Darkborn

by Matthew J. Costello

  The thing holding his arm yanked him. The jar slipped a few inches, tumbling onto his lap. It almost hit the stone, he thought. Almost hit the stone and broke.

  But it wedged in his crotch and he squeezed it with his legs. He grabbed the lid with his free hand, holding tight. The lid moved. He twisted the lid off. And then — taking a breath — Will turned.

  The water flew out toward the dissolving hooker, the abomination, this bubbling, oozing mass that held him imprisoned.

  “In the name of God, may all evil —”

  He saw it now. The girl looked like a rumpled suit, discarded, curled up on the ground. She was a mess of bone and muscle and blood. But the head, the giant domehead was out now. Peering out of her midsection. And at the word “God,” he watched a dozen tiny mouths bloom all over its surface.

  “All power of evil, every spirit —”

  The watery splash landed, and a noxious vapor farted from the open pit that was the girl’s midsection. The dozen sets of teeth started chattering hungrily.

  Still it held on, squeezing and crushing Will’s wrist, grinding bone against bone now.

  “And let Lucifer be put to flight. By the power of God —”

  He threw another splash. It howled. Out of a dozen orifices, it wailed, like a dozen mad babies, demented, screaming for their mother.

  Will pushed back against the wall, kicking at the thing with his foot. He heard it ooze, he watched the Uncle Fester head wobble while he kicked at it.

  “By the power of God!” he yelled. “By the power of God!” Begging. Screaming.

  It let go of his wrist.

  A tidal wave of pain crashed over him and Will moaned.

  But now Will was able to stand up. He was free!

  And the head with the mouths, all those teeth, was waving back and forth, suddenly acting like a balloon beginning to lose air.

  He looked at the jar. The water was nearly gone. He backed up. And risked another splash, repeating his command.

  Will backed up another step.

  And the thing shriveled back into its hole.

  In a second, it was quiet.

  There was just the gentle, oozing sound of the dead hooker’s body as her blood sought ground zero.

  Will heard the cars again. Horns honking.

  He backed up one step. And then another. Then he stopped.

  Got to cover the jar of water.

  He brought his one hand around and looked at the damage. He tried to move his fingers. The hand just sat there, a useless claw. But he used that arm to hold the jar against his body. He picked the cap off the ground and sealed the jar. Tossed it into his bag.

  His bag of tricks.

  He laughed.

  It actually worked. Praise — geez — praise God, it actually worked . . .

  He closed up the bag.

  Thinking: Got to get out of here. Got to get away. This will look very strange if someone comes by. Sure . . . very strange if some cops pull up in their car.

  Oh, yeah, that would be a hard one to explain.

  I — er — I just sent something back to God knows where.

  Something with a lot of mouths.

  Got to go.

  He jabbed his bleeding wrist into his shirt, hoping it would stop the bleeding.

  Up another step. Another.

  Until he was on the street again.

  Thinking: It was too easy.

  Something was wrong for it to be so easy.

  It won’t be easy if I find him out here.

  He turned. Took a step.

  And someone said something to him.

  Someone said, “Hello, Will.”

  * * *

  Joshua James

  * * *

  33

  Dr. Joshua James moved the pile of books on his table. A few tumbled off the edge. He used both his hands like bulldozers plowing through the jumbled pile of books and papers, searching for the elusive treasure.

  Which in this case was his lecture notes for his next class.

  He made a few more runs through the pile before he stopped and thought . . .

  Well. I guess I could wing it. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  He scratched his balding dome, as if remembering the curly dark hair that was once there. Now there were just the vestiges of a shocking black mane that had made him more than usually handsome, especially for a priest.

  Now he was nearly bald — save for two silvery patches on each side of his head.

  Now he was no longer a priest.

  Not a day went by that he didn’t evaluate his decision — weigh his choice of options. Run through his entire checklist of feelings to see if he had done the right thing.

  And always ending up with the same answer.

  I just don’t know.

  Who said ignorance is bliss?

  He shook his head, abandoning the search for his lecture notes. How tough could it be? he thought. Ethics 101. The type of class I can walk through blindfolded . . .

  Just as my materialistic students do.

  Ethics. Was there any more endangered subject in the entire curriculum? On the whole planet?

  He looked at the clock. Good, he thought, I have plenty of time before class begins. I can walk across the campus — the ancient trees on the Fordham campus not yet bare. A little physical exercise, just like my doctor ordered.

  He walked to a wooden chair by his office door. He picked up his Verdi attaché, the fine leather now worn to a rough rawhide by years of traveling to conferences, guest lectures . . .

  Consulting.

  A few of the nicks in the case had come in a more dramatic fashion.

  He tended not to think about those nicks and tears.

  Bad memories, he thought. You have to guard against such things. They can debilitate the soul . . . weaken your resolve . . .

  James picked up the attaché.

  He sniffed the air.

  A habit.

  The former priest reached for the doorknob.

  And though he didn’t smell any thing —

  He knew — just knew — that someone was waiting on the other side.

  He pulled open the door and looked at the man. James didn’t smile, didn’t nod . . . he offered him no encouragement at all.

  Go away, he wanted to say. I have a class to teach, students. Go away. Take your long confused face somewhere else.

  Instead, James stood there. And said something —

  “Yes. What is it?”

  Will blinked. The man’s voice was crisp and harsh. I’ve obviously interrupted him going somewhere.

  He felt as if he could melt under Dr. James’s withering stare.

  “Dr. James, my name is Will Dunnigan, and- —”

  God, how do I even start this? Will wondered. I have a crazy friend who had your book. No, not even a friend. And now he’s dead. And someone else died, and — you see — it’s the way they died- —

  Dr. James shook his head, and Will realized that he hadn’t said anything.

  “I have class, Mr. Dunnigan. Perhaps you’d like to schedule an appointment with the department secretary.” James leaned out of his door, took a step. “Her office is right down —”

  Will looked in the proffered direction and nodded. But then he said, “No. I mean, I just need to ask you something . . .”

  James came out of his office and Will felt guilty. He must get a lot of odd people stopping to see him. Weirdos who want to know about demons, spirits . . .

  He looks so normal. Like any other professor …

  Dr. James’s eyes narrowed, studying Will. A woman walked down the hall and Will saw James look up, as if ready to summon assistance in removing a wandering nut case.

  I can’t tell him here, out in the hall, Will thought.

  But James sighed.

  “I really must —”

  Will reached out and touched James’s arm.

  A simple gesture, he thought. No viselike grip to stop the man. Just a touch. But then —
then —

  James looked up and all of a sudden something different was in James’s eyes. His gaze softened.

  And Will felt as if he could tell this man anything, everything. It didn’t matter.

  “An old friend died . . .” Will said. “Killed by rats, Dr. James. They found him all chewed to death.” More steps in the hall. “And another friend was — God.” Will looked away. I sound crazy. Nuts. “Something about ants. I — I don’t know.”

  He saw Dr. James shift his attaché from one hand to the other.

  James didn’t say anything.

  But his eyes seemed to urge him on.

  “One of them had your book . . .” Will handed it to James, who nodded, and then threw his eyes back on Will. “He was afraid. He said — I don’t know — he said a lot of crazy things. It had to do with something we did a long time ago.”

  Dr. James scratched at his bald head. “Go on,” he said quietly.

  “He had this too. It — it seemed important.”

  Will handed him Experiments in Time, the tattered leather sticking to his hands.

  James looked at the book in Will’s hand. He looked at it, but he didn’t take it.

  Then slowly, deliberately, as if the act itself were important, Dr. James took the book and he said quietly, reverentially, “Experiments in Time.” He looked back at Will. “An exceedingly rare book.” He looked down at it again, and turned the book so that he could see the spine. “One could almost say . . . impossibly rare. I know of only one other copy extant.” James looked up. “Where did your friend get it?”

  Will cleared his throat. For the first time since he came here he thought that he wasn’t going to be immediately booted off the Bronx campus. “I — I don’t know,” Will said. “And he wasn’t a friend really, not anymore. He was someone I once knew in school.”

  Joshua James looked at his watch.

  Back up to Will.

  “You have time for a walk, Mr. — ?” The name escaped him.

  “Dunnigan. Will Dunnigan.”

  “Walk me to my class, Will. And tell me everything.”

  Dr. James walked down the hallway, and Will followed, starting slowly, faltering . . . while James just nodded and listened to the whole story.

  The wind scratched at the trees trying to violently shake off the last tenacious clusters of leaves. Already, dry, brownish-red leaves gathered in piles along the walkways that snaked through the campus. Everywhere it was red and gray, the leaves, the stone of the buildings, the gunmetal sky.

  And Will told Joshua James everything, omitting nothing.

  James just listened.

  Then, when Will was done, James turned to him and asked, “You’re sure of the date, when that boy died?”

  “Yes,” Will said.

  More steps. A large, new building loomed ahead, incongruous amid the old red stone and expansive courtyard and tree-lined walkways.

  “And you’ve consulted no one else, no one except me?”

  Will nodded. “I almost didn’t come. It’s just that — well, with the both of them dying so strangely . . .”

  James stopped. He touched Will’s arm again. “You did well. You haven’t read my book?”

  “No. I — er — I’m not much for religion …”

  James smiled. “You and a hundred million other people. No matter. Let me ask you something. The ceremony — whatever it was you did that night — do you remember anything about it, anything at all?”

  The wind blew at Will’s hair. A cluster of leaves rustled, growled at his feet, scratching the stone walkway. “Not much. But —”

  Some noisy students went barreling past, laughing, talking in great bellows, like sea lions at mating season. But they quieted, and Will saw one of the students nudge the others, pointing at James.

  They moved on.

  “Not much,” Will repeated. “But it’s there . . .”

  James’s mouth went wide. His face scrunched up, not understanding. “What?”

  “It’s there. The sheet we used. Inside that Time book.”

  James’s face suddenly looked ashen, his cheeks hollow. He held the book up and examined it. The sheet of paper was barely visible, stuck halfway into the text.

  “Oh, God,” James said. Then to Will, “That’s it?’”

  Will nodded.

  James looked at the sky and for a second Will thought of Melville’s Ahab, braving stormy seas, searching for the great white whale.

  And was the whale good or evil?

  James looked around as if thinking. His lips moved, and Will wondered that maybe the professor was a bit off.

  Maybe I’m just overreacting. Maybe it’s nothing.

  (“Chewed to death, Mr. Dunnigan. Down to the bone,” the detective said about Kiff. And Whalen, covered with ants, thousands upon thousands, chowing down on his body. Still alive . . . )

  Finally James turned back to him. He took out a small memo pad and jotted something down. Then he ripped the piece of paper off and gave it to Will.

  “I want you to do something. I want you to meet me this afternoon. There’s the address. It’s a small-church in the Orchard Street section of the Bronx . . . a nice little Italian neighborhood. A small” — James smiled —”old-fashioned church. Meet me there, say, at” — James looked at his watch —”four. I need to look at this.”

  He held up the book.

  “To think things through.”

  Why a church? Will wanted to know. Why there, why not in the library or his office? But James interrupted the flow of questions inside his head.

  “I have to go now. Try not to think about any of this. In fact, make yourself not think about any of it. I’ll meet you later . . . all right?”

  Will took a breath. Sure, he thought. Maybe James might have an idea about what it was that Kiff and Whalen had kept from him. Their secret, maybe Tim Hanna’s too. What do they know that I don’t?

  He felt cold.

  Colder, as the wind blew against his thin jacket.

  ‘‘I’ll see you there,” Joshua James said, touching Will’s shoulder one last time.

  Will nodded, and then the ex-priest hurried away, joining the swirling dance of leaves.

  An old nun, dwarfish, her back bent into a hook shape, fluttered about the altar. Every time she crossed in front of the great marble slab, she genuflected.

  The church was dark except for the flickering racks of votive candles and a pair of dim lights way up near the top of the small vaulted ceiling.

  And everywhere there were statues, a soulful-eyed Christ. A Kubrickian baby with its arms extended out to the missing parishioners. A Virgin Mary looking up, her graceful hands folded in a quiet pose of adoration.

  The nun arranged white flowers on the altar while straightening a bloodred cloth.

  Once she looked at Will.

  Will smiled.

  She looked away.

  This is a church from another era, Will thought. No altar turned to face the people here. No room for guitars and banjos and kumbaya, m’Lord. The air is permanently heavy with incense, an eternal ward against the sinfulness of heathens.

  Will felt dizzy, surrounded by the smells, the heavy wood. It’s as if no fresh air gets in here.

  He sat in a pew halfway to the back, just forward of the small choir loft.

  And he waited.

  The nun finished her altar arrangements and disappeared into the sacristy, There was the faint noise of water running, and the clink of metal. A chalice being cleaned, perhaps.

  Will checked his watch.

  It was after four. 4:10. 4:11.

  My life’s been put on hold, Will thought. My sad-sack clients are filling my office with desperate, angry messages, Another court appearance was put off, not a good thing to do. Becca wanted to know what was going on.

  And Will knew he couldn’t tell her … not about this.

  She’d call a shrink

  He smiled. Maybe that’s what I need.

  Again, he che
cked his watch.

  4:15.

  He felt almost relieved that Dr. James wasn’t here. He’s bailing out. Gone on to other emissaries from the demonic realm.

  Will began to feel like a sucker.

  When he heard the heavy doors behind him swing open. Bang shut. He turned and saw Joshua James hurrying to him. The ex-priest genuflected and crossed himself. Then he slid into the pew, moving next to Will.

  He patted Will’s hand,

  “Good to see you again,” James said, smiling, the kind of buck-you-up grin bestowed on a pilot about to fly a suicidal run into enemy territory.

  James knelt down. Closed his eyes, His lips moved.

  Praying, Will thought, feeling uncomfortable,

  Then James finished, crossed himself again, and sat back.

  He pulled a small chalkboard out of his attaché.

  Then he dug out a piece of chalk. He set them on his lap and he turned to Will.

  * * *

  34

  “What is evil?”

  James’s voice was a whisper, but still his question seemed to shatter the stillness of the small church.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  James repeated his question. “What is evil?”

  Will smiled. Silly question. Silly answer . . .

  “Bad things. And bad people who do bad things.”

  “Uh-huh,” James said. “Just kind of faulty mechanisms, breaking down? Poor upbringing, environment, all that?”

  Will nodded. “Yes, I guess so.”

  James shook his head. “Then you’re saying that there is no evil, no objective evil?”

  “No. I mean, there are people that do —”

  James held up a hand and interrupted him. “Without evil, Will, there’s no good. No Satan, no Christ. It’s a package deal.”

  The old nun came out again, this time holding a white cloth across her arms. She genuflected and then struggled to her feet.

  “Unfashionable words, I’m afraid. But very true. You see, Will, there is something called evil. It exists as surely as good exists. And its goals are” — James smiled, as if he were teaching a small boy his addition facts —”directly in conflict with life as we know it.”