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

by F. Paul Wilson

  He reached the main span of the road and continued walking. Lightning blanched the dark sky and thunder drowned out the rumble of the cars and trucks speeding by. Wind lashed the rain into his eyes. He walked on, faster now, a sense of urgency lighting inside him. He was late, behind schedule. If he didn’t hurry, he’d arrive too late for Jeffy.

  Without thinking, he turned and began walking backwards. Of its own accord, almost as if by reflex, his arm thrust out toward the traffic, his thumb pointing toward his destination.

  It was at a point in the road where the water was particularly deep and the cars had to slow to a crawl to pass through that a car pulled to a stop beside him and the passenger door flew open.

  “Boy, do you look like you could use a lift!” said a voice from within.

  Alan got into the car and pulled the door closed after him. “Where y’going?” said the plump man in the driver’s seat.

  Alan said, “Jeffy.”

  Finally, the crowd, the ambulance, and the police cars were all gone. Only Ba and the old woman on the stoop remained, he in the rainy darkness, she in the pool of light under the overhang on her front stoop.

  Ba walked over and stood at the bottom of the steps.

  “What did you see?”

  She gasped as she looked down at him. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Someone who has seen strange things in his lifetime. What did you see?”

  “I told the police.”

  “Tell me.”

  She sighed, looked over to the opening of the alley beside the building, and began to speak.

  “I was watching the storm. Sitting at my window, watching the storm. I always sit at my window, rain or shine. Not much going on outside most of the time, but it’s sure a helluva lot more than’s going on inside. So I was sitting there, watching the lightning, when I seen this guy come walking down the alley, walking kind of funny, like he’d hurt his leg or something. And he’s walking in the rain like he don’t know it’s raining. I figure he’s on drugs, which means he’s right at home around here.”

  “Excuse me,” Ba said, his interest aroused now. “But what did this man look like?”

  “Maybe forty. Brown hair, blue pants, and a light blue shirt. Why? You know him?”

  Ba nodded. That described the Doctor perfectly. “I’m looking for him.”

  “Well, you better hope you don’t find him! You should have seen what happened to those two bums, God rest their souls”—she crossed herself—“when they tried to rob him! He grabbed them and they went into fits and died and rotted, all in a few minutes! You’ve never seen anything like it! And neither have I until today!”

  Ba said nothing, only stared at her, stunned.

  “You think I’m crazy, too, dontcha? You and those cops. Well, go ahead. Think what you want. I saw what I saw.”

  “Did you see which way he went?” Ba said, as he found his voice again.

  “No, I—” was all he heard, for she flinched as a particularly bright bolt of lightning cut through the rain and gloom, and what ever else she might have said was lost in the thunderclap that followed on its heels. She turned and opened the door to the building.

  “I didn’t hear you!” Ba called.

  “I said I didn’t want to see.”

  Ba hurried back to his car. As he sped along the streets, looking for a phone, his mind raced in time with the engine.

  What was happening? First the senator, now these two men. Was the Dat-tay-vao turning evil? Or were these examples of what was meant by that line from the song: “If you value your well-being/Impede not its way”?

  Perhaps Chac had been wise after all not to prevent the Doctor from leaving. He might have ended as a rotted corpse.

  Ba was no longer searching for the Doctor. That could wait. Before he did anything else, he had to find a phone. The Missus had to be warned. If the Doctor made it to Toad Hall, the Missus might try to keep him from Jeffy, thinking it was for the Doctor’s own good.

  His mind turned away from what might happen.

  He came to a light at a main thoroughfare, but couldn’t find a sign to tell him its name. He saw a Shell station half a block to his left and headed for it. Fortunately, the pay phone there hadn’t been vandalized and he called Toad Hall.

  A recorded voice came on the line: “We are sorry, but your call did not go through. Please hang up and dial again.”

  Ba did, and received the same message. A third try with the same result left one conclusion: The lines were down again in Monroe.

  Ba asked the station attendant the quickest route to the Long Island Expressway and then sped off, his mind consumed with a vision of the Missus withering and rotting under the Doctor’s hand as she tried to stop him.

  A glance at the dashboard clock showed 8:15. Plenty of time. Still he hurried, weaving through the traffic, dodging the potholes. A sign pointed straight ahead for the L.I.E./495. The red light ahead turned green so he accelerated.

  And then he saw the delivery truck careen into the intersection as it ran its red light. Ba all but stood on the brakes. As the Pacer went into a spin on the wet pavement, he saw the driver’s wide eyes and shocked, open mouth, saw the name IMBESI BROS. in big yellow letters on its side, and then the world disappeared.

  “Sure this is where you want to get out?”

  Alan nodded. He had remembered his own name—at least his first name—and recognized some of his surroundings. The sign had said, EXIT 39—GLEN COVE RD. The car was stopped under the overpass, out of the rain. He knew that Jeffy was directly off to his left, due north of here. The driver was heading farther east.

  “Yes.”

  The driver glanced around at the narrow shoulder of the road. “This is where this Jeffy is gonna meet you?”

  “Not far,” Alan said as he opened the door and stepped out into the rain.

  “It’s eight-forty-five now. What time they comin’?”

  “Soon.”

  “You’re gonna catch pneumonia soon.”

  Alan said, “Jeffy.”

  “Just remember me the next time you’re driving along and see someone soaked and walking in the rain.”

  “Yes,” Alan said and closed the door.

  After the car had sped off, Alan struggled up the embankment to the road above and turned north.

  It wasn’t far now. He was tired, but he knew that once he reached Jeffy he would be able to take a long, long rest.

  Where was Ba?

  Sylvia paced the library, dark but for the glow of a few candles placed here and there around the room. The power was out, the phones were out, and the tide was coming in. Quarter to ten now. An hour to high tide.

  An involuntary yelp of fright escaped Sylvia as a jab of white-hot lightning lit the room and thunder rattled Toad Hall on its foundations.

  Would this storm never stop?

  Futile as it was to rail at nature, Sylvia took comfort in the gesture. It vented her tension. And it was better than thinking about the decision facing her.

  If Ba had found Alan and was keeping him away until the hour of the Dat-tay-vao had passed, then she was home free. But if Alan was still on his way here….

  If only she knew! If only Ba would call!

  I’m copping out.

  She had to make a decision. If she was ever going to respect herself after this nightmare was over, she would have to get off the fence and stop hoping for someone to decide for her.

  She started to sigh but it came out as a sob. She bit her lip to hold back the tears. There was only one choice.

  She had to stop Alan.

  God, how she ached to give Jeffy a chance at being a normal little boy. But the price…the price.

  How could she allow Alan, in his brain-damaged state, to risk further damage, perhaps death, on the chance that he might cure Jeffy’s autism? So far the Dat-tay-vao had been used only on physical ills. Who even knew if it could help Jeffy at all?

  And if it could, wasn’t that the most frightening prosp
ect of all?

  In that moment, she faced the gut-wrenching realization that she wasn’t afraid for Alan as much as she was afraid for Jeffy and herself. What if Jeffy’s autism was suddenly cured and he became a normal, responsive child? What kind of child would he be? What if he loathed her? Or even worse—what if she loathed him? She couldn’t bear that. Almost better to have him stay the way he was and still love him than to face the unknown.

  Still, her mind was made up: If Alan arrived, she’d stop him, even if it meant physically blocking his way.

  She should have felt relieved now that she had finally reached a decision. Why did she feel so defeated?

  She took the flashlight and ran upstairs to check on Jeffy. She found him sleeping peacefully despite the storm. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed his curly, sun-bleached hair.

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and she felt her resolve weaken, but she took a deep breath and held it until she hurt. Then she let it out, slowly.

  “Your day will come, little man,” she whispered, and kissed his freckled forehead.

  Then she went back downstairs to wait for Alan.

  The jostling brought Ba back to consciousness. Flashing red lights glowed dimly through the blur that coated his eyes like thick jelly. As he blinked and his vision cleared, he saw a concrete overhang a few yards above with a sign that read EMERGENCY ENTRANCE. From below him he heard a clank and felt one firm, final jostle. He realized with a start that he was on a stretcher that had been slid out of an ambulance and had its wheels lowered. He tried to sit up but found straps buckled across his chest. The effort caused a blaze of pain to rip up the back of his neck and explode in his head.

  “Let me up,” he said in a voice that did not quite sound like his own.

  A brusque but gentle hand patted his shoulder. “Take it easy, mac. You’ll be okay. We already thought you was dead but you ain’t. We’ll be unstrapping you in a minute.”

  He was wheeled up next to a gurney, unstrapped, and moved laterally. Only then did he realize that he was on a wooden backboard. Ba waited until the backboard had been removed, then made his move before any more straps could be fastened around him.

  The room swam and a wave of nausea washed over him as he sat up. He clenched his teeth and bit back the bile that welled up in his throat.

  “Just a minute there, pal,” one of the attendants said. “You better lie down until they get a doctor in here.”

  “What time is it?” Ba said. The room had righted itself and was holding steady. He realized there was a bandage around his head. There were other people on other gurneys spaced evenly along the walls of the emergency ward, some enclosed in curtains, some open. Activity swirled and eddied around him.

  “Ten-seventeen,” said the other attendant.

  Two hours! Ba slid off the gurney onto his feet. I’ve lost two hours!

  He had to get to Toad Hall, to the Missus!

  As he began to walk toward the door to the outer hallway, ignoring the protests from the ambulance attendants, a middle-aged nurse, clipboard in hand, marched up to him.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?”

  Ba looked at her once, then brushed by her. “Please do not stop me. I must leave.”

  She stood aside and let him pass without saying another word.

  He went through the automatic doors and stood there on the curb, his fists clenching and unclenching against his thighs.

  He had no car!

  A door slammed to his right and he saw an ambulance driver walking away from his rig. The diesel engine was still running.

  Before actually making a conscious decision, Ba found himself walking toward the vehicle as the driver passed him and went through the emergency doors. The door was unlocked. Without looking back, Ba seated himself behind the wheel, put it in gear, and pulled out onto the street. Because a right turn would take him out of sight more quickly, Ba turned that way and came upon an arrow pointing straight ahead to 495.

  He found the switches for the flashers and the siren and turned them on. With no little sense of satisfaction, he floored the accelerator and watched cars slew out of his way to let him pass. He began to think that he might have a chance to make it to Toad Hall in time after all.

  The streets here looked vaguely familiar, yet try as he might, Alan could not remember the name of the town. A number of times he wanted to turn from his path and investigate a side road or follow a tantalizing thread of familiarity to see where it led.

  But he found he could not. What ever was guiding him—driving him—would not allow him to veer from the path toward Jeffy. There was a monumental singularity of purpose within him that had all but taken control.

  He turned off the road and walked between two brick gateposts onto an asphalt driveway, then off the driveway and into a stand of willows where he stopped and stood among the drooping leafy branches that swayed like soft bead curtains in the wind. He was glad to stop; he was exhausted. If it were entirely up to him, he’d drop onto the sodden ground and go to sleep.

  But it was not up to him. So he stood and waited, facing the huge, dark house across the lawn. Beyond the house he could hear water lapping high and hungry against the docks. The tide was almost in. He didn’t know how he knew that, but there was no doubt in his mind. And that was what he seemed to be waiting for—the crest of the tide.

  He felt a new sensation, a tension coiling within him, pulsating eagerly, readying to spring. His hands felt warm.

  And then he began to walk toward the house.

  It was time.

  “Jeffy,” he said to the darkness.

  Finally, the storm was dying. The lightning was now dim flashes and the thunder only low-pitched rumbles, like an overfed stomach with indigestion.

  Thank God! Sylvia thought. Now, if only the lights will come back on….

  Phemus began to bark.

  Sylvia went to the window that looked out on the driveway, but saw no car. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was 10:40. Three minutes to high tide. A chill ran over her. Someone was out there in the darkness, moving this way across the lawn toward the house. She wished she could turn on the outside spotlights. At least then she could see him. Not that it really mattered. She could sense his presence.

  Alan was coming.

  But how could that be? How could he get all the way here from lower Manhattan? It just didn’t seem possible. Yet he was out there. She was sure of it.

  Flashlight in hand, she took Phemus by the collar and led him back to the utility room where she closed him in with the washer and dryer. As she was moving toward the library, she heard the front door swing open. She stopped for a minute, listening to her heart thudding in her chest. She thought she had locked that door! What if it wasn’t Alan? What if it was a burglar—or worse?

  Turning her flashlight off, Sylvia steeled herself and crept softly along the hall until she got to the front foyer. A distant flash of lightning flickered through the still-open door, reflecting off wet footprints on the floor and backlighting a dark figure starting up the stairs.

  “Alan?”

  The figure didn’t reply, but continued to climb. It seemed to be limping as it took the steps one at a time. Ba had said that Alan was limping when he left Chac’s. It had to be him.

  She flicked on the flashlight and angled the beam until she caught his face.

  Yes, it was Alan, and yet it was not Alan. His face was slack, his eyes vacant. He was different.

  “Alan—don’t go up there.”

  Alan glanced her way, squinting in the beam of light.

  “Jeffy,” he said in a voice she barely recognized.

  Cajole him, she told herself. Talk him down. He’s not all there.

  She held the light under her own face. “It’s me—Sylvia. Don’t go to Jeffy now. He’s asleep. You’ll only disturb him. Maybe you’ll frighten him.”

  “Jeffy,” was all that Alan said.

  And then the lights came on.

&n
bsp; Sylvia gasped at the sight of Alan in his entirety. He looked terrible. Wet, dirty, his hair matted and twisted by wind and rain, and his eyes—they were Alan’s and yet not Alan’s.

  He continued up the stairs one at a time at his painfully slow pace, moving like an automaton.

  With fear and pity mixing inside her, Sylvia started toward him. “Don’t go up there, Alan. I don’t want you to. At least not now.”

  He was halfway up the staircase now and didn’t look around. He simply said, “Jeffy.”

  “No, Alan!” She ran up the stairs until she was beside him. “I don’t want you to go near him! Not like this. Not the way you are.”

  The lights wavered, flicked off for a second, then came back on.

  “Jeffy!”

  Fear had taken over now. There was no longer any question in her mind that Alan was completely deranged. In the distance she heard a siren. If it was the police, she wished they were coming here, but it was too late to call them now. She couldn’t let Alan near Jeffy. She’d have to stop him herself.

  She grabbed his arm. “Alan, I’m telling you now—”

  With a spasmodic jerk of his left arm, he elbowed her away, slamming her back against the banister. Sylvia winced at the pain in her ribs, but what hurt more was that Alan did not even look around to see what he had done.

  The siren was louder now, almost as if it were passing directly in front of the house. Sylvia scurried up to the top of the stairs ahead of Alan and faced him, blocking his way.

  “Stop, Alan! Stop right there!”

  But he kept on coming, trying to squeeze by to her left. She tightened her grip on the banister and wouldn’t let him pass. She was so close to him now, and she could see the determination in his eyes. He pressed against her with desperate strength as the lights flickered again and the siren’s wail became deafeningly loud.

  “Jeffy!”

  “No!”

  He grabbed her arms to push her aside and then everything happened at once. Pain—it started at her core and began to boil within her, tearing at her, making her feel as if she were being turned inside out. Her vision dimmed. She heard a pounding sound—footsteps on the stairs or the blood in her ears?