Judgment Stone (9781401687359)

by Liparulo, Robert

  Finally they saw an old lady on all fours, planting flowers in a garden outside a small house. She raised her head as they walked by and lowered it again.

  The lights were coming from just around the bend, and Bale started to get excited. He picked up his pace, the others a step behind on both sides. They rounded the bend, and he saw that the heavy beam that had drawn his attention from thirty miles away was comprised of fifteen or twenty individual strands; they came together directly over a barn that looked like something John Wayne could have built in one of his Westerns. A rust-patched car and three or four bicycles sat outside. An angel stood on the peak of the roof, already poised in a posture of defense, a sword in one hand, its spinning sparks congealed into a shield in front of it.

  The big demon who’d been hanging around Therion and the human-shaped one sailed over Bale’s head. Ashes rained down on him, then spiraled up as if caught in a whirlwind and trailed after the demons. The demons attacked the angel from different directions, hacking it with their weapons. The three of them rolled off the rear of the building.

  “It’s a barn,” Lilit said.

  “Exactly,” said Bale. “Who’da thunk? Out here in the boonies, more spiritual life than any of the city churches.”

  “How do you know?” Therion said.

  Bale looked at him. “What do you think the blue lights are? We’re not looking for specials at Kmart.”

  Therion’s gaze followed the beam into the sky, the significance of it only now seeming to dawn on him. “From people praying,” he said. “Why are so many here, now?”

  “Midafternoon service,” Bale said. “Not uncommon in these parts,” and he wondered why they’d ignored the region for so long, choosing to focus their attention on the countries that got all the credit: Italy, Spain, the US. It was the Eastern Europeans who knew how to pray.

  Therion whistled. “This is going to tick someone off.”

  “That’s the point.” Bale continued toward the barn.

  The two big front doors were mostly closed, opened just enough to admit a person turned sideways. He slipped through, moving out of the way for the others. Flowery incense couldn’t quite mask the odor of the place’s former bovine residents or the sweet, earthen smell of hay that covered the ground like shag carpeting. Rows of roughly cobbled pews lined both sides of a central aisle, at the end of which a cross hung from a hayloft. Below the cross a man stood facing them, his head back, giving Bale a view of the underside of his chin and nostrils. His arms were splayed out, hands cupped as if catching rain.

  Men and women stood between the pews, some mimicking their leader’s posture of worship, others with their heads bent low, their hands clasped in front of them. Angels stood with them, their sparks forming pod-like encasements around them. Bale remembered the Eastern Europeans’ tradition of standing to pray, which they would do for hours at a time. And their children and teens always stood in prayer.

  There they were, in the space behind the pews, directly even with where the Clan was gathered. Their angels stood around them, their swirling sparks a shield around the lot of them. One angel glared suspiciously at Bale, who winked at it. Several of the young people had beams the width of their heads shooting through the roof, and every one of their beams was bright, brighter than all but two of the adults’. Collectively, their brightness outshone the adults’ by double, even though there were fewer of them.

  It was one of the ways God cheated: making kids believe so readily, so earnestly in unseen things: Santa Claus, love . . . God. Just as they learned foreign languages quickly, before their minds started solidifying around their native tongues, they grasped God’s language, His world, before becoming so reliant on their eyes and what others said of the world. Stacking the deck in His favor was so very much like God.

  Bale knew why the Clan had not previously targeted kids—except as collateral damage or as tools to break the spirit of adults; their slaughter caused the sort of outrage that drew unwanted attention to the Clan, nationally, internationally. It wasn’t conducive to staying free to continue their assault on the things God held dear. Had he known and not merely suspected that these little ones were indeed closest to God, he would have focused on them long ago.

  He nudged and tapped the others, making sure they saw the kids. Weapons appeared in their hands: knives, guns, a crossbow, a machete. Angels turned their way, drawing their own swords, congealing glittering orange shields. The Clan’s demons rushed them.

  Bale said, “Let’s get this party started!”

  [ 44 ]

  After reaching the roof of the Southwest Range Building, Elias turned right, heading for the opposite corner. From there he would make his way down to a lower level and conceal himself among the shadows, ready to spring if necessary. Toby crouched behind the concrete wall along the front edge of the building, binocs in one hand, pistol in the other. Jordan, Phin, and Nevaeh dropped from the corner onto the pitched roof of the apartments, which extended along the compound’s west wall, perpendicular to the Southwest Range Building.

  The Austin boots’ rubber soles gripped well, while their pistons adjusted to the slope, making Nevaeh feel she was walking on a flat surface. She remembered from previous visits to the monastery ages ago that the rooms beneath her had no attic, only plastered planks and roofing material, nothing to muffle their footsteps. So they walked on the outside edge of the roof, over the foot-wide eaves. To their left the ground lay sixty feet below, and she would never have risked walking so close to the edge without the boots.

  She looked over her shoulder to see Phin’s maniacal eyes and insane grin as he wiggled his hips and bobbed his head to the music only he could hear. Farther back—too far—Jordan walked as though he were on a tightrope, carefully laying one foot in front of the other, arms extended out on both sides, wavering up and down. He was staring down at his feet.

  “Jordan,” she whispered.

  He stopped and looked up.

  “Trust the boots,” she said. “Walk normally.”

  He nodded, and continued walking his imaginary tightrope.

  Well before reaching the end—the family’s apartment was last in line—she turned, stepped softly to the peak and down to the inside edge. She glanced over the compound, saw no one looking at her—in fact, saw only two monks, one sweeping the basilica steps, the other rushing through a courtyard toward the basilica, holding a big box. Over the opposite wall, she saw in the distance a stream of tourists coming down the mountain. She believed they would be too intent on not tumbling to pay the monastery any mind, and if they happened to see them on the roof, so what? The monastery was closed, and considering last night’s attack, the monks wouldn’t let anyone in no matter what they might shout from the outside.

  Still, doing this in broad daylight—especially standing on a roof as if daring people to challenge her presence—was a bit nerve-racking. She was a nocturnal creature, unaccustomed to daytime missions.

  She turned, dropped to her stomach, and slid over the edge, swinging to jump onto the portico outside the third-floor apartment doors. Phin came next, and together they helped Jordan down. Heading for Beth’s door, Nevaeh withdrew the syringe of chloral hydrate and flicked off the cap with her thumbnail. She showed it to Phin, reminding him to get his ready for the boy.

  She thought about her entry. Kicking the door in would be the most satisfying. But that would make noise, draw attention. Beth or Tyler would answer a knock; why wouldn’t they? If the boy answered, maybe she’d say, Nice to see you’ve recovered. Sorry I shot you. Or simply, Is your mommy home? She hoped Beth wouldn’t see them from deep inside the room. But then, what could she do, her kid standing right there? If Beth answered, she’d say, Bet you didn’t expect me. No, something wittier, like, Surprise!

  But then she heard someone coming up the wooden stairs at the end, pounding up them in a hurry. She gripped the syringe in her fist, using her other hand to pull a short sword—a suwaiya—from a pocket on the outside of her thi
gh. She was ready. In the Austin boots she’d be like a nightmare, running at him in fast-motion.

  The footfalls didn’t continue to the third floor, but clomped along on the portico below them. Nevaeh held up her hand, telling the others, Stay cool. A door down there opened. She waited for it to shut. When it didn’t she held up one finger: Wait. A few moments later the shoes were back on the portico, the door slammed, and the person rushed away, down the stairs, and onto the stones of the courtyard at the bottom. She caught a glimpse of a monk hurrying toward the basilica, carrying a five-foot-long gold crucifix.

  She sheathed her sword and continued toward the door.

  [ 45 ]

  Tyler came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, hair plastered down and dripping. He went into his room and shut the door. A few moments later he came out in his underwear, drying his hair with the towel. “Where are my clothes?”

  “Right there, hanging over the chair,” Beth said, trying to fix her hair in the reflection of the toaster and realizing she could do it in the bathroom mirror now that Tyler was out. “I ironed them.”

  “Ahhh,” he whined. “Not these.”

  “Ty, don’t give me a hard time. The memorial is honoring people you loved. You dress up for that.”

  The monastery allowed them to wear street clothes to the services, and Tyler probably hadn’t dressed up in a year. Twenty months, she corrected herself, remembering the last time: the funeral of the Bransfords, the family who died in the crash that had taken Jagger’s arm. Robby Bransford had been Tyler’s best friend, just as his father, Mark, had been Jagger’s, and his mother, Cyndi, had been hers. Everyone had loved the baby, Brianna.

  “But, Mom, a tie?”

  She watched him slip into the trousers and knew what was coming next.

  He said, “These don’t even fit!”

  Of course they didn’t. They were the ones he’d had for the funeral. When they’d moved here from Virginia they’d packed meagerly, and that outfit was the only nice clothes she’d brought for him.

  “What’d you wear for Christmas service, and Easter?”

  “My khakis and a button shirt. Dad said.”

  That’s right. Jagger would go to church in ripped, dirty work clothes if it weren’t for her disapproving eye. Clean work clothes was about all he could muster, and his son was following suit. As spiritual as St. Catherine’s was, and as reverent and ritualistic as the services were, the monks put little value in the clothes attendees wore.

  Gheronda had once told her, “God doesn’t care; why should we?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Wear them.” He skipped into the bedroom. “But we’re getting you some nice clothes. And you’re going to wear them. You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Polite now that he’d gotten his way.

  No, that wasn’t fair, she thought. Tyler was usually polite and well-mannered. She was just on edge. Last night’s attack, the demon in their apartment—the very idea of a rock that peeled back the spiritual veil!—Jagger taking off so suddenly, the monks . . . She really wasn’t up to the memorial service. Death was the last thing she wanted to think about, with Jagger chasing the Clan.

  She was standing with her hands on her hips, looking at the shirt, tie, and jacket—the crumpled pants on the floor—wondering if she should donate them, unable to picture a little Bedouin boy in them, when a knock came from the door.

  Leo coming to escort them, she thought. “Hurry, Ty. We’re late.”

  She opened the door and Nevaeh stood there, dressed all in black, long dark hair hanging behind her, taller than Beth remembered. She seemed ready to say something else, but said only, “Hi, Beth.”

  Beth stepped back, swung the door closed. Nevaeh’s foot stopped it and it rebounded open, its handle smacking the wall. She saw two more members of the Tribe behind Nevaeh: Phin, that crazy goon Jagger had shot in the face; and the little boy, Jordan. They seemed eager to get in, pushing up against Nevaeh’s back.

  Beth spun around. “Tyler!” she yelled, and felt Nevaeh grab her collar. She turned, the material ripping, and punched Nevaeh in the jaw, causing her to lose her smile and stagger back into the others.

  “Tyler!” He stepped into his bedroom doorway. “The room! The panic room! Now!”

  Tyler swung around into the master bedroom and was opening the panic room door when Beth’s shoulder hit the bedroom doorjamb. Sounds behind her, stomps. Tyler was in! Yes, at least that. She nearly yelled for him to shut it, shut yourself inside, but she knew he wouldn’t and she was almost there.

  She felt a pinprick of pain at her neck, kept moving. Nails brushing over her hair and back, fingers grabbing at her arm.

  Tyler was holding the door open for her, just wide enough to slip through. His body leaned out of the darkness along the door, to pull it shut as soon as she was in, but trying to stay out of her way.

  Nevaeh was right on her, inches away. No way to slip in and shut the door.

  Beth stopped suddenly, turned sideways, and dropped to all fours. Nevaeh barreled over her, the woman’s legs knocking her down. Beth sprung up, kicking at the hands trying to grab her ankles. Nevaeh’s head was at the base of the door, looked like she’d struck it. Beth kicked her in the head, to get it away from the door. She kicked, jumped, and danced past the flailing arms and hands into the closet, turning to grab the handle, yelling, “Shut it! Shut it!” Tyler did, and Beth threw the first bolt, then the one above it and the next one and the one closer to the floor.

  Banging from the outside, pounding. Fists, something metal. Echoing in the panic room. Sounding like they were standing inside a drum, Ringo Starr beating it for all he was worth.

  Tyler started crying, and Beth took her palms off the metal surface of the door—as though they could quiet the sounds, calm the people making them—and hugged him tight, stroking his head, hair still damp. “It’s okay, Ty, it’s okay.”

  “Who are they?” he said through sobs. “What do they want?”

  “Shhhh,” she said. Lord, You are our refuge. Keep us safe from these enemies. Send Your angels—she pictured the one she’d seen: strong, glorious, reflective of the One who sent him—send them to protect us.

  The pounding stopped. Then one more loud bang! Rattling the door. Low. Someone had kicked it. Then nothing. Quiet. And that may have been worse.

  [ 46 ]

  Beth comforted Tyler, feeling him tremble under her arms, against her. Feeling his tears wetting her skin under the material of her dress. She reached over, felt the wall, patted it until she found the battery-powered light, and pulled the chain. She stepped back from Tyler, holding his face in her hands. She leaned to look him in the eyes, nose to nose. His whole face was wet. “Remember, Tyler. Be strong and courageous. What’s the rest?”

  “Do not”—he choked back a sob, his breath hitching—“be afraid.”

  Beth said, “Do not be discouraged.”

  He pulled in a stuttering breath. “For the Lord your God . . . will be . . . with you wherever you go.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  He nodded and pushed his head into her.

  “That’s my boy.”

  Their attackers were arguing outside the door . . .

  Phin: “You couldn’t grab her?”

  Nevaeh: “Shut up. She was fast.”

  Phin: “She was standing right in front of you. Where’s the chloral hydrate? Here’s what you do. See? Like that. Nothing to it.”

  Jordan: “She was fast.”

  Chloral hydrate. Beth reached to the back of her neck, rubbed where it hurt, brought back fingers that weren’t bloody, but had blood on them. A little. She didn’t know what chloral hydrate was. Something to drug her. She hoped only to knock her out. If they wanted to kill her, wouldn’t they use a knife or a gun?

  She eased Tyler away. “Sit, honey. Relax. Take a deep breath.”

  He sat on the floor, same place he’d been last night when the Clan had attacked. She pushed her back against the wall be
hind her and slid down it until she was sitting across from him. He was wearing only his khakis, and he was absently fiddling with the bullet on a chain over his bare chest. “You know,” she said, “no shoes, no shirt, no service. Hope you don’t get hungry.”

  He smiled, and she saw the wheels turning in his head, thinking of some smart comeback, which he found: “You better hope I don’t have to go to the bathroom.”

  She nodded appreciatively. “Well, here we are again.”

  He lost his smile. “Do you know who they are?”

  “The Tribe.”

  His face moved through several different expressions, settling on puzzlement. “The ones who shot me?”

  “That woman who almost got me,” Beth said. “That’s Nevaeh.”

  He knew her name. He had talked about carving it in the bullet that hung around his neck. She rubbed the pinprick on her neck again. No new blood. Besides her heart beating a thousand times a minute, trying to ratchet it down, she wasn’t feeling any weird effects, no drowsiness or nausea. If it had been a needle that had poked her, she doubted Nevaeh’d had a chance to plunge any drugs into her. Beth had been moving away too fast.

  “What does she want?” His eyes were huge.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart.” If they’d intended on drugging her, they wanted her out . . . Why? Keep her quiet, maybe, while they waited for Jagger to return. Did they know he was gone? Phin and Nevaeh together: perhaps they’d expected to find both Beth and Jagger in the apartment. If they were waiting for Jagger, what did they want with him? Retaliation for their last encounter?

  She processed the possibilities like flipping through recipe cards. Why else would they want her unconscious? To take her . . . or Tyler. Easier to kidnap someone who’s not struggling and yelling. But again, why? Her mind kept coming back around to the same answer: they wanted Jagger. They must have targeted him for one of their vigilante hits, their twisted minds thinking him evil for having stopped them.