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

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Everybody's reading that," said the redheaded, gum-cracking lady behind the counter. "Wished I had twice as many, the way they're selling."

  Carol barely heard her. She saw the name Hanley in the first line and the word clone in the second, and then she was crushing the paper against her chest as her feet carried her toward the door.

  "Hey!" said the woman. "Y'forgot—!"

  Carol managed to say, "Keep the change!" and then she was out the door and running for the car. She had to get home, had to get to Jim with this before someone else did.

  As she raced through downtown Monroe, one word kept echoing in her head.

  How? How had Becker found out? How?

  After pulling into the driveway she ran around to the other side of the house and pushed the rhodos aside. The access cover to the crawl space was still closed. She pulled it open and stared in horror at the sandy emptiness. There was a flattened spot on the sand where she had left the journals, but the journals were gone!

  She rushed inside and found Jim sitting in the easy chair. His pale face and stricken expression were like a knife ripping into her chest.

  "Somebody left this on the front step," he said, holding up a copy of The Light.

  "Oh, Jim—"

  "How, Carol?" he said, looking at her with eyes that were so full of hurt she wanted to cry.

  "Jim, I didn't!"

  "Then how did Becker get hold of this stuff? He's got passages in his article that are practically word for word out of Hanley's letter to me. How could that be if the journals were incinerated as you said?"

  The phone rang, startling her. It sat at Jim's elbow but he ignored it. As she started toward it he said, "Leave it. It's just some reporter from one of the New York dailies wanting to know if the story is true."

  "Oh." This was awful and getting worse.

  "You haven't answered my question, Carol. How?"

  "Because I didn't really throw them away!"

  Jim rose slowly from the chair.

  "What?"

  "I—I only told you that so you wouldn't go looking for them. Actually I hid them in the crawl space until—"

  He took two steps toward her. "You mean, you lied to me about throwing them out?"

  "Yes. You see—"

  He came closer, his eyes angry now, almost wild. And that damn phone kept ringing and ringing.

  "You lied then, but you're telling the truth now?"

  "Yes."

  His expression had become so fierce it frightened her.

  "How do I know you're not lying now?"

  "Because I wouldn't!"

  "But you already did!" He thrust the headlines of The Light to within inches of her nose and shouted, "Will the real Carol Nevins Stevens please stand up and tell me why she did this to me?"

  Carol couldn't hold it in any longer. She began to cry.

  "But I didn't, Jim! This isn't fair!"

  The phone stopped ringing.

  "Well, we agree on that, at least," he said in a softer voice. He pointed to the paper. "I know you didn't intend this, but you've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do."

  She told him everything—from reading the journals to hiding them in the crawl space to confronting him the next morning with her fabricated story.

  "I wish now they had been burned."

  "So do I! Oh, you don't know how I wish that! But they were yours. It just didn't seem right."

  "Yeah. Mine." He sighed. "I think I'll go over to the mansion for a while."

  "No!" she cried as he turned and headed for the door. "Don't run away from this. We can handle it together!"

  "I'm sure we can. I'm not running away from anything. I've just got to be alone for a while. Just a few hours. I've got to figure out how I'm going to handle this"—he tapped his forehead—"up here. Then we'll face the world together—if you're still with me."

  "You know I am."

  His face was a tight mask. "Okay. I'll see you later."

  And then he was out and moving down the front walk. As she watched him go, Carol felt as if a noose were tightening around her throat.

  This was all her fault. God, how had she gotten them into this? And how were they ever going to get out?

  Behind her, the phone began ringing again.

  3

  Bill sat in his office and sipped a second cup of coffee while flipping through the Sunday Times. This was his favorite part of the week. The boys were all at breakfast and it was quiet. He had said early Mass at Our Lady of Lourdes and now had some time to himself. It was especially pleasurable today because "The Week in Review" section was full of news of the coming New Hampshire primary, just two days away, and how McCarthy was gaining on President Johnson. Not that anyone thought he could actually defeat the incumbent, but if he could make a decent showing, it could possibly influence the rest of the campaign and maybe the Democratic Party's stand on the war when convention time came around.

  Bill sighed and stared out the window. More than ever, he wished he could be in New Hampshire for the next seventy-two hours. That wasn't to be. And he wasn't going to get near any of the other primaries if he didn't get on the stick and write those letters to the New York and Maryland Provincials.

  He rolled a piece of paper into the old gray Olympia portable his folks had given him as a high-school graduation gift and began banging away. He was halfway through the first letter when he was interrupted by a timid knock on his office door.

  "Father Ryan?"

  It was Sister Miriam.

  "Yes, Sister? Is something wrong?"

  "I'm not sure." She held a folded newspaper in her hand and seemed unusually reticent. "Wasn't that friend of yours who was here a few weeks ago—the one who wanted to go through the records—wasn't his name Stevens?"

  "Sure. Jim Stevens."

  "Isn't he the one who inherited the Hanley estate?"

  "That's him. Why do you ask?"

  "Now, mind you, Father, I'm not the sort to buy this kind of trash on a regular basis," she said, unfolding the tabloid and extending it toward him, "but this paper has some very strange things to say about your friend and Dr. Hanley."

  Bill took the paper and frowned when he saw the logo, The Light, and its notorious left ear, "The News That Hides From the Light of Day Can't Escape The Light." Sister Miriam was an exemplary member of the Sisters of Charity, but she had an addiction to gossip magazines and tabloids. The Light was just about the cheesiest member of the latter category.

  "Jim Stevens is in here?" he said, opening to page three.

  "I think that's who they're talking about."

  He scanned the first paragraph and saw Jim's name, Roderick Hanley's, and Monroe, Long Island, mentioned. It looked like a long article.

  "Can I give this back to you later, Sister?"

  "Of course," she said in a conspiratorial tone, no doubt thinking she had won a convert. Then she left him alone with The Light.

  Fifteen minutes later Bill had finished the article and was up and pacing his office, feeling rocky.

  Bullshit! All bullshit! Has to be!

  But the paper had to have a damn near unimpeachable source to dare print something this far out. Otherwise Jim would sue it for every cent it had. And then there was the matter of Carol's call last week, about Jim being so upset as he traced his mother's identity. Of course he would have been upset—if this article was true, it meant he didn't even have a mother. Or a father, either, for that matter!

  What am I saying?

  Of course it wasn't true! How could it be true? This was the stuff of science fiction!

  But then again, Jim had been terribly upset on Tuesday.

  Good Lord! He wondered if Jim had seen the article yet. Bill didn't want to be the one to tell him about it, but he wanted to be available if Jim needed a friend. And he was going to need a friend or two when the big papers and television got hold of this.

  And what about Carol? She was probably hurting as much as Jim.

  He dialed Jim's n
umber but the line was busy. After three more futile tries he knew he had to get out to Monroe. Something told him he was going to be needed there.

  4

  The Sunday meeting was late getting started. Brother Robert wasn't here yet, and if he didn't show soon someone would be asked to start it in his place. Grace hoped no one asked her to speak. She wouldn't know what to say. She glanced around the room at the small, chatting groups. There seemed to be an air of expectation among the Chosen. Martin was paler than usual, and seemed especially tense. She felt it herself and could see it in the eyes of the others. Only the strange Mr. Veilleur seemed immune to it. He was sitting by himself in the last row, in the same spot as Wednesday, staring off into space.

  Suddenly Brother Robert burst in, his eyes bright and feverish, his face flushed. He was waving a newspaper.

  "This is it!" he cried, waving the tabloid in the air. "The sign we have been waiting for! It has come!"

  He rushed by her to the front. The aura of peace and tranquillity that usually enveloped him was gone. His movements were abrupt as he squared himself behind the lectern. His usually soft brown eyes glinted in the fluorescent light. He radiated nervous energy as he began making the sign of the cross without waiting for the Chosen to be seated.

  "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, bless this gathering.

  "Friends! We've all been touched by the Spirit in a special way. We've been privileged to be made aware of the incarnation of the Evil One, the Father of Lies, the Antichrist, who would undo all the work of the Son of God and his followers and his Church, who would plunge the world into eternal darkness. We have sensed his presence, but we haven't known in what guise he would come."

  Brother Robert held up the front page of the newspaper. Grace recognized The Light.

  "Now we know!

  "The story revealed in these pages is a fantastic one, an incredible one, one I'm sure will be dismissed as deranged confabulation because of the very nature of the story itself, and because of its trashy source. But let me tell you, friends, the story is true!

  "How do I know? Because the Spirit was with me this morning as I passed a corner newsstand. The Spirit drew my attention to these headlines, urged me to pick up the paper and read it. And as I read the article inside I knew that each word was true!"

  Brother Robert rolled up the paper and began slapping it against his left palm as he went on.

  " 'God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform.' " He allowed his Son, Jesus, to be born into the family of a poor carpenter. He allowed a prostitute, Mary Magdalen, to comfort His Son as He carried the Cross to his destiny. And He has chosen a humble, much-maligned tabloid to reveal to His Chosen the identity of the Antichrist.

  "The Light tells of the story of a scientist who, with the typical arrogance of all scientists who think man's puny mind capable of unraveling the mysteries of God's nature, decided to play God. This man perverted God's scheme for the reproduction of humankind and, in an arrogant attempt to usurp the power of God, caused a vile abomination to be born. This scientist took a piece of his own flesh, and from it grew another human being! He called this thing a 'clone'—an exact replica of himself. Yes! He played God by creating another being in his own earthly image!"

  Grace gasped. How could such a thing be possible? She glanced over to where Mr. Veilleur sat. She noticed that for the first time since his arrival he seemed interested in what was being said. Very interested. He was leaning forward in his seat, his eyes intent on Brother Robert.

  " 'But what does this have to do with the Antichrist?' you say. Let the Spirit flow into your mind as I did, and you will see that the creature resulting from this blasphemous experiment is not a man! Oh, he may look like a man, he may act like a man, and he may speak like a man, but he is a hollow thing with no soul! No soul! For how can he have a soul? He is not a new human being, born of man and woman, and therefore the possessor of a new soul. No! He is a mere collection of cells donated by a scientist playing God! And as such, he is a perfect vessel for Satan! The Evil One has entered his soulless body and is ready to begin subverting the salvation brought to us by Jesus Christ!"

  The Chosen broke out in cries of astonishment and concern. Grace kept to herself. She wrapped her arms around her against the chill that was slowly seeping through her body.

  "Consider carefully," Brother Robert went on. "The Spirit has made us aware of the Antichrist during the past month. We have felt its loathsome presence. According to this article, it was four weeks ago today that this scientist died in a plane crash."

  A month ago today? In a plane crash? That had a familiar ring to it. Grace's chill deepened.

  "When his will was read, it was discovered that the scientist had left his entire fortune—many millions of dollars—to a young stranger who looks exactly like he looked in his younger days. A record of the scientist's blasphemous experiments was found among his papers. They tell the whole hideous story."

  Grace was becoming more and more uncomfortable with the scenario Brother Robert was outlining. It sounded too much like…

  "And doesn't it strike you as strange, and so very convenient for the Heir—for that is what I call him—the Heir to Evil. Wasn't it convenient for the Heir that his creator died just as we were becoming aware of the menace of the Antichrist? Wasn't it convenient that this soulless creature suddenly became wealthy beyond one's wildest dreams? That suddenly he possessed financial power that could soon be parlayed into greater wealth and influence, influence that could be brought to bear on mankind?

  "Am I the only one who sees something more than mere chance at work here?"

  There was a chorus of nos from the Chosen. Grace glanced at Mr. Veilleur and found him looking her way. His expression was grave.

  "I fear your Brother Robert may be right," he said to Grace in a low voice. "Righter than he knows."

  Brother Robert went on. "Who knows what plans the Evil One has to destroy the work of the Son of God and His followers? I'm sure none of our most deranged nightmares can touch the hem of the foulness he has in store for us.

  "But there is another hand at work here. One that has singled us out as leaders in the fight against this abomination. Soon the world will know him as the clone of a dead scientist. But we know that he is more—much more. We know him as the Antichrist, and it is our task to stop him!"

  "But how?" said Martin from the front row.

  "Expose him!" Brother Robert cried, rapping the lectern with the rolled tabloid. "Let the world know who he is! Forewarned is forearmed! The truth and the power of the Son of God, the True Christ, will be our weapon against him!"

  "But how?" another voice said.

  "We'll confront him where he lives! We'll put on a demonstration. The Negroes in your country demonstrate for civil rights, the ones called Hippies demonstrate for peace. The Chosen shall demonstrate for Christ. The story in The Light will bring him much publicity—perhaps the Antichrist wants that. We, however, will guarantee that he gets exactly the type of publicity he does not want. Wherever he goes, some of us will be there with signs exposing him as a spawn of blasphemy, a vehicle for Satan. Whenever the TV cameras and newspaper photographers capture him on film, our message—God's message—will be visible in the background."

  "Amen!" Martin cried. It was echoed by another, and another. Members of the Chosen began to rise to their feet.

  Even Grace could feel herself getting caught up in the fire. The frissons of unease were burned away by the passion of Brother Robert's conviction as he strode back and forth across the front of the room, brandishing the rolled tabloid like a sword.

  "Some people will laugh at us, but many more will not. And when the Antichrist tries to exert his influence over the world, our message will be remembered, and a question will linger, even in the hearts of nonbelievers. We can foil his plans, friends! With the help of the Spirit we can defeat him! We can! And we'll start now! Today!"

  They were all on their feet
—all except for Mr. Veilleur— and cheering, praising the Lord, many speaking in tongues.

  "Where do we find him?" Martin cried when the room began to quiet.

  "Not far from here," Brother Robert said. "Which is why I believe we were chosen by the Spirit. He lives a short way out on Long Island, near Glen Cove. A place called Monroe."

  Suddenly all Grace's previous creeping anxieties crashed back in on her with the force of a blow.

  Monroe! No, it can't be Monroe!

  "What's his name?" Martin called out.

  Grace wanted to shut the answer from her ears, did not want to hear the name she already knew.

  "James Stevens," Brother Robert said. "A creature who calls himself James Stevens is the Antichrist!"

  No! It can't be! Not Carol's husband!

  The room spun once around Grace, then went black.

  5

  Carol had talked to a couple of the reporters who had called—the Times and the Post, specifically. Then she took the phone off the hook. She was now able to paint a pretty clear picture of how the story had leaked out. Both had told her that Gerry Becker had approached their papers, and the News as well, with the story. None of them was interested. They'd thought he was a kook and that the journals he claimed belonged to Hanley were fakes.

  That weasel Becker had stolen the journals from the crawl space! That was the only explanation. Carol couldn't imagine how he had found them there, and it really didn't matter now. Eventually she hoped Jim charged Becker with theft and breaking and entering, but right now all that interested her was Jim's state of mind. He had looked ready to crack this morning—and the worst was yet to come.

  Carol wandered through the house, raging at herself. She had made some terrible errors. In fact, most of this awful mess was her fault. If she hadn't been so damn indecisive, none of this would have happened. She simply should have thrown the journals out as she had originally planned. Or better yet, taken them out into the backyard, poured gasoline on them, and set them afire. That would have put them out of the reach of both Jim and Gerry Becker.