The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  He closed his eyes. He was tired.

  When he opened them again, it was dark. He jerked upright. He couldn’t have dozed off that long. A glance at his watch revealed that barely an hour and a half had passed. Then he heard a rumble of thunder and understood: A summer storm was brewing.

  The front doorbell rang. Was that what had awakened him? Alan turned on the lights, then opened the door and found a man standing there. He was short and thin, wearing a Miami Dolphins jacket, nervously twisting a baseball cap in his hands as he looked up at Alan.

  “Dr. Bulmer, could I speak to you a minute?”

  He had that look, that hungry look. Alan swallowed.

  “Sure. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s my wife, Doc. She—”

  Alan had a sudden queasy feeling. “Were you over at my office?”

  “Yeah. But they wouldn’t let me in to see you. You see, my—”

  “How did you find out where I live?”

  “I followed you from the office.”

  My God! He hadn’t thought of that.

  Alan looked beyond the man to the street. The storm was rapidly swallowing the light, but flickers of lightning revealed a caravan of cars and vans and Winnebagos pulling up to the curb.

  “I see you didn’t come alone.”

  The man looked around with obvious annoyance. “A couple of other guys followed you too. They must’ve told the rest. I was gonna wait till you came out, but when I saw them coming I figured I better get to you first.”

  “I can’t do anything for you now,” Alan said. Is this what it was going to be like? People ringing his doorbell, camped on his lawn? “I told you: tomorrow at five.”

  “I know that. But y’see, we live in Stuart—that’s a ways north of Palm Beach in Flahda—and the wife’s too sick to be moved so I was wondering if maybe you’d sorta like come down and see her.” He laughed nervously. “A long-distance house call, if you know what I mean.”

  Despite the uneasiness that was growing by inches and yards within him, Alan couldn’t help being touched by this little man who had come all the way up the coast on behalf of his sick wife.

  “I don’t think so,” Alan said. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the growing crowd outside. “At least not now.”

  “I’ll drive you. Don’t worry about that. It’s just that”—his voice caught—“that she’s dying and nobody seems to be able to do anything for her.”

  “I really can’t leave,” Alan said as gently as he could. “I’ve got too many people here to care—”

  “You’re her only hope, man! I seen what you did today and if you can help those people, you can help her, I know it!”

  A dozen or more people were straggling across the lawn toward them. Thunder rattled the windows. The sky was going to open up any minute. Alan started to close the door.

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Sorry, hell!” the man said, stepping forward and blocking the door’s swing. “You’re comin’ with me!”

  “But don’t you see, I—”

  “You’ve got to, man! I’ll pay you anything you want!”

  “Money has nothing to do with it.” The people had reached the walk and were closing in on the front steps. “I’m sorry,” he said as he tried to push the door closed.

  A hoarse “No!” chorused from the man and the others directly behind him as they all leaped forward and slammed the door open, sending Alan reeling backward, off balance.

  But they didn’t stop at the door. In a blind, frantic rush, squeezing through the open doorway two and three at a time, eyes wild, faces desperate, hands outstretched and reaching, they came for him. Not to hurt him. He could see no malice in their eyes, but that didn’t lessen his terror. There was no stopping them. They wanted to touch him, to grab him, to pull him toward their sick loved ones, or toward their cars and pickups to drive him where the needy ones waited, to use him, to own him for a minute, just a few seconds, just long enough for him to work his miracle and then he could have his freedom back and go about his business with their eternal thanks.

  That was what frightened him the most—he had become a thing to them.

  There were so many of them, and as they pushed and shoved at each other to get to him, he stumbled and fell to the floor. And then some of the others around him tripped too and fell on him, driving him down, knocking the wind out of him with explosive force. And still more fell atop them. Alan felt the thick fibers of the rug grind into his left cheek from below as someone’s belly molded itself around his face from above. An elbow drove into his stomach. Frantic, he tried to cry out his pain, his fear, but he couldn’t breathe.

  If they didn’t get off him and give him some air, he was going to suffocate!

  Then everything went black.

  31

  Ba

  The Missus had been silent all the way in from the city. Lately she had spent much of their time in the car quizzing him for his naturalization exam. He was glad for no questions today; he had been having second thoughts about citizenship. Not because he didn’t love this new country—he truly did—but because naturalization seemed so final, like a deathblow to his homeland, a final slap in the face, saying You are dead and gone and useless to me, so I’ve found another place and hereby renounce you forever.

  Could he do that?

  And yet, his village was gone, his friends were no longer in the country, and those ruling his homeland would probably execute him if he returned.

  He wished there were an easy answer.

  The Missus watched the threatening sky and flickering lightning in silence. As they passed Dr. Bulmer’s office, she finally spoke.

  “Well, look at that—the lot’s empty.”

  Ba slowed and glanced to his left in the pre-storm dimness. The lot was not completely empty—there were still two cars there—but it was a far cry from the around-the-clock congestion for the past few weeks.

  “I wonder what happened?”

  “Perhaps they gave up and left, Missus.”

  “I doubt it. They waited this long…hard to believe they’d all lose patience at once.”

  “Perhaps the police drove them off.”

  “Maybe. Tony must have finally got fed up with the mob scene around his office and blown the whistle. But I’m sure he wouldn’t have done it without checking with Alan, and I can’t see Alan agreeing to that. Maybe…”

  Her voice trailed off. Although the Missus thought she hid them from the world, Ba knew her deep feelings for Dr. Bulmer. The tales warned against loving the one with the Dat-tay-vao. But what could he say to her? How could one warn against feelings? Besides, the die was cast. The Dat-tay-vao sought those whose lives were already pointed along a certain path. Ba knew that the Doctor would follow that path at all costs. It was his karma.

  Still, for some unaccountable reason, the nearly deserted parking lot struck an uneasy note within him.

  He accelerated to cruising speed and was ready to bear right toward Toad Hall at the fork in the road when the Missus spoke.

  “Swing by Dr. Bulmer’s house before we go home.”

  “Yes, Missus,” Ba said with a secretly approving smile. The Missus too sensed that something was wrong.

  The lightning grew brighter, the sky darker, and the thunder was now audible through the car’s soundproofing. As rain poured from the sky in a sudden torrent, Ba turned on the headlights and heard the Missus gasp as they revealed the street ahead, lined on both sides with a motley assortment of vehicles. Either someone was throwing a very big party or—

  “They’ve found his house!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper behind his right ear as she leaned forward and stared ahead.

  He pulled to a stop in the middle of the road before the Doctor’s house. Through the sheets of rain he could see a crowd of people pushing and squeezing their way through the front door.

  “Oh, Ba! They’re in there!”

  The anguish in her voice was all he needed to hear. He slammed t
he Graham into neutral, set the emergency brake, took off his chauffeur’s cap, and leaped out into the pelting rain. He did not run, but a quick stride with his long legs moved him along almost as quickly as another man at a run. He reached the crowd from its rear and began working his way through it. Those who would not or could not move aside he grabbed by the back of the shirt or blouse or nape of the neck and pulled from before him and deposited behind, one after the other in a rhythmic swimming motion.

  He was soon in the house. Although he could not see the Doctor, he knew immediately where he was—in the flailing knot of humanity lumped in the middle of the living room. Were these people mad? Were they trying to crush the life out of the Doctor? How long had he been under them? He had to get to him.

  Ba waded into the crowd, roughly pushing aside anyone who was in his way until he reached the knot.

  The lights flickered, then went out. It didn’t matter to Ba. He simply reached into the knot and yanked on anyone he contacted, using the sporadic flashes of lightning through the windows to adjust his course. He worked hard, knowing he didn’t have much time. The people in here were more determined—some fiercely so. They struck back at him, aiming fists at his face, kicks at his groin. Ba was rougher on these, literally hurling them aside. The room became filled with sound, shouts of pain and anger breaking through the nearly continuous roar of the thunder.

  The lights suddenly went on again and he found himself standing over the form of Dr. Bulmer, white-faced, gasping, disheveled. He held his hand out to the man. As the Doctor grasped it and pulled himself to his feet, Ba heard the babble of voices around him die to the point where he could understand snatches of sentences here and there.

  …“Who the hell is he?”…“Where’d he come from?”…“Gawd he’s big!”…“Looks sicker than you, pal!”…

  The people backed away, leaving Ba and the Doctor in a rough circle of clear floor. Ba knew that his appearance was forbidding as he stood there dripping water, his thin wet hair plastered to his skull and hanging over his forehead. Perhaps that alone would be enough to get the Doctor out to the car without further violence.

  “The Missus awaits you in her car,” he told Dr. Bulmer.

  The Doctor nodded. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

  Ba knew that was a very slim possibility. “Perhaps, but would you please speak to her to assure her of your safety?”

  “Sure.” He started toward the door.

  A man stepped in his way. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till you’ve seen my sister, pal.”

  Ba stepped forward but the man was apparently waiting and ready for him: Without warning, he swung a vicious uppercut at Ba’s jaw. Ba blocked the blow with his palm and wrapped his long fingers, around the man’s fist. He would have to make an example of this one. He held the man’s hand trapped in his own so that all could see how powerless he was, and then he twisted it back sharply. There was a loud crack and the man screamed and went down on his knees.

  “Jesus!” the Doctor said. “Don’t hurt them!”

  “The Missus awaits you.”

  “Okay,” said the Doctor. He turned to the crowd. “I want you all out of here when I get back.”

  Amid angry murmuring, Ba followed him out through the rain to the car. As the Doctor opened the door to the Graham and leaned in, people began to shout.

  …“Sure! He’s got plenty of time for the rich but none for us!”…“Is that what I’ve got to do to get to him, buy a classic car?”…

  Over the roar of the thunder, Ba heard glass crash behind him as he reached the curb. He turned and saw a lamp land on the lawn after smashing through a front window. More shattering: Some of the people were pulling bricks from a garden border and hurling them through the windows. Others were turning Ba’s way. Even before the bricks started flying toward him and the car, Ba was moving. He pushed Dr. Bulmer into the back seat and closed the door after him. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat, threw the car into gear, and sped off.

  “What in the name of—” the Doctor said from the back, and then a brick bounced off the trunk with a loud thunk!

  “My car!” the Missus cried, turning to stare out the tiny rear window. “Why would they want to hurt my Graham?”

  “They’re angry, frustrated, and afraid,” the Doctor said.

  The Missus laughed. “Anybody else I’d call a sap for saying something like that. But you, Alan, you’ve really got the curse.”

  “What curse?”

  “Empathy.”

  Peering through the rain as he drove toward Toad Hall, Ba realized that his own reply to the Doctor would have been, “The Dat-tay-vao.”

  32

  At Toad Hall

  Sylvia stood at the library doors and watched Alan as he gazed out the tall windows at the lightning. She wished the drapes were drawn. Lightning had terrified her ever since five-year-old Sylvia Avery in Durham, Connecticut, had seen a bolt of lightning split a tree and set it ablaze not twenty feet from her bedroom window. She had never forgotten the terror of that moment. Even now, as an adult, she could not bear to watch a storm.

  Alan must have sensed her presence, for he turned and smiled at her.

  “Good fit,” he said, tugging on the lapels of the blue bathrobe he was wearing. “Almost perfect. You must have known I was coming.”

  “Actually, it belongs to Charles,” she said, and watched closely for his reaction.

  His smile wavered. “He must be a pretty regular visitor.”

  “Not as regular as he used to be.”

  Was that relief in his eyes?

  “Your clothes will be out of the dryer soon.”

  He turned back to the windows. “My memory keeps betraying me—I could swear you told me the new peach tree was on the right.”

  “I did. It’s just that it’s been growing like crazy. It’s now bigger than the older one.”

  The phone rang and she picked it up on the first ring.

  It was Lieutenant Sears of the Monroe Police Department, asking for Dr. Bulmer.

  “For you,” she said, holding it out to him.

  The first thing Alan had done upon arriving at Toad Hall was to call the police and report the disturbance at his home. He’d said he didn’t want to press charges, just wanted everybody out of his house and off his property. The lieutenant was probably calling to say mission accomplished.

  She watched him speak a few words, then saw his face go slack. He said something like, “What? All of it? Completely?” He listened a bit longer, then hung up. His face was ashen when he turned to her.

  “My house,” he said in a small voice. “It’s burned to the ground.”

  Sylvia’s body tightened in shock. “Oh no!”

  “Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “Jesus, yeah. They don’t know if it was the mob or lightning or what. But it’s gone. Right down to the foundation.”

  Sylvia fought the urge to take him in her arms and say it would be all right, everything would be all right. But she just stood there and watched him go back to the window and stare out at the storm. She let him have a few moments to gather himself together.

  “You know what keeps going through my mind,” he said at last with a hollow laugh. “It’s crazy. Not that I lost my clothes or all that furniture, or even the house itself. My records! My moldy-goldy-oldy forty-fives are gone, reduced to little black globs of melted vinyl. They were my past, you know. I feel like someone’s just erased a part of me.” He shrugged and turned toward her. “Well, at least I’ve still got the CDs I burned off the records. Got them in my office and my car. But it’s not the same.”

  Something about his speech had been bothering her since he’d leaned into the car during the storm. Now she identified it: A trace of Brooklyn accent was slipping through. He had used it jokingly before; now it seemed part of his speech. Probably due to the tremendous strain he was under.

  “Maybe you’d better call your wife,” Sylvia said. “She’ll be worried if she calls and learns the phone’s o
ut of order.”

  Sylvia knew his wife was in Florida. She didn’t know exactly why, but assumed that the lady found the storm around her husband easier to weather from a thousand or so miles away.

  “Nah. Don’t worry about that,” Alan said as he walked around the room, inspecting the titles on the shelves. “Ginny hasn’t much to say to me these days. Lets her lawyer do her talking for her. His latest message was a packet of divorce papers that arrived today.”

  Oh, you poor man, Sylvia thought as she watched him peruse the bookshelves with such studied nonchalance. He’s lost everything. His wife has left him, his house has burned to the ground, he can’t even get into his own office, and he stands a good chance of losing his license to practice medicine. His past, his present, his future—all gone or threatened! God! How can he stand there without screaming out to heaven to give him a break?

  She didn’t want to pity him. He obviously wasn’t wallowing in any self-pity and she was sure he would resent any from her.

  Yet it was certainly a safer emotion than the others she felt for him.

  She wanted him so badly now. More than she could ever remember wanting any man since Greg. And here he was, in her home, alone. Gladys had gone for the night after putting Alan’s wet clothes in the dryer, and Ba had beat a hasty retreat to his quarters over the garage. Alan had nowhere else to go, and all the moral restraints that had separated them were now gone.

  Why was she so frightened? It wasn’t the storm.

  Sylvia forced herself to go to the bar. “Brandy?” she said. “It’ll warm you.”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  He came closer.

  She splashed an inch or so into each of two snifters and handed him one, then quickly retreated to the far corner of the leather sofa, tucking her legs under her and hiding them in the folds of her robe. Why in God’s name had she undressed and put on this robe? Just to make him feel more comfortable in Charles’s? What was the matter with her? What had she been thinking?