"Same result," Zev said with one of his shrugs.
"I've got a gun," Lacey said.
Joe stared at her. She'd been helping him scrub the altar. "You do? Why didn't you say something?"
"It's only got two bullets left."
"Where are the rest?"
She met his gaze evenly. "I had to leave them behind in a couple of people who tried to stop me. It was a tough trip getting here."
"Are you okay with that?"
She nodded. "Better than I thought I'd be. You do what you have to do."
What an amazing young woman, he thought. Who'd have thought Cathy's little girl could turn out so tough and resilient.
He remembered Lacey as a teen. She'd always been a little different from her peers. On the surface she seemed like a typical high-school kid—she dated, though she had no serious crushes, played soccer and field hockey with abandon—but on holidays and family gatherings, she'd stay in the background. Joe would make a point of sitting down with her; he'd draw her out, and then another Lacey would emerge.
The other Lacey was a thinker, a questioner. She had doubts about religion, about government. She burned with an iconoclastic fire that urged her to question traditions and break with them whenever possible. She was fascinated by the old anarchists and dug up all their works. He remembered her favorite was No Treason by someone named Lysander Spooner. Instead of hanging posters of the latest teenage heartthrob boy band in her room, Lacey had pictures of Emma Goldman and Madelyn Murray O'Hare.
Joe's sister and her husband tolerated her views with a mixture of humor and apprehension. If this was the shape and scope of Lacey's teenage rebellion, they'd live with it. It was just a phase, they'd say. She'll grow out of it. Better than drunk driving or drugs or getting pregnant.
But it wasn't a phase. It was Lacey. And later, when she came out as a lesbian, they turned their backs on her. Joe had tried to talk them out of slamming the family door, but this was more than they could take.
"Who taught you to shoot?" he asked.
"A friend." She smiled. "A guy friend, believe it or not. It was a self-defense thing. He took me out to the range until I got comfortable with pulling the trigger. I'm not a great shot, but if you're within ten feet of me and you're looking for trouble, you're gone."
Joe had to smile. "Never let it be said you're not full of surprises, Lacey."
She laughed softly. "No one's ever said that."
They turned back to scrubbing the altar. They'd been at it for over an hour now. Joe was drenched with sweat and figured he smelled like a bear, but he couldn't stop until it was clean.
But it wouldn't come clean.
"What did they do to this altar?" Lacey asked.
"I don't know. This crud ... it seems part of the marble now."
The undead must have done something to the blood and foulness to make the mixture seep into the surface as it had.
"Let's take a break."
He turned sat on the floor with his back against the altar and rested. He didn't like resting because it gave him time to think. And when he started to think he realized that the odds were pretty high against his seeing tomorrow morning.
At least he'd die well fed. Their secret supplier had left them a dinner of fresh fried chicken by the front doors. Even the memory of it made his mouth water. Apparently someone was really glad he was back.
Lacey settled next to him. She'd shed her leather jacket hours ago. Her bare arms were sheened with perspiration.
"That talk about Custer's last stand and the Alamo," she said. "You're not planning to die here, are you?"
To tell the truth, as miserable as he'd been, he wasn't ready to die. Not tonight, not any night.
"Not if I can help it."
"Good. Because as much as I can appreciate self-immolating gestures, I don't think I'm ready to take part in a Jersey Shore version of the Alamo or Little Big Horn."
"Well, the cry of 'Remember the Alamo!' did spur a lot of people to action, but I agree. Going down fighting here will not solve anything."
"Then what's the plan? We should have some sort of plan."
Good question. Did he have a plan?
"All I want to do is hold off the undead till dawn. Keep them out of St. Anthony's for one night. That's all. That will be a statement—my statement. Our statement if you want to stay on."
And if he found an opportunity to ram a stake through Palmeri's rotten heart, so much the better. But he wasn't counting on that.
"That's it?" Lacey said. "One night?"
"One night. Just to let them know they can't have their way everywhere with everybody whenever they feel like it. We've got surprise on our side tonight, so maybe it will work." One night. Then he'd be on his way. "You shouldn't feel you have to stay just because you're my niece."
"I don't. But if I—"
"What the fuck have you done?"
Joe looked up at the shout. A burly, long-haired man in jeans and a cutaway denim jacket stood in the vestibule staring at the partially restored nave. As he approached, Joe noticed his crescent moon earring.
A Vichy.
Joe balled his fists but didn't move.
"Hey, I'm talking to you, asshole. Are you responsible for this?"
When all he got from Joe was a cold stare, he turned to Zev and fixed on his yarmulke.
"Hey, you! Jew! What the hell you think you're doing here?" He started toward Zev. "You get those fucking crosses off—"
"Touch him and I'll break you in half," Joe said in a low voice.
The Vichy skidded to a halt and stared at him.
"Are you crazy? Do you know what Father Palmeri will do to you when he gets here?"
"Father Palmeri? Why do you still call him that?"
"It's what he wants to be called. And he's going to call you dog meat when he gets through with you!"
Joe pulled himself to his feet and looked down at the Vichy. Suddenly the man didn't seem so sure of himself.
"Tell him I'll be waiting." Joe gave him a hard, two-handed shove against his chest that sent him stumbling back. Damn, that felt good. "Tell him Father Cahill is back."
"You're a priest? You don't look like one."
Joe slapped him across the face. Hard. It snapped the creep's chin toward his shoulder. That felt even better.
"Shut up and listen. Tell him Father Joe Cahill is back—and he's pissed. Tell him that." Another chest shove. "Now get out of here while you still can."
Rubbing his cheek, the man backpedaled and hurried out into the growing darkness. Joe turned to Zev and found him grinning through his beard.
" 'Father Joe Cahill is back—and he's pissed.' I like that."
"It'll make a great bumper sticker," Lacey said, her eyes wide with admiration. "You were great! I never knew my uncle the priest was such a tough dude. Maybe we've got more than a prayer tonight."
Joe didn't know about that. He hoped so.
"I think I'll close the front doors," he said. "The criminal element is starting to wander in. While I'm doing that, see if we can find some more candles. It's getting dark in here."
On the front steps he unhooked the left door and closed it. He was unhooking the right when he heard a woman's voice behind him.
"Father Cahill? Is that you?"
He turned and in the dying light saw a lone figure standing by a children's red wagon at the bottom of the steps.
"Yes. Do I know you?"
He heard her sob. "Oh, it is you! You've come back!"
Joe hurried down to the sobbing woman. "Are you all right?"
"I've been praying for your return but I'm such a sinner I thought God had turned his back on us all. But you're back! Thank God!"
Something familiar about her voice . .. but she kept her head down. Joe reached out, and tilted her chin so he could see her.
He gasped when he saw her tear-stained face. He barely recognized her. Her skin was pale, her cheeks sunken, but he knew her.
"Sister Carole!"
Impuls
ively he threw his arms around her and pulled her against him in a hug. He wanted to laugh but feared if he opened his mouth he'd burst out crying. Sweet emotions roiled through him, making him weak. She was here, she was alive. He wanted to tell her how he'd missed her—missed knowing she was in the neighboring building, missed seeing her walk back and forth to the school, missed the smile she would flash him whenever they crossed paths.
"It's so good to see you, Carole!" He pushed her back and looked at her, hoping to see that smile. But her eyes were different, haunted. "Dear God, what's happened to you?" Immediately he thought: Stupid question. The same thing that's happened to us all. "Why are you here? I thought you'd gone to Pennsylvania for Easter."
She shook her head. "I had to stay behind ... with Sister Bernadette ... they ... I had to . . ." She loosed a single, agonized sob. "How could I stay in the convent after that?"
Joe wasn't following. Her speech was so disjointed. This wasn't like Carole. He'd always known her as a woman of quiet intelligence, with a sharp, organized mind. Everyone left alive had suffered, but what had she experienced to leave her so shattered?
"Where have you been staying?"
She looked away. "Here and there."
"Well, you're staying here now." He took her arm. "Come inside. We've got-"
She pulled away. "I can't. I've too many sins."
"We're all sinners, Carole."
"But these are terrible sins. Mortal sins. So many mortal sins."
"This is where sins are forgiven. I'm going to try to say mass later."
"Mass?" Her lip quivered. "Oh, that would be wonderful. But I can't. Even though it's a Holy Day, I—"
"What Holy—?" And then he remembered. With all that had been going on, it had slipped his mind. "Oh, God, it's Ascension Thursday, isn't it."
Sister Carole nodded. "But I'll just have to add missing Mass on a Holy Day of Obligation to my list of sins."
"Come inside, Carole. Please. I'll hear your confession."
"No." She paused, as if she were listening for something. "To receive absolution I must be sorry for my sins and promise to sin no more." She shook her head and something flashed in her eyes, something hard and dangerous. "I'm not. And I won't."
Joe stared at her, trying to fathom . . .
"I don't follow you, Carole."
"Please don't, Father. It's not a path you want to tread." She bent and grabbed the handle of her little red wagon, then turned and started away. "God bless you, Father Cahill."
Joe hurried after her. He couldn't let her go. It was too dangerous, but more than that, he wanted her near, where he could talk to her, be with her. He grabbed her arm.
"I can't let you go."
She snatched her arm free and kept moving. "You can't make me stay. Don't try. I won't. I can't." The last word was couched in a sob that damn near broke his heart.
"Carole, please!"
But she hurried on into the shadows without looking back. Joe started after her again, then stopped. Short of picking her up and carrying her back to the church—and he couldn't see himself doing that—what could he do?
Suddenly weary, he turned and climbed the steps. As he finished closing the front doors, he took one last longing look at the night.
Carole . .. what's happened to you? Please be safe.
He closed the door and wished the lock hadn't been smashed. He turned and found Lacey and Zev standing in the vestibule.
"We were getting worried about you," Lacey said.
"I ran into one of the nuns who used to teach in St. Anthony's school."
Zev's eyebrows arched. "And you didn't let her in?"
"Wouldn't come in. But she reminded me that this is a Holy Day: Ascension Thursday."
Zev shrugged. "Which means?"
"Supposedly," Lacey said, "forty days after Easter, Jesus ascended into Heaven to sit at the right hand of God." She smiled. "An ingenious way to dodge all those inconvenient questions about the state and whereabouts of the remains of the 'Son of God.' "
Joe looked at her. "Lacey, you can't still be an atheist."
She shrugged. "I never really was. I call myself that because it's such an in-your-face term. Like dyke. But atheism implies that you consider the question of a provident god important enough to take seriously. I don't. At heart I'm simply a devout agnostic."
Joe was glad Carl wasn't here to hear this. He wouldn't understand or appreciate Lacey's outspokenness. But that was Lacey. No excuses, no sugar coating: Here I am, here's what I think, take it or leave it. Through the years she'd made him angry at times, but then she'd smile and he'd see his sister Cathy in her face and his anger would fade away.
He pointed to the gold crucifix hanging from her neck. "But you wear a cross. Didn't you once tell me you'd die before wearing anything like that?"
"I damn near did die because I wasn't wearing one. So now I wear one for perfectly pragmatic reasons. I've never been one for fashion accessories, but if it chases vampires, I want one."
"But you've got to take the next step, Lacey. You've got to ask why the undead fear it, why it sears their flesh. There's something there. When you face that reality, you won't be an atheist or agnostic anymore."
Lacey smiled. "Did I mention I'm a devout empiricist too?"
"Like a worm, she wiggles," Zev said. "Too many philosophy courses."
Lacey turned to him. "That's not exactly a mezuzah hanging from your neck, rabbi."
"I know," Zev said, fingering his cross. "Like you, I wear it because it works. That is undeniable. Where its power comes from, I don't know. Maybe from God, maybe from somewhere else. The how and the why I'll figure out later. I've been too busy trying to stay alive to give it my full attention." He held up his hands. "Talk of intangibles we should save for the daylight. Now we should ready ourselves. I believe we'll soon have uninvited and unsavory company. We should be prepared."
Looking unhappy, Zev wandered away. But Joe didn't want to let this drop. He sensed a chance to break through his niece's wall of disbelief. By doing so he might save her soul.
He lowered his voice. "If the power of the cross is not from God, Lacy, then who?"
"Might not be a who," she said with a shrug. "Might be a what. I don't know. I'm just going with it for now."
" 'There are none so blind as those who will not see,' " Joe said.
"It's not blindness to not see something that won't show itself. Where's your god now?" She jutted her chin at Zev's retreating figure. "His god and yours—where's he been? This is Ascension Thursday, right? Think about that. Maybe Jesus ascended and kept on going. Turned his back on this planet and forgot about it. After the way he was treated here, who could blame him?"
Joe shook his head, feeling a growing anger mixed with dismay. He hated to hear his niece talk like this. "Are you still an anarchist too?"
"Damn betcha."
"Well now, it looks like you've got what you wanted—a world without religion, without government, without law—what do you think?"
Joe could tell by the set of her jaw and the flash of fire in her eyes that he'd struck a nerve.
"This is not at all what I was talking about! This undead empire is more repressive than any regime in human history. It makes Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia look like Sunday school!"
"And they're here to stay," Joe said, wondering if all today's plans and preparations weren't an exercise in futility.
He wondered where Palmeri was and how long before he got here.
PALMERI . . .
He wore the night like a tuxedo.
Dressed in a fresh cassock, Father Alberto Palmeri turned off County Line Road and strolled toward St. Anthony's. He loved the night, felt at one with it, attuned to its harmonies and its discords. The darkness made him feel so alive. Strange to have to lose your life before you could really feel alive. But this was it. He'd found his niche, his me'tier.
Such a shame it had taken him so long. All those years trying to deny his appetites, trying to b
e a member of the other side, cursing himself when he allowed his appetites to win, as he had with increasing frequency toward the end of his mortal life. He should have given in to them long ago.
It had taken undeath to free him.
And to think he had been afraid of undeath, had cowered in fear that night in the cellar of the church, surrounded by crosses. But he had not been as safe as he'd thought. A posse of Serfs had torn him from his hiding place and brought him to kneel before Gregor. He'd cried out and begged with this undead master to spare his life. Fortunately Gregor had ignored his pleas. All he had lost by that encounter was his blood.
And in trade, he'd gained a world.
For now it was his world, at least this little corner of it, one in which he was completely free to indulge himself in any way he wished. Except for the blood. He had no choice about the blood. That was a new appetite, stronger than all the rest, one that would not be denied. But he did not mind the new appetite in the least. He'd found interesting ways to sate it.
Up ahead he spotted dear, defiled St. Anthony's. He wondered what the serfs had prepared for tonight. They were quite imaginative. They'd yet to bore him.
But as he drew nearer the church, Palmeri slowed. His skin prickled. The building had changed. Something was very wrong there, wrong inside. Something amiss with the light that beamed from the windows. This wasn't the old familiar candlelight, this was something else, something more. Something that made his insides tremble.
Figures raced up the street toward him. Live ones. His night vision picked out the earrings and familiar faces of some of the serfs. As they neared he sensed the warmth of the blood coursing just beneath their skins. The hunger rose in him and he fought the urge to rip into their throats. He couldn't allow himself that pleasure. Gregor had told him how to keep the servants dangling, keep them working for him and the nest. They all needed the services of the indentured living to remove whatever obstacles the cattle might put in their way.
Someday, when he was allowed to have get of his own, he would turn some of these, and then they'd be bound to him in a different way.
"Father! Father!" they cried.
He loved it when they called him Father, loved being one of the undead and dressing like one of the enemy.
F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Page 15