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

by F. Paul Wilson

  If only—

  She heard a frantic knocking on the door and hurried to it, praying it was Jim but knowing it wasn't.

  It was Jim's mother. Her face was drawn and white. She held a folded newspaper in her hand.

  "Where's Jimmy?" Emma Stevens asked.

  "He's not here. He's—"

  "Have you seen this?" she said, her voice cracking and her lips quivering as she held up the paper. "Ann Guthrie showed it to me. How can they say such things? How can they print such lies and get away with it? It's so unfair! Where is he?"

  "Over at the mansion."

  "Oh, that damn mansion! I wished he'd never inherited it or anything else from that man! I knew it would come to no good! The whole thing makes me nauseous to my stomach!"

  Carol was wondering where else you could be nauseated when there was another knock on the door. She was shocked to see Bill Ryan standing on the other side of the glass.

  "Carol!" he said as she let him in. "I read that article on Jim. I tried to call but couldn't get through, so I came out. Is there anything I can do?"

  Without thinking, Carol threw her arms around him.

  "God, am I glad to see you!"

  She felt Bill stiffen and quickly released him. His face was scarlet. Had she embarrassed him?

  "A priest?" she heard Emma say behind her.

  "Hi, Mrs. Stevens," Bill said in a husky voice. He smiled disarmingly as he stepped around Carol and extended his hand. "Remember me? I'm Bill Ryan. Jim and I were friends in high school."

  "Oh, yes, yes! The fellow who went on to become a priest. How are you?"

  "I'm concerned about Jim and this science fiction that's being printed about him."

  "Oh, I know!" Emma said. "Isn't it terrible? Why would they pick on Jim like that? Do you think it's because he inherited that money?"

  Carol felt Bill's eyes lock onto hers. "It is science fiction, isn't it, Carol?" he said. 'Isn't it?"

  Carol didn't know what to say, couldn't speak. She wanted to tell Bill and Emma. She knew Jim would need their support. But they couldn't help if they didn't know the truth. She tore her eyes away from his.

  "My God!" Bill whispered. "It's true!"

  Unable to deny it, Carol nodded her head.

  Emma's hand was over her mouth. "How can that be? He was a normal boy, just like all the other kids!"

  "Of course!" Carol said. "Because that's exactly what he was: a normal boy! And he's now a normal man. He simply has the same genes as Hanley, that's all. He's like Hanley's identical twin! But he won't see it that way. He's over at the mansion now, brooding and probably hitting the Scotch. He thinks he's a freak. He calls himself a 'tumor'!"

  Bill's expression was grim. "You don't think he'd do anything stupid, do you?"

  Carol gathered that by stupid, Bill meant suicidal. The idea shocked her. She had never considered the possibility. Still couldn't.

  "No, he'd never do that. But this has cut him pretty deep."

  "Why don't we go over there," Bill said. "I'll drive."

  6

  Grace sat in the backseat of Martin's Ford Torino sedan, trying to organize her jumbled thoughts and emotions as the car headed east on the Long Island Expressway.

  Jim Stevens—her niece's husband—the Antichrist? It seemed too ridiculous even to consider! Despite his atheistic declarations and antireligious attitudes, Grace had sensed all along that deep down he was a decent man. Perhaps he didn't go to church or even believe in God, but he had always treated Carol well. How could he be the Antichrist?

  And yet…

  What about the sickening dread and terror she had felt the last time he had been to her apartment? And hadn't it been later that very night at choir practice that she had sung about Satan being here when she should have been singing "Ave Maria"?

  Maybe it wasn't so farfetched. Maybe Satan had just been in the process of usurping Jim's soulless body on that day, and she had sensed it somehow.

  But why had she been able to sense it, while Carol obviously didn't? Was she, as Martin had told her over and over, part of the Lord's plan to combat the Antichrist? Was her participation in the Chosen necessary for her salvation?

  She prayed this would bring her the absolution she craved for the terrible sins of her past. That was the only reason she had agreed to accompany the Chosen to Monroe.

  She wished Brother Robert had come along with them. She needed his strength of spirit, his support. But Brother Robert had stayed behind in Manhattan. He had not thought it proper for a member of a contemplative order such as his to make a public show of himself, so he had put Martin in charge. Grace respected his wish, but still she missed his presence.

  "I believe there's something to this," said Mr. Veilleur at her side in the backseat, tapping the copy of The Light in his lap.

  Somehow he had finagled his way into Martin's car, along with Grace and two others. They were the lead vehicle in a caravan of sorts heading for Monroe. One member had a Volkswagen van, and those of the Chosen with the slightest artistic bent were making signs and placards in its rear as they traveled.

  "You think it's true?" she said.

  "Of course it's true!" Martin said from the driver's seat. "The Spirit is guiding us, pointing us along the Path!"

  "I believe the cloning part is true," Mr. Veilleur said to her, ignoring Martin. "As for this Satan-Antichrist business"—he shrugged—"I've told you what I think of that. But this cloning… I've never heard of such a thing, or even dreamed it might be possible. Such a man might well provide a gateway. But why now? What is so special about now, this time, that it should be chosen?"

  "I don't know," Grace said.

  Mr. Veilleur half turned toward her, his blue eyes intent.

  "You say you know this man?"

  Grace nodded. "For about ten years, yes."

  "When was he born?"

  Grace couldn't see how that mattered, but she tried to remember. She knew Jim's birthday was in January. Carol always complained that it fell so soon after Christmas, when she had already exhausted all her gift ideas, and he was the same age as Carol, so that would make it…

  "January 1942. The sixth, I believe."

  "The Epiphany!" The car swerved slightly as Martin shouted from the front. "Little Christmas!"

  "Is that important?" Grace said.

  "I don't know," Martin replied in a softer, more thoughtful voice. "It must be, but I don't know why."

  "January sixth," Mr. Veilleur said, frowning. "That would mean that he was conceived—or began incubation, as it were—somewhere in late April or… early… May of 1941…"

  His voice trailed off as his eyes widened briefly, then narrowed.

  "Is that date significant?" she asked.

  "Someone… something… died then. Or so I'd thought."

  His face settled into fierce, grim lines.

  "What's wrong?"

  He shook his head brusquely once. "Nothing." Then once more. "Everything."

  Grace glanced out the window and saw the sign for the Glen Cove exit. The dread began to grow in her. Monroe was less than ten miles north of here.

  7

  Jim gently pulled Carol aside in the hall just outside the library.

  "Why did you bring them here?"

  He was annoyed at her for leading Bill and, of all people, Ma, out to the mansion. He knew she meant well, but he didn't feel like seeing anybody today. He didn't know when he would ever feel like having company again.

  "It's just a way of showing we love you," she said, running a fingertip along his jawline, sending a chill down his body. "Of saying that none of this matters."

  Jim had to admit he was warmed by the thought, but he still felt somehow… ashamed. He knew he had done nothing wrong. Being the clone of a Nobel prizewinner was not like having it become public knowledge that you had the syph or the like, yet he could not deny that he felt embarrassed—and, yes, diminished—by the truth.

  And a bit paranoid too. Had Bill's handshake been
just a bit less firm than he remembered in the past? Had Ma pulled away just a little too quickly when she had hugged him on arriving today? Or was he just looking for things? Was he expecting everyone else to treat him differently because of how differently he now saw himself?

  He watched Carol go off toward the kitchen to make coffee, then he took a deep breath and headed for the library. He couldn't hide forever. Maybe the couple-three belts of Jack Daniel's he'd had earlier would help him handle this. As he entered, he heard the conversation between Bill and Ma die out.

  Ma… he didn't have a real Ma, did he?

  Was she looking at him strangely? He felt like telling her that he wasn't about to sprout another head, but that would blow this whole cool, calm, collected, life-is-going-on-as-usual scene. Instead he put on a smile.

  "So," he said, as casually as he could, "what's new?"

  8

  "Aren't you coming?" Martin said through the open side window of the car.

  "Grace shook her head. "No… I can't. She's my niece."

  "That may be true," Martin said, "but this is the Lord's war. You've got to stand up and be counted sooner or later."

  The authority Brother Martin had given him seemed to have gone to his head.

  "I'm with the Lord," she said, "but I can't picket my niece's home. I just can't."

  Grace shut her eyes to block out the sight of the placard-carrying Chosen walking toward the little white cottage that had been her brother Henry's home before he and Ellen had been killed. Too many lunches and dinners and afternoon cups of tea with Ellen, plus half a dozen years of living there and making a home for her dear, orphaned Carol while she commuted to college at Stony Brook. Too many memories there to allow her to parade in front of it and call Carol's husband the Antichrist, even if it was true.

  But looking at that familiar little cottage sitting there in the light of day, she wondered how such a thing could possibly be true.

  "Where are the reporters?" Martin said, his eyes flicking up and down the street. "I called all five local TV stations, the big papers, and the local rag… what's it called?"

  "The Express, " Grace said.

  "Right. You'd think someone would have sent a crew out here to cover this!"

  "It's Sunday, after all," Mr. Veilleur said. "You're probably far ahead of them. You moved pretty fast."

  "Yes, we did, didn't we?" he said with a note of satisfaction. "But we can't wait forever, and it'll probably be better if we're on line and marching when they arrive. Are you sure, Grace?"

  "I can't. Please don't ask me any more."

  "How about you?" Martin said, opening the door next to Mr. Veilleur. "Time for you to earn your keep."

  Mr. Veilleur smiled. "Don't make me laugh."

  Martin's expression turned fierce.

  "Listen, you! Either get out and walk that picket line or get out and start walking back to the city. I'm not having any deadweight around here!"

  Grace didn't have time to express her shock at Martin's rudeness. In a blur of motion Mr. Veilleur's big hand darted out, took hold of Martin's tie, and dragged his head and shoulders into the car.

  "I will not be spoken to that way," he said in a low voice.

  Grace could not see Mr. Veilleur's eyes, but Martin could. She saw his face blanch.

  "Okay, okay," he said quickly. "Have it your way."

  Neither Grace nor Mr. Veilleur said anything as they watched Martin hurry over to the cottage. The Chosen were lined up on the walk before the house. She watched Martin pass through them and stride to the front door. He knocked a few times but there was no answer. She saw him try the knob. The door swung open. Grace almost cried out as she saw Martin go inside with a group of the others trailing behind. They shouldn't be in there! Not in Henry's old house!

  It took maybe fifteen minutes but seemed like hours before Martin reappeared, hurrying toward the car. His face was flushed, his eyes feverish as he slipped back in behind the wheel.

  "No one's home, but I think we found the proof we need!"

  "Proof?" Mr. Veilleur said.

  "Yes! Books on Satanism, the occult! He's obviously been studying them!"

  Mr. Veilleur's smile was wry. "If he's this Antichrist you talk about—the Devil himself or his offspring—one would think he'd already be intimately familiar with all there is to know about Satanism."

  Martin only paused for a beat. "Yes, well, whatever… it establishes a link between this James Stevens and the Devil."

  "Where are the books?" Mr. Veilleur asked.

  "I told them to destroy them." He turned to Grace. "Now, do you know how to get to this mansion he inherited?"

  "Of course," she said. "It's on the waterfront. Everybody in town knows the Hanley mansion. Why?"

  "Because if he's not here, he's probably holed up there."

  "Maybe he left town," Grace said hopefully.

  "No," Martin said slowly. "He's here. I can feel the evil in the air. Can't you?"

  Grace had to admit that there was a sense of wrongness about Monroe, a vague feeling that some sort of cancer was growing in its heart. But she hated to admit it.

  Finally she said, "Yes, I think so."

  Martin started the car. "Which way?"

  "Down here and to the left until you get to Shore Drive," Grace said, pointing the way.

  As the car shifted into gear, Grace glanced out the rear window. The other cars, filled with the Chosen, were falling into line behind them. She looked past them and gasped. Smoke was pouring from one of the cottage windows.

  "The house!" she cried. "It's burning!"

  Martin glanced in his rearview mirror. "The idiots! I told them to burn the books outside!"

  "Stop! We've got to put it out!"

  "No time for that now! We're going to beard the Devil in his den!"

  9

  Carol heard the wail of the siren on the downtown volunteer firehouse. Since she had been a little girl, the sound never failed to disturb her. It meant that somewhere, at that very moment, flames were eating someone'? home, maybe devouring someone's life. She glanced out the parlor window, southeastward, toward their own little house. She was startled to see a pillar of smoke rising from that direction. It looked as if it were coming from their neighborhood. She wondered with a pang of fear if it was someone they knew, someone who needed their help.

  And then she lowered her gaze and saw the cars pulling up outside the mansion's front gate. Her first thought was, Reporters! But then she saw the placards and picket signs and knew something else was going on.

  "Oh, no!" she said. "Who on earth are they?" Bill joined her at the window.

  "They look like protesters. But what are they protesting?" Carol strained to read the words on the signs but could make out only the larger ones.

  "Something about God and Satan."

  "Oh, great!" Bill said. "Just what Jim needs!" Carol glanced back toward the library where Jim sat with Emma. The presence of people he loved and trusted seemed to have had a bolstering effect. The tension had been oozing out of him since their arrival.

  "What can they want?"

  "Who knows? Probably a mob of religious nuts who think he's some sort of Frankenstein monster. I'm going out there. Don't say anything to Jim until I get back."

  "What can you do?"

  "Chase them off, I hope." Bill shrugged and pointed to his cassock and clerical collar. "Maybe this will have some influence on them."

  "Be careful," she said.

  As she watched him step out the front door she felt a sudden rush of dread and knew that something awful was going to happen today.

  10

  As Bill strode the fifty yards or so to the front gate, he began to make out the messages on the signs. There were quotations from scripture about the Antichrist and Armageddon and the end of the world. Others were original, and he found these the most disturbing:

  A MAN WITH NO SOUL IS A HOME FOR THE DEVIL! and GET THEE OUT, DEMON! and the worst, JAMES STEVENS—ANTICHRIST!
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  Bill would have found them laughable were it not for the fact that they were talking about his friend. He had caught the hunted look in Jim's eyes a while ago, the look of a man who felt like a freak, who wasn't completely sure to whom he could turn or trust. Harassment by a bunch of religious nut cases might push him over the edge.

  They were just getting their picket line organized when they spotted him. He heard cries of "Look! There's a priest!" and "A priest! A priest!"

  When he reached the open gate, a slim, pale young man stepped forward to meet him.

  "What's the meaning of this?" Bill asked, straining to appear calm and concerned.

  "Have you been sent here to exorcise him, Father?" the man said.

  "What in God's name are you talking about?"

  "In God's name, yes, very apt, very apt. I'm Martin Spano. The Spirit has sent us here to expose this abomination for who he is."

  "And just who do you think he is?"

  "Why, the Antichrist, of course."

  He seemed shocked that Bill did not know. Bill felt his control begin to slip.

  "That's ridiculous! Where did you get such an idea?"

  "He's a clone, Father! A group of cells taken from one man and grown into the shape of another in a blasphemous attempt to play God! But he is not a man! He is a mere cutting! He is born not of man and woman, and as such he has no soul. He is a tool of Satan, an avenue for the Antichrist to enter into this world!"

  Bill was impressed with the force of the man's conviction and momentarily taken aback by the outré logic of his words. If you bought all that Revelations mumbo jumbo, you could probably be convinced that this fellow was on to something here.

  "I assure you," Bill said in his loudest voice, addressing the crowd as well as their young leader, "that you have nothing to fear from Mr. Stevens. I've known him most of my life, and he is not—I repeat, not—the Antichrist!"

  This seemed to slow the crowd, but not as much as Bill would have liked. A couple of them lowered their signs, but the rest stood and waited.