After all, they are only children. They work hard, and they deserve the reward of play.”

  Le Boss turned, gesturing down toward the far recesses of the sewer. My eyes followed his gaze through the shifting candle glow, and for the first time I became aware of movement in the dim depths. Faint noises echoed upward, identifiable now as the sound of childish laughter. Tiny shapes moved below and beyond, shapes which gleamed white amid the shadows.

  The yougoslaves were naked, and at play. I counted four of them, scuffling and squatting in the far reaches of the tunnel.

  But wait! There was a fifth figure, slightly smaller than the others who loomed over it and laughed as they pawed the squirming shape or tugged at the golden hair. Over their mirth rose the sound of sobbing, and over that, the echo of Bobo’s voice.

  Hey, old man—you like girls? Fresh meat, only five, six maybe—

  Now I could see only too clearly. Two of the boys held their victim down, spread-eagled and helpless, while the other two—but I shall not describe what they were doing.

  Glancing away, I again met Le Boss’ smile. Somehow it seemed more hideous to me than the sight below.

  He groped for a bottle propped against the pile of loot beside him and drank before speaking. “You are distressed, eh?”

  I shook my head. “Not as much as you’ll be unless you give me back my key.”

  He smiled. “Empty threats will get you nothing but empty hands.”

  “My hands aren’t empty.” I jabbed the knife at Sandor’s neck, grazing the flesh, and he squealed in terror.

  Le Boss shrugged. “Go ahead. I told you it doesn’t matter to me.”

  For a moment I stood irresolute. Then, with a sigh I drew the knife back from Sandor’s throat and released my hold on his sweat-soaked collar. He turned and raced off to the ladder behind me, and I could hear his feet scraping against the rungs as he descended. Mercifully, the sound muffled the laughter from below.

  Le Boss nodded. “That’s better. Now we can disc
uss the situation like gentlemen.”

  I lifted the knife. “Not as long as I have this, and you have the key.”

  “More empty threats?”

  “My knife speaks for me.” I took a step forward as I spoke.

  He chuckled. “I swear I don’t know what to make of you, old man. Either you are very stupid or very brave.”

  “Both, perhaps.” I raised the blade higher, but he halted my advance with a quick gesture.

  “Enough,” he wheezed. Turning, he stopped and thrust his pudgy hand into a tangle of scarves, kerchiefs, and handbags behind him. When he straightened again he was holding the key.

  “Is this what you’re after?”

  “Yes. I knew you wouldn’t discard it.”

  He stared at the red stone gleaming dully from the crested handle. “I never toss away valuables.”

  “Just human lives,” I said.

  “Don’t preach to me, old man. I’m not interested in your philosophy.”

  “Nor I in yours.” I stretched out my hand, palm upward. “All I want is my key.”

  His own hand drew back. “Not so fast. Suppose you tell me why.”

  “It’s not the ruby,” I answered. “Go ahead, pry it loose if you like.”

  Le Boss chuckled again. “A poor specimen—big enough, but flawed. It’s the key itself that interests you, eh?”

  “Naturally. As I told Bobo, it opens the gate to my estate.”

  “And just where is this estate of yours?”

  “Near Bourg-la-Reine.”

  “That’s not too far away.” The little eyes narrowed. “The van could take us there within the hour.”

  “It would serve no purpose,” I said. “Perhaps ‘estate’ is a misnomer. The place is small and holds nothing you’d be interested in. The furnishings are old, but hardly the quality of antiques. The house itself has been boarded up for years since my last visit. I have other properties elsewhere on the continent where I spend much of my time. But since I’ll be here for several weeks on business, I prefer familiar surroundings.”

  “Other properties, eh?” Le Boss fingered the key. “You must be quite rich, old man.”

  “That’s none of your affair.”

  “Perhaps not, but I was just thinking. If you have money, why not conduct your business in comfort from a hotel in Paris?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a matter of sentiment—”

  “Really?” he eyed me sharply, and in the interval before speaking, I noted that the sounds below had ceased.

  My voice broke the sudden silence. “I assure you—”

  “Au contraire. You do not assure me in the least.” Le Boss scowled. “If you do own an estate, then it’s the key to the house that’s important, not the one for the gate. Any locksmith could open it for you without the need of this particular key.”

  He squinted at the burnished brass, the dulled brilliance of the ruby imbedded in the ornate crest. “Unless, of course, it isn’t a gate key after all. Looks to me more like the key to a strongbox, or even a room in the house holding hidden valuables.”

  “It’s just a gate key.” Again I held one hand out as the other gripped the knife. “But I want it—now.”

  “Enough to kill?” he challenged.

  “If necessary.”

  “I’ll spare you that.” Grinning, Le Boss reached down again into a bundle of discarded clothing. When he turned to face me again he held a revolver in his hand.

  “Drop that toothpick,” he said, raising the weapon to reinforce his command.

  Sighing, I released my grip and the knife fell, clattering over the side of the open platform to the surface of the sewer below.

  Impelled by blind impulse, I turned hastily. If I could get to the ladder—

  “Stand where you are!”

  It wasn’t his words, but the sharp clicking sound that halted me. Slowly I pivoted to face the muzzle of his cocked revolver.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t murder me—not in cold blood.”

  “Let’s leave it up to the kids.” As Le Boss spoke his free hand fumbled for the whistle looped around his neck. Enfolding it in blubbery lips, he blew.

  The piercing blast echoed, reverberating from the rounded iron walls beside me and below. Then came the answering murmurs, the sudden thud of footsteps. Out of the corner of my eye I glanced down and saw the four naked figures—no, there were five now, including the fully clothed Sandor—moving toward the platform on which we stood.

  Again I conjured up a vision of Hell, of demons dancing in the flames. But the flames were merely candle light and the bodies hurrying beneath were those of children. It was only their laughter which was demonic. Their laughter, and their gleefully contorted faces.

  As they approached I caught a glimpse of what they held in their hands. Sandor had scooped up the knife from where it had fallen and the others held weapons of their own—a mallet, a wooden club, a length of steel pipe, the serrated stump of a broken wine bottle.

  Le Boss chuckled once more. “Playtime,” he said.

  “Call them off!” I shouted. “I warn you—”

  He shook his head. “No way, old man.”

  Old man. That, I swear, is what did it. Not the menace of the gun, not the sight of the loathsome little creatures below. It was just the phrase, the contempt with which it had been repeated over and over again.

  I knew what he was thinking—an unarmed, helpless elderly victim had been trapped for torment. And for the most part he was right. I was weaponless, old, trapped.

  But not helpless.

  Closing my eyes, I concentrated. There are subsonic whistles which make no audible sound, and there are ways of summoning which require no whistles at all. And there’s more than human vermin infesting abandoned sewers, lurking in the far recesses of tangled tunnels, but responsive to certain commands.

  Almost instantly that response came.

  It came in the form of a purposeful padding, of faint noises magnified by sheer numbers. It came in the sound of squeaks and chittering, first as distant echoes, then in closer cacophony as my summons were answered.

  Now the yougoslaves had reached the ladder at the far side of the platform. I saw Sandor mount the lower rungs, knife held between clenched teeth—saw him halt as he too heard the sudden, telltale tumult. Behind Sandor his companions turned to seek its source.

  They cried out then, first in surprise, then in alarm, as the gray wave surged toward them along the sewer’s length; the gray wave, flecked with hundreds of red and glaring eyes, a thousand tiny teeth.

  The wave raced forward, curling around the feet and ankles of the yougoslaves before the ladder, climbing and clinging to their legs and knees. Screaming, they lashed out with their weapons, trying to beat back the attack but the wave poured on, forward and upward. Furry forms leaped higher, claws digging into waists, teeth biting into bellies. Sandor pulled himself up the ladder with both hands, but below him the red eyes rose and the gray shapes launched up from behind to cover his unprotected back with a blanket of wriggling bodies.

  Now the screams from below were drowned out by the volume of shrill screeching. The knife dropped from between Sandor’s lips as he shrieked and toppled down into the writhing mass that had already engulfed his companions. Flailing helplessly, their faces sank from sight in the rising waves of the gray sea.

  It happened so quickly that Le Boss, caught by surprise, could only stare in stunned silence at the shambles below.

  It was I whose voice rose above the bedlam. “The key,” I cried. “Give me the key.”

  For answer he raised his hand—not the one holding the key, but the one grasping the gun.

  His fingers were trembling, and the muzzle wavered as I started toward him. Even so, at such close range I realized he couldn’t miss. And he didn’t.

  As he squeezed the trigger the shots came in rapid succession. They were barely audible in the uproar from the tunnel, but I felt their impact as they s
truck my chest and torso.

  I kept on, moving closer, hearing the final, futile click as he continued to press the trigger of his emptied revolver. Looking up, eyes red with rage, he hurled the weapon at my head. It whizzed past me, and now he had nothing left to clutch but the key. His hands started to shake.

  My hand went out.

  Snatching the key from his pudgy paw, I stared at his frantic face. Perhaps I should have told him he’d guessed correctly, the key was not meant to open a gate. I could have explained the ruby in the crest—the symbol of a lineage so ancient that it still adhered to the old custom of maintaining a tomb on the estate. The key gave me access to that tomb, not that it was really needed; my branch of the line had other resting places, and during my travels I always carried with me what was necessary to afford temporary rest of my own. But during my stay here the tomb was both practical and private. Calling a locksmith would be unwise and inconvenient, and I do not relish inconvenience.

  All this I could have told him, and much more. Instead I pocketed the key bearing the great flawed ruby that was like a single drop of blood.

  As I did so, I realized that the squeals and chittering below had faded into other sounds compounded of claws ripping through cloth, teeth grating against bone.

  Unable to speak, unable to move, Le Boss awaited my approach. When I gripped his shoulders he must have fainted, for there was only a dead weight now to ease down onto the platform floor.

  Below me my brothers sated their hunger, feasting on the bodies of the yougoslaves.

  Bending forward to the fat neck beneath me, in my own way I feasted too.

  What fools they were, these creatures who thought themselves so clever! Perhaps they could outwit others, but their little tricks could not prevail against me. After all, they were only yougoslaves.

  And I am a Transylvanian.

  TIGHT LITTLE STITCHES IN A DEAD MAN’S BACK by Joe R. Lansdale

  Born in Gladewater, Texas in 1951, Joe R. Lansdale is one of a group of popular writers for small press publications who are beginning to stake a claim in professional ranks. Currently a resident of Nacogdoches, Texas, Lansdale says that he managed two years of college over about four years in three different schools, including the University of Texas at Austin, and that he has been a martial artist, farmer, factory worker, janitor, and worked at numerous other of the sort of odd jobs determined writers seem to bounce through. Since 1981, Lansdale has been writing full time, and he is now editing anthologies as well. He has sold over a hundred short stories, and his books include Act of Love, Dead in the West, The Magic Wagon, Nightrunners, The Drive-in, and a collection of his short fiction. His anthologies include Best of the West, an as-yet-untitled offbeat Western anthology, and Wild West Show.