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

by F. Paul Wilson

  "I don't see how the Church can object to that."

  "It doesn't object, but neither does it approve. It will never say so, but I believe the Church is a little concerned about groups like this. Although they are few in number, they are growing. They go to Mass and to confession and receive Communion in the orthodox ways, as we all did earlier this morning. But every Sunday afternoon and every Wednesday night, when they gather in meetings like this, they are on their own, with nothing between them and the Spirit. Surprising things happen."

  "How surprising?"

  He touched her hand gently. "Stay and see."

  Grace stayed.

  She sat in the last row and listened to readings from the Gospel, from various books of the Old Testament—mostly the frightening ones from Ecclesiastes—and to a homily from Brother Robert. His voice was mesmerizing. He was fiery and moving as he exorted the Chosen, whom he called the Army of God, to be ever vigilant for signs as to the identity of the devil incarnate, the Antichrist.

  While he was speaking, some people sat and listened quietly, but some called out Amens, others stood and held their arms aloft as they swayed back and forth in time to a music audible only to them. Grace was shocked. This was more like one of those Protestant revival meetings they put on television every so often.

  Then they all began to pray. And they prayed holding hands. The woman in front of her turned and reached her hand back for Grace to take, but Grace shook her head and folded her hands in front of her. She didn't want to hold hands during prayer! What kind of praying was that?

  And then it happened.

  A woman in a tweed suit in the front row stood up, rigid and trembling, then fell down onto the floor and began to shake. The nurse in Grace brought her out of her own chair.

  "She's having a seizure!" Grace cried.

  As she started forward, hands held her back, voices told her, "No, wait. She's all right"… "She has the Spirit"… "The Spirit is upon her."

  Sure enough, in a moment the woman lay still, then turned over and sat up. Her eyes were unfocused. Her tongue moved strangely as she opened her mouth and began to speak. The words that came out were like no human speech Grace had ever heard.

  Suddenly, directly to Grace's right, someone else, a man in a plaid flannel shirt, sprang up rigidly from his chair. He didn't convulse but started talking in a foreign language, one that sounded exactly like the first woman's. After he had finished, he stared blankly ahead, his jaw continuing to vibrate up and down.

  "Hear them?" said a voice in her ear.

  She turned and it was Brother Robert, standing at her side.

  "What's happening?"

  "They're speaking in tongues. Just like the Apostles did on the first Pentecost Sunday." His brown eyes sparkled. "Isn't it fascinating?"

  Another woman stood up and began to babble.

  "Three!" Brother Robert cried. "The Spirit is strong with us tonight! And always the same tongue! I understand that in other groups they speak in many tongues. But since I have been here, the Chosen have spoken in only one tongue!"

  Grace suddenly felt flushed and weak. This wasn't the safe, sane, staid Catholicism she knew, with its comfortable rituals and regimented responses. This was like one of those crazy holy-roller tent revivals. This was chaotic, frightening.

  "I need some air!"

  "Of course you do," Brother Robert said.

  She let him take her elbow and lead her upstairs to the brownstone's front foyer where it was cool but protected from the drizzle and the March wind.

  "That's better," she said, feeling her pulse begin to slow toward normal.

  "These prayer meetings can be upsetting at first, I know," Brother Robert said. "I was not sure what to make of them myself when I first came here. But they prove that the Spirit is with us, on our side, urging us forward."

  Grace didn't know about that, wasn't really sure of anything right now.

  "Is that what He's doing?" she said. "Urging you?"

  "Yes!" Brother Robert's eyes hardened. "This is war! Evil such as the world has never known is coming. Satan in human form, here not just to claim our lives but our very souls as well! War, Grace Nevins! And you are part of God's chosen army. The Spirit has called you! You cannot say no!"

  Grace could say nothing at all at that moment. Brother Robert was frightening her.

  "Look," he said in a softer tone, pointing through the door glass at the street outside. "Even now we are being watched. I have seen him here a number of times this week."

  Grace looked and saw a gray-haired man of about sixty standing under a tree across the street, facing their way. As she stared at him, he turned and walked away.

  2

  The leafless trees offered no shelter as Mr. Veilleur walked west on Thirty-seventh Street through the rain, shaking his head, baffled at the turmoil he sensed in the world around him.

  What was happening?

  Not far away, to the east, he sensed a kernel of chaos, throbbing like an open, infected wound. All these years of peace, and now this. How? Why? What had triggered it?

  Questions with no answers. At least none that he wanted to hear. For the news could only be bad. Worse than bad.

  And yet here on East Thirty-seventh he detected a warm glow. He had sensed it faintly before, but today it had been unusually strong, calling to him in a familiar voice, drawing him here.

  Something was going on in that brownstone, something playing counterpoint to the festering discord to the east. Those inside were receiving a warning. They were interpreting it in their own fashion, dressing it up in their personal myths, but at least they were responding.

  That gave him some hope, but not much. The battle lines were being drawn again. For what? A skirmish, or an all-out assault? Hopefully a standard-bearer would emerge from the group clustered in the brownstone.

  Not that it mattered much to him. He had served his time. Someone else could shoulder the burden this go-around. He was out of it. Out of it for good.

  He stopped when he reached Lexington and raised his hand, searching for a taxi—a usually futile quest on a rainy day. But just then a battered yellow cab pulled up to the curb in front of him and discharged two elderly women. Mr. Veilleur held the door for them.

  "Where y'goin', mac?" the cabbie said.

  "Central Park West."

  "Hopinski."

  As he slipped into the backseat Mr. Veilleur mused that if he believed in omens, he would take this near miracle as a good one.

  But he had long ago stopped believing in either.

  3

  "I know what this is about," said Catherine, the older, heavier sister. "And we can't take him in with us. At least I can't."

  Carol sat before Mr. Dodd's two daughters in her office at Monroe Community Hospital. It had taken her a week and a half to get both of them together in one place. This was the only day they could all do it. Kay Allen, her supervisor, would send her for psychiatric evaluation if she found out she was in on a Sunday.

  "Neither can I," said Maureen.

  "He's very depressed about going to the nursing home," Carol said.

  Mr. Dodd's welfare paperwork finally had gone through and she had found a bed for him at Sunny Vale in Glen Cove. He was due to be transported there on Thursday. She had seen a rapid deterioration in the old man since he had learned that he was now "on the dole," as he put it, and destined to spend his final days in a nursing home among strangers. He no longer cared about eating, shaving, or anything else.

  "No more depressed than we are about sending him," said Catherine, her tone daring Carol to challenge her.

  Carol sensed the guilt underlying the hostility, and empathized. The sisters saw themselves in a no-win situation.

  "He can dress himself, feed himself, bathe himself, get himself up in the morning, and put himself to bed at night. He doesn't need a nursing home. He needs his meals cooked and his clothes washed and someone to keep him company. He needs a family," Carol said.

 
Catherine rose from her chair. "We've been over all of this before on the phone. Nothing has changed. My sister and I and both our husbands work. We can't leave Pop alone in the house all day. The doctor told us his memory is bad. He could start to boil some water for coffee or soup and forget about it, and then one of us would come home to a roaring fire where our house used to be."

  "There are ways to overcome that," Carol said. "You can hire people to stay with him during the day—we can get him an allowance for a visiting homemaker for a while. Believe me, there are ways, and I can help you work things out if you'll give it a try." She decided to play her ace here. "Besides, it won't be forever. He's seventy-four. How many years does he have left? You can make them good ones. You can say good-bye to him."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Most people don't get a chance to say good-bye to their folks," Carol said. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

  She thought of her own parents, as she always did in instances such as this, thought of all the things she wished she had said to them while they were alive, not the least of which was good-bye. It seemed she would live out her life with a feeling of something left forever undone. She had added sparing others that burden as an unwritten, unspoken addition to her job description.

  "I mean," she went on, "one day they're here, the next day they're gone."

  Maureen took out a tissue and blotted her eyes, then looked up at Catherine.

  "Maybe we could—"

  "Maureen!"

  "I'm serious, Cathy. Let me talk to Donald. Let's think about it. There must be something we can do besides dumping him in a nursing home."

  "You think about it, Mo. And you talk to Donald. I already know what Tom will say."

  Carol figured this was as good a time as any to end the meeting. One of the sisters, at least, was having second thoughts.

  They're weakening, Mr. Dodd! I'll have you back with your family yet!

  After they were gone, she slumped into a chair. She'd have enjoyed this moment more if she felt better physically. It was those dreams. Night after night—the blood and violence, the pain and suffering. None as vivid as Monday's, but she kept waking up in cold sweats of fear, trembling and clutching Jim, unable to remember specific details, only their overall effect. Memories of the incident in Greenwich Village added to her malaise.

  Her stomach was adding the coup de grace. Always sour. She'd be ravenously hungry one moment, but when she'd go to have something to eat, the sight and smell of it would nauseate her. If she didn't know better she'd almost think—

  Good Lord! Am I pregnant?

  She ran to the elevators. Both cars were down in the basement so she took the stairs up. At the second floor she hurried along the corridor to the lab.

  "Maggie!" she said to the young woman at the lab desk, glad that someone she knew had pulled duty this weekend. Maggie had frizzy red hair and a face like a goose, but her smile was winning.

  "Carol! Hi! What are you doing in on a Sunday?"

  "I need a test!"

  "What for?"

  "Uh… pregnancy."

  "You late?"

  "I'm never on time, so how can I tell if I'm late?"

  Maggie looked at her sideways. "Is this 'Oh-God-I-hope-I'm-not' or 'Please-God-say-I-am'?"

  "Am! Am!"

  "Well, it's only supposed to be done on doctor's order, but since it's Sunday, who's to know, right?" She handed Carol a plastic-wrapped cup. "Give us some pee-pee and we'll see-see."

  Carol hesitated, fighting to keep her hopes from rising too far. She couldn't allow herself real hope. The test was a double-edged sword—too much hope and a negative would be crushing.

  With her heart thumping in her throat she headed for the door marked women.

  4

  Frustrated almost to the wall-kicking stage because he hadn't been able to open the safe, Jim turned his attention to other matters. It was after five by the time he had lugged all of Hanley's personal journals down from the upstairs library and lined them up on a separate shelf in the downstairs one. They were gray, leather-bound affairs with dates on their spines. One for each year, beginning with 1920 and ending with 1967. He left a gap in the middle for the volumes they could not find.

  "He must have had this year's with him when the plane went down," Jim said. "But where are the other four?"

  "Beats me, man," Gerry Becker said, standing beside him. "We've combed every bookshelf in the place."

  Jim nodded. He had pored through many of the journals. They contained summaries of Hanley's projects, his plans for the future, and day-by-day comments and observations on his personal life. They were a priceless peephole into his father's life.

  But where were 1939, 1940, 1941, and 1942? The four most important years—the three years before and the year of his birth, the ones that might contain his mother's name—were missing.

  Frustrating as all hell.

  "Maybe they're in that safe," Jim said. He looked at Carol, sitting in the wing chair. "What do you think, hon?"

  She was staring into space. Carol had been glum and withdrawn all night. Jim wondered what was bothering her.

  "Carol?"

  She shook herself. "What?"

  "You all right?"

  "Oh, yes. Fine, fine."

  Jim didn't believe a word of it, but he couldn't get into it with Becker still hanging around. He was getting to be a fixture around here, and that was a real drag.

  "Dig this," Becker said. He had been flipping through the 1943 volume. He shoved the book in front of" Jim. "Read the second para on the right."

  Jim squinted as he deciphered Hanley's crabbed hand:

  Ed and I had a bit of a laugh over Jazzy's pitiful attempt at blackmail. I told her she had seen the last penny she would ever see from me last year and to be on her way.

  "Jazzy!" Jim said. "I saw a name like that in—where was it?—1949!" He pulled the volume out and flipped through it. Where had he seen it? "Here!"

  He read aloud:

  "Read in the paper today that Jazzy Cordeau is dead. Such a shame. What disparity between the woman she became and the woman she could have been. The world will never know."

  Jim's mind raced. Jazzy Cordeau! French… New Orleans? Could she possibly be his mother? Jazzy Cordeau was the only female name he had found that was linked to the missing years.

  He had to get into that safe!

  "I think I'll be cuttin' out," Becker said. "I'm bushed."

  "Yeah," Jim said, trying to hide his relief. "Same here. Look, why don't we give this a rest for a while? We've been beating this place to death."

  Becker shrugged. "Fine with me. Maybe I'll check the morgues at a couple of papers for you, see if I can turn up anything. Buzz you in a couple of days."

  "Great. I appreciate that. You know the way out."

  When Jim heard the door slam, he turned to Carol and grinned. "Finally! He's gone!"

  She nodded absently.

  "Honey, what's wrong?"

  Carol's face twisted as tears filled her eyes. She began to cry. Jim rushed over and pulled her into his arms. She felt so small and frail against him.

  "I thought I was pregnant but I'm not!" she said, sobbing.

  He held her tight and rocked her back and forth.

  "Oh, Carol, Carol, don't take it so hard. We've got all the time in the world. We've got nothing better to do from now on than work on producing little feet to patter around this big old house."

  "But what if it never happens?"

  "It will."

  He led her toward the front door. It killed him to see her so sad. All this newfound wealth didn't mean squat if Carol was unhappy.

  He kissed her.

  "Come on. Let's get back to our own bed in our own little place and do some homework."

  She smiled through her tears.

  That was better!

  Nine

  Monday, March 4

  1

  Brother Robert knelt on the cold, rice-li
ttered floor by the window and silently chanted the Prime. When he was through, he remained kneeling. His window faced east and he looked out at the brightening sky.

  The evil was growing stronger. Every day it cast a greater pall over his spirit. And it was from there, to the east, from somewhere on Long Island, that it seemed to emanate. Martin had driven him the length of the island but he had been unable to pinpoint its source. The closer he got, the more diffuse it became—until he had been engulfed in a cacophony of evil sensations.

  A sign, Lord. Show me who it is. Show me Your enemy.

  And then what? How would he fight Satan incarnate?

  Will You teach me, Lord?

  He prayed so. He had no battle plan, no strategy. He was not a plotter, not a general. He was a contemplative monk who had given up the world in order to be closer to his God.

  Forgive the impertinence, Lord, but perhaps You made a mistake in choosing me to lead this flock. The burden is wide and my shoulders are so narrow.

  Perhaps he hadn't given up enough of the world. He had fasted and prayed and worked in the fields around the monastery, but still he had wanted to know. The lust for knowledge had driven him to petition his abbot, and the Abbot General himself, for permission to search out and catalog other monastic orders. Not the Benedictines and similar well-established examples, but lesser, more obscure orders that might have something to offer the monastic life as a whole.

  He had been given two years, but he had gone beyond that. His trek across the world had been endlessly fascinating. He had met with some of the Orphic brotherhood and a few Pythagoreans in Greece. He had found remnants of Therapeutae and Anchorites in the Mideast, and even a trio of Stylites, each sitting alone atop a stone pillar in the Gobi Desert. In the Far East he investigated many cenobitic Buddhist sects, and in Japan he met with the last two surviving members of an order of self-mutilating monks.