old liturgy, and she had loved it. Making ever faster airplanes,
improving television from black and white to color, saving lives with
better medical technology, junking those clumsy old records for compact
discs - 259 all those changes were desirable and good. But there were
some things in life that shouldn't change, because it was their
changelessness that you loved about them. If you lived in a world of
constant, rapid change in all things, where did you turn for stability,
for a place of peace and calm and quiet in the middle of all that buzz
and clatter? That truth was so evident to Chrissie that she could not
understand why grown-ups were not aware of it. Sometimes adults were
thick headed.
She sat through only a couple of minutes of the Mass, just long enough
to say a prayer and beseech the Blessed Virgin to intercede on her
behalf, and to be sure that Father Castelli was not somewhere in the
nave-sitting in a pew like an ordinary worshiper, which he did
sometimes-or perhaps at one of the confessionals. Then she got up,
genuflected, crossed herself, and went back into the narthex, where
candle-shaped electric bulbs flickered softly behind the amber-glass
panes of two wallmounted lamps. She opened the front door a crack,
peeking out at the rain-washed street.
Just then a police car came down Ocean Avenue. It was not the same one
she'd seen when she had gone into the church. it was newer, and only
one officer was in it. He was driving slowly, scanning the streets as
if looking for someone.
As the police cruiser reached the corner on which Our Lady of Mercy
stood, another car passed it, coming uphill from the sea. That one
wasn't a patrol car but a blue Chevy. Two men were in it, giving
everything a slow looking over, peering left and right through the rain,
as the policeman was doing. And though the men in the Chevy and the
policeman did not wave to each other or signal in any way, Chrissie
sensed that they were involved in the same pursuit. The cops had linked
up with a civilian posse to search for something, someone.
Me, she thought.
They were looking for her because she knew too much. Because yesterday
morning, in the upstairs hall, she had seen the aliens in her parents.
Because she was the only obstacle to their conquest of the human race.
And maybe because she would taste good if they cooked her up with some
Martian potatoes.
Thus far, although she had learned that aliens were taking Possession of
some people, she had seen no evidence that they were actually eating
others, yet she continued to believe that somewhere, right now, they
were snacking on body parts. It just felt right.
When the patrol car and the blue Chevy passed, she pushed the heavy door
open another few inches and stuck her head out in the rain. She looked
left and right, then again, to be very sure that no one was in sight
either in a car or on foot. Satisfied, she stepped outside and dashed
east to the corner of the church. After looking both ways on the cross
street, she turned the corner and hurried along the side of the church
toward the rectory behind it.
The two-story house was all brick with carved granite lintels and a
white-painted front porch with scalloped eaves, respectable-looking
enough to be the perfect residence for a priest. The old plane trees
along the front walk protected her from the rain, but she was already
sodden. When she reached the porch and approached the front door, her
tennis shoes made squelchingsqueaking noises.
As she was about to put her finger on the doorbell button, she
hesitated. She was concerned that she might be walking into an alien
lair-an unlikely possibility but one which could not be lightly
dismissed. She also realized that Father O'Brien might be saying Mass
in order that Father Castelli, a hard worker by nature, could enjoy a
rare sleep-in, and she war loath to disturb him if that was the case.
Young Chrissie, she thought, undeniably courageous and clever, was
nonetheless too polite for her own good. While standing on the priest's
porch, debating the proper etiquette of an early-morning visit, she
suddenly was snatched up by slavering, nine-eyed aliens and eaten on the
spot. Fortunately she was too dead to hear hie way they belched and
farted after eating her, for surely her refined sensibilities would have
been gravely offended.
She rang the bell. Twice.
A moment later a shadowy and strangely lumpish figure appeared beyond
the crackle-finished, diamond-shaped panes )n the top half of the door.
She almost turned and ran but told herself that the glass was distorting
the image and that the figure beyond was not actually grotesque.
Father Castelli opened the door and blinked in surprise when he saw her.
He was wearing black slacks, a black shirt, a Roman collar, and a
tattered gray cardigan, so he hadn't been fast asleep, - 261 thank God.
He was a shortish man, about five feet seven, and round but not really
fat, with black hair going gray at the temples. Even his proud beak of
a nose was not enough to dilute the effect of his otherwise soft
features, which gave him a gentle and compassionate appearance.
He blinked again-this was the first time Chrissie had seen him without
his glasses-and said, "Chrissie?" He smiled, and she knew that she had
done the right thing by coming to him, because his smile was warm and
open and loving.
"Whatever brings you here at this hour, in this weather?" He looked
past her to the rest of the porch and the walkway beyond.
"Where're your parents?"
"Father," she said, not altogether surprised to hear her voice crack, "I
have to see you."
His smile wavered.
"Is something wrong?"
"Yes, Father. Very wrong. Terribly, awfully wrong."
"Come in, then, come in. You're soaked!" He ushered her into the foyer
and closed the door.
"Dear girl, what is this all about?
"
"Aliens, F-f-father, " she said, as a chill made her stutter.
"Come on back to the kitchen," he said.
"It's the warmest room in the house. I was just fixing breakfast."
"I'll ruin the carpet," she said, indicating the oriental runner that
lay the length of the hallway, with oak flooring on both sides.
"Oh, don't worry about that. It's an old thing, but it stands up well
to abuse. Sort of like me! Would you like some hot cocoa? I was
making breakfast, including a big pot of piping hot cocoa."
She followed him gratefully back the dimly lighted hall, which smelled
of lemon oil and pine disinfectant and vaguely of incense.
The kitchen was homey. A well-worn, yellow linoleum floor. Pale yellow
walls. Dark wood cabinets with white porcelain handles. Gray and
yellow Formica counter tops. There were appliances-refrigerator, oven,
microwave oven, toaster, electric can opener-as in any kitchen, which
surprised her, though when she thought about it, she didn't know why she
would have expected it to be any different. Priests needed appliances
too. The
y couldn't just summon up a fiery angel to toast some bread or
work a miracle to brew a pot of hot cocoa.
The place smelled wonderful. Cocoa was brewing. Toast was toasting.
Sausages were sizzling over a low flame on the gas stove.
Father Castelli showed her to one of the four padded vinyl chairs at the
chrome and Formica breakfast set, then scurried about, taking care of
her as if she were a chick and he a mother hen. He rushed upstairs,
returned with two clean, fluffy bath towels, and said, "Dry your hair
and blot your damp clothes with one of them, then wrap the other one
around you like a shawl. It'll help you get warm." While she was
following his instructions, he went to the bathroom off the downstairs
hall and fetched two aspirins. He put those on the table in front of
her and said, "I'll get you some orange juice to take them with. Lots
of vitamin C in orange juice. Aspirin and vitamin C are like a one-two
punch; they'll knock a cold right out of you before it can take up
residence." When he returned with the juice, he stood for a moment
looking down at her, shaking his head, and she figured she must look
bedraggled and pitiful.
"Dear girl, what on earth have you been up to?" He seemed not to have
heard what she'd said about aliens when she'd first crossed his
threshold.
"No, wait. You can tell me over breakfast. Would you like some
breakfast?"
"Yes, please, Father. I'm starved. The only thing I've eaten since
yesterday afternoon was a couple of Hershey bars."
y "Nothing but Hershey bars?" He sighed.
"Chocolate is one of God's graces, but it's also a tool the devil uses
to lead us into temptation-the temptation of gluttony." He patted his
round belly. "l, myself, have often partaken of this particular grace,
but I would never"-he exaggerated the word "never" and winked at
her-"never, not ever, heed the devil's call to overindulge! But, see
here, if you've been eating only chocolate, your teeth will fall out. So
. . . I've got plenty of sausages, plenty to share. I was about to
cook a couple of eggs for myself too. Would you like a couple of eggs?"
"Yes, please."
"And toast?"
"Yes.We've got some wonderful cinnamon sweetrolls there on the table.
And the hot chocolate, of course."
Chrissie washed down the two aspirins with orange juice.
- 263 As he carefully cracked eggs into the hot frying pan, Father
Castelli glanced at her again.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, Father. Are you sure?"
"Yes. Now. I'm all right now."
"It'll be nice having company for breakfast," he said.
Chrissie drank the rest of her juice.
He said, "When Father O'Brien finishes saying Mass, he never wants to
eat. Nervous stomach." He chuckled.
"They all have bad stomachs when they're new. For the first few months
they're scared to death up there on the altar. It's such a sacred duty,
you see, offering the Mass, and the young priests are always afraid of
flubbing up in some way that'll be . . . oh, I don't know . . .
that'll be an insult to God, I guess. But God doesn't insult very
easily. If He did, He'd have washed His hands of the human race a long
time ago! All young priests come to that realization eventually, and
then they're fine. Then they come back from saying Mass, and they're
ready to run through the entire week's food budget in one breakfast.
" She knew that he was talking just to soothe her. He had noticed how
distraught she was. He wanted to settle her down so they could discuss
it in a calm, reasonable manner. She didn't mind. She needed to be
soothed.
Having cracked all four eggs, he turned the sausages with a fork, then
opened a drawer and took out a spatula, which he placed on the counter
near the egg pan. As he got plates, knives, and forks for the table, he
said, "You look more than a little scared, Chrissie, like you'd just
seen a ghost. You can calm down now. After so many years of schooling
and training, if a young priest can be afraid of making a mistake at
Mass, then anyone can be afraid of anything. Most fears are things we
create in our own minds, and we can banish them as easily as we called
them forth."
"Maybe not this one," she said.
"We'll see.
" He transferred eggs and sausages from frying pans to plates, For the
first time in twenty-four hours, the world seemed right. As Father
Castelli put the food on the table and encouraged her to dig in,
Chrissie sighed with relief and hunger.
Shaddack usually went to bed after dawn, so by seven o'clock Thursday
morning he was yawning and rubbing at his eyes as he cruised through
Moonlight Cove, looking for a place to hide the van and sleep for a few
hours safely beyond Loman Watkins's reach. The day was overcast, gray
and dim, yet the sunlight seared his eyes.
He remembered Paula Parkins, who'd been torn apart by regressives back
in September. Her 1.5-acre property was secluded, at the most rural end
of town. Though the dead woman's family-in Colorado-had put it up for
sale through a local realestate agent, it had not sold. He drove out
there, parked in the empty garage, cut the engine, and pulled the big
door down behind him.
He ate a ham sandwich and drank a Coke. Brushing crumbs from his
fingers, he curled up on the blankets in the back of the van and drifted
toward sleep.
He never suffered insomnia, perhaps because he was so sure of his role
in life, his destiny, and he had no concern about tomorrow. He was
absolutely convinced he would bend the future to his agenda.
All of his life Shaddack had seen signs of his uniqueness, omens that
foretold his ultimate triumph in any pursuit he undertook.
Initially he had noticed those signs only because Don Runningdeer had
pointed them out to him. Runningdeer had been an Indian-of what tribe,
Shaddack had never been able to learn-who had worked for the judge,
Shaddack's father, back in Phoenix, as a full-time gardener and
all-around handyman. Runningdeer was lean and quick, with a weathered
face, ropy muscles, and calloused hands; his eyes were bright and as
black - 265 as oil, singularly powerful eyes from which you sometimes
had to look away ... and from which you sometimes could not look away,
no matter how much you might want to. The Indian took an interest in
young Tommy Shaddack, occasionally letting him help with some yard
chores and household repairs, when neither the judge nor Tommy's mother
was around to disapprove of their boy doing common labor or associating
with "social inferiors.
" Which meant he hung out with Runningdeer almost constantly between the
ages of five and twelve, the period during which the Indian had worked
for the judge, because his parents were hardly ever there to see and
object.
one of the earliest detailed memories he had was of Runningdeer and the
sign of the self-devouring snake. . . .
He had been five years old, sprawled on the rear patio of the big house
in Phoenix, a
mong a collection of Tonka Toys, but he'd been more
interested in Runningdeer than in the miniature trucks and cars. The
Indian was wearing jeans and boots, shirtless in the bright desert sun,
trimming shrubs with a large pair of wood-handled shears. The muscles
in Runningdeer's back, shoulders, and arms worked fluidly, stretching
and flexing, and Tommy was fascinated by the man's physical power. The
judge, Tommy's father, was thin, bony, and pale. Tommy himself, at
five, was already visibly his father's son, fair and tall for his age
and painfully thin. By the day he showed Tommy the selfdevouring snake,
Runningdeer had been working for the Shaddacks two weeks, and Tommy had
been increasingly drawn to him without fully understanding why.
Runningdeer often had a smile for him and told funny stories about
talking coyotes and rattlesnakes and other desert animals. Sometimes he
called Tommy "Little Chief," which was the first nickname anyone had
given him. His mother always called him Tommy or Tom; the judge called
him Thomas. So he sprawled among his Tonka Toys, playing with them less
and less, until at last he stopped playing altogether and simply watched
Runningdeer, as if mesmerized.
He was not sure how long he lay entranced in the patio shade, in the hot
dry air of the desert day, but after a while he was surprised to hear
Runningdeer call to him.
"Little Chief, come look at this."
He was in such a daze that at first he could not respond. His
Dean Koontz - (1989) Page 35