Reborn ac-4

by F. Paul Wilson

  As he folded his hands together he noticed that they were wet. He looked down. Blood. His hands were slick with it, both palms and backs smeared with red. Shocked, wondering where and how he could have cut himself, he turned to look at the others and felt his foot slip.

  More blood. Both his feet were bleeding.

  And then he knew. Brother Robert felt the strength go out of him like the air from a ruptured balloon. He dropped to his knees.

  He examined his hands closely. There, in the center of each palm, was an oval opening, oozing blood. He touched the right wound with the little finger of his left hand. There was no pain, not even when he probed it. He felt his fingernail slide between the edges of the skin. He pushed it farther through the warm, wet flesh within until it emerged on the other side. He stared dumbly at the red, glistening fingertip protruding from the back of his hand.

  He snatched his finger free and fought a wave of nausea. Then he pulled aside the scapular and ran his hand over the left side of his chest, not caring that he smeared the fabric of his robe with blood. Yes! His skin was wet under there! He had the chest wound as well.

  A nail hole in each hand and foot, and a spear wound in the chest! All five wounds of the crucified Christ!

  The Stigmata!

  He struggled to his feet to show the others, and that was when he became aware of the bedlam around him. There were cries and prayers and chaos. And blood. He was shocked to see the blood on all of them. All of them!

  Amid the panicked cries and wondering murmurs, Grace Nevins stood straight and still, her rotund figure an eye of calm in the center of the storm. She held out her punctured palms to him as her voice cut through the clamor.

  "The Spirit has spoken," she said. "We know what we must do."

  Filled with wonder and unable to find another explanation, Brother Robert bowed his head in devotion and accepted the will of the Lord.

  Twenty-two

  Sunday, March 17

  1

  So it is done.

  Jonah watched Carol as she sat on the edge of the hospital bed. Morning sunlight streaked the coverlet as Emma fussed over her, adjusting the slim straps of the new sundress she had bought for her daughter-in-law.

  He knew now that the first step had been successfully completed. He had sensed it for the past month but had dared not allow himself to rejoice until he had absolute proof.

  The only blot on his mood was his failure to fulfill the vision that had led him to Grace Nevins's apartment. He had so wanted to batter her skull until it was soft as a beach ball, but had failed. So he'd unleashed some of his fury upon her belongings.

  But none of that mattered.

  The One was alive. That was what really mattered.

  The One he had awaited all these years had become flesh. The first step had been taken. The next task was to usher the One safely into the world. When that was done, he would guard the One as he grew to maturity. When the One reached the full level of his powers, no further guarding, no further assistance of any kind would be necessary.

  Then the world would sink into chaos and Jonah would receive his reward.

  He shook off dreams of the future and brought his thoughts to bear on the here and now.

  The One had been in mortal danger.

  The woman's womb had almost expelled his developing form two days ago. Jonah had been at work at the time. He had sensed the sudden weakness, the impending catastrophe, but had not understood the nature of the threat. Now he knew. The One had been near death then, clinging to physical life by the flimsiest thread.

  Now, however, all seemed well. The One's strength was growing again. Jonah could sit here in the same room with the woman and bask in the power seeping through her from the One.

  "Doesn't that sundress look wonderful on her, Jonah?" Emma said.

  It was long, a blue flowered print, exposing her shoulders. Sunlight outlined her long, slim legs through the fabric.

  "Very nice," he said.

  "She just seems to glow!"

  Jonah smiled. "Yes, she does."

  "And she's coming home to our place when she's released this afternoon, aren't you, dear?"

  Carol shook her head. "No. I'm going back to the mansion. It will be months before the house is rebuilt, so I think I'd better get used to the place."

  "But you can't! Dr. Gallen told you to rest!"

  "I'll be fine," Carol said. "I've put you out enough already. I won't impose on you anymore."

  "Don't be silly! You—"

  "Emma, I've made up my mind."

  Jonah was aware of the determination in her eyes. So, apparently, was Emma.

  "Well, then. If Muhammad can't move the mountain, I suppose I'll just have to keep stopping by that awful old house to keep an eye on you."

  Although she said nothing further, Jonah saw Carol roll her eyes toward the ceiling.

  It was good to have Emma here. She obviously was thrilled to have a grandchild on the way. She would make an excellent midwife during the journey toward birth, a scrupulous, conscientious guardian who was completely ignorant of what she was guarding.

  Just as well.

  Besides, it would be good for her as well. Her spirits had been down so since the death of the Vessel, her Jimmy. But there had been new light in her eyes and new life in her step since she had heard the news of the pregnancy. Jonah wanted Emma to be happy and alert. She was more useful that way. He would need her vigilance.

  For the threat to the One was not past. The One was most vulnerable now. There were forces still at large that would oppose the One and try to end his reign before it could begin. Jonah had guarded the Vessel for twenty-six years. Now he must protect the woman and her precious burden.

  The priest entered then, and Jonah immediately sensed a disturbance in the glow from the One. A ripple of hate and… fear.

  The reaction was so unexpected, so uncharacteristic. It startled Jonah. And puzzled him.

  Why should the One react so to this young priest? He represented nothing that could threaten the One. And yet… he had been with the woman when she had begun to miscarry. Had he somehow caused it?

  "What do you want?" Jonah said, standing and placing himself between Carol and the priest.

  "I'm here to visit Carol, just as you are, Mr. Stevens."

  His tone was polite but his expression said, Back off.

  "Hi, Bill," the woman said from her bed. "They're letting me go today."

  "Great." The priest brushed past Jonah and stepped to her bedside. "Need a lift?"

  "We'll drive her," Jonah said quickly.

  "That's okay, Jonah," she said. "I'd already asked Father Bill."

  Jonah doubted that was true but didn't know what he could do about it. He would have to be watchful. If this priest was a threat to the One, then he was a threat to Jonah as well.

  "Very well. Emma will go ahead of you and fix you something for dinner."

  "Good idea, Jonah!" Emma said, beaming. "I'll have a nice lunch waiting for you!"

  As Carol opened her mouth to protest the priest said, "I think that's for the best, don't you?"

  Jonah wondered at the look that passed between them at that moment.

  "Maybe so," Carol said, and looked away.

  There's a secret between those two.

  What could it be? Did he lust after Carol? Had he attempted to seduce this rich young widow, perhaps even try to rape her?

  But no. That would not have weakened the One. It would have strengthened him. He would have glowed brighter from such an encounter. Instead, the One's light had almost been extinguished.

  Did the priest know about the One?

  That didn't seem to be the case. He showed nothing but warm friendship for Carol. He acted anything but intimate with her. In fact, for such an old friend, he seemed almost afraid to get too close to her.

  Yet Jonah could not escape the conviction that this priest had somehow hurt the One. Whether by accident or by design, it marked him as a potential da
nger. He would have to be watched.

  There was danger all around. Now, at least, Jonah had identified one threat. He would watch for others.

  Do not worry, he told the One. I shall protect you.

  He did not intend to be very far from the woman at any time during the next eight months.

  2

  During the ride from the hospital Carol noticed how Bill kept the conversation light. As they listened to the static-charged radio in St. Francis's battered old Ford station wagon, he commented on the music, on the unseasonably warm weather, and told her how it took every bit of his automotive know-how to keep this old crate running. But his face darkened when the newsman told of Bobby Kennedy's announcement that he intended to seek the Democratic presidential nomination.

  "That gutless opportunist! What a creep! McCarthy takes all the risks, wounds the dragon, and then Kennedy steps in!"

  Carol had to smile. She could not remember seeing Bill really angry before. She knew what Jim would say. That's politics, Bill.

  "Makes me sick!"

  They were pulling into the mansion's driveway then, and Carol spotted Emma's car.

  "She's already here!"

  "I think you could use the help," Bill said as he brought the station wagon to a stop before the front doors. "Don't you?"

  Carol shrugged, not wanting to admit that he was right. She was feeling well now—so much better than she had even yesterday—but she was still weak. Dr. Gallen had said she'd lost a fair amount of blood but not enough to make a transfusion absolutely necessary. He'd said he preferred to let her bone marrow make up the deficit. So maybe she did need someone around to lean on now and again. But Emma…

  "She's sweet," she said, "and her heart's in the right place, but she never stops talking! Sometimes I think I'll go mad from her incessant chatter!"

  "Just a nervous habit, I gather. And don't forget—she's lost somebody too. Maybe she needs to feel needed."

  "I guess so," Carol said around the lump in her throat. "But that's another part of the problem. She reminds me of Jim."

  Bill sighed. "Yeah, well, she can't help that. Put up with it for a few days. 'Offer it up,' as the nuns used to tell us. It will be good for both of you. And I'll feel better knowing you're not out here alone."

  "Thanks for caring," Carol said, meaning it. "It must be hard after that stunt I pulled Friday."

  "Already forgotten," he said with a smile.

  But the hint of uneasiness in his smile told her that it hadn't been forgotten. How could anyone forget something like that? She had stripped herself naked in front of this old friend of hers, this priest, and had thrown herself at him. Had actually been trying to unzip his fly! She shook her head at the memory.

  "I still don't know what got into me," she said. "But I swear it will never happen again. You've got to forgive me."

  "I do," he said, and there was nothing forced about his smile this time. "I could forgive you just about anything."

  Amid the glow of relief she experienced an intense flash of resentment at his generosity of spirit. It was gone as soon as it came, but it definitely had been there. She wondered about it.

  "Listen," he said, hopping out and running around to help her to her feet on her side of the car. "I told my mother you'd be out here by yourself. She's going to check in. And if I know her, she'll be dropping off a pot of stew or a casserole too."

  "She doesn't have to."

  "She's dying to. She can't get used to an empty nest. She's hunting someone to mother."

  Carol remembered the warm, rotund Mrs. Ryan from the days when she had dated Bill in high school. She knew Bill had been staying at his folks' house since Friday and wondered how his parents were doing.

  "I'll be fine," she said. "Really I will."

  Emma was waiting inside. She ushered Carol to the big wing chair in the library, supporting her arm as if she were an elderly, infirm aunt.

  "There!" she said. "You just rest easy in that chair and I'll get you some lunch."

  "That's really okay, Emma. I can—"

  "Nonsense. I made some tuna salad, the kind with the sliced gherkins, just the way you like it."

  Carol sighed to herself and smiled. Emma was trying so hard to make her comfortable and look after her. How could she throw it back in her face?

  "Where's Jonah?"

  "He's home, calling his foreman. He's got some vacation time coming—lots of it—and he's going to take a few weeks to stay close by and help you get this place in shape."

  Just what I need, she thought. The two of them around at once.

  But again she was touched by the concern. In all the time she had known him, Jim's father—adoptive father—had been as remote as the moon. Since the funeral, however, his demeanor had changed radically. He was concerned, solicitous, even devoted.

  And in all those years she could not remember him ever taking a vacation. Not once.

  All this attention was getting to be too much for her.

  "Want to stay for lunch, Bill?"

  "No thanks. I really—"

  "You've got to eat sometime. And I could use the company."

  "All right," he said. "But just for a quick sandwich, and then I've got to be getting back to St. Francis."

  The sun was so bright and the day so warm that Carol thought it might be nice to eat outside in the gazebo overlooking the Long Island Sound. Emma declined to join them. Bill was already out in the yard dusting off the seats when the phone rang.

  "I'll get it!" Carol said, wondering who could be calling her here on a Sunday afternoon. She lifted the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  "Carol Stevens?" said a muffled voice.

  "Yes? Who's this?"

  "That is not important. What is important is that you be aware that the child you are carrying is the Antichrist himself."

  "What?" Fear gripped her insides and twisted. "Who is this?"

  "Satan has transferred himself from the soulless shell of your husband to your womb. You must put Satan out!"

  "You're crazy!"

  "Will you put Satan out? Will you rip the beast from your womb and cast him back into Hell where he belongs?"

  "No! Never! And don't ever call here again!"

  Her skin crawling, she slammed the heavy receiver down and hurried outside, away from the phone before it could ring again.

  3

  Grace unwound the handkerchief from around the mouthpiece of the receiver and stuffed it into her pocket.

  That settles that.

  She had hated speaking to Carol like that, but she had to know if the poor girl could be frightened into resolving the problem on her own. Obviously she could not. So now Grace's course was set.

  She walked back to the front of her apartment where thirteen people waited in her cramped living room. There was Brother Robert, Martin, and the ten members of the Chosen who had been miraculously marked by the Spirit in Martin's apartment last night. They were dressed in sweaters and jackets and slacks and jeans—and all had bandages on their hands. Like Grace's, their wounds had stopped bleeding within an hour of the miracle.

  Grace wondered if they had spent the entire night awake like her, staring at her palms, her feet, inspecting the stab wound under her left breast, assuring and reassuring herself that the wounds were real, that she truly had been touched by God.

  Mr. Veilleur was there too. He alone had unbandaged hands. They were all waiting, all staring at her with expectant looks in their eyes.

  Without fanfare or ceremony, much of the burden of leadership of the Chosen had passed to her. Grace felt strong, imbued with holy purpose. She knew what the Lord wanted her to do, and as much as her heart recoiled from what was to come, she was ready to obey. The others, Brother Robert among them, were behind her. The monk had stepped aside— gladly, it seemed—to allow her to decide the next move. Grace was receiving guidance from on high. The Spirit was with her. They all knew that and yielded to it.

  Only Mr. Veilleur withheld his alleg
iance.

  "She's home," she said. "At the mansion. It's time for us to act. Our mission today is the reason we were touched by the Spirit. It is the purpose for which we were brought together. The Spirit is with us today. It has made us the instruments of God. Let us go."

  They rose as one and began filing out the door.

  All except Mr. Veilleur. The sight of him sitting there immobile while everyone else mustered for action triggered a flow of syllables she did not understand. She heard herself speaking in what he had called the Old Tongue.

  "Not this time," he said, answering in English. "You've had enough use of me. I'm out of it now. Out of it for good."

  "What did I say?" Grace asked, momentarily unsure of herself for the first time since yesterday's miracle.

  "It doesn't matter," Mr. Veilleur said.

  "You're not coming with us?"

  "No."

  "You think we're wrong?"

  "What I think doesn't matter. Do what you have to do. I understand. I've been there. Besides, this 'stigmata' you've all incurred has achieved its purpose. All doubt has been cast aside. You're all inflamed with holy purpose."

  "Are you saying we're wrong?"

  "Absolutely not. I'm merely saying you must go without me."

  "What if I don't go? What if I do nothing? What if I turn my back to the calling of the Lord and allow the—allow Carol's baby to be born? What will that child do to us, to the world, when he's born?"

  "It won't be what he will do to the world so much as what the world will do to itself. He will have little effect at first, although his very presence will cause those living on the knife edge of violence and evil to fall into the abyss. But as he grows older he will steadily draw strength from the ambient evil and degradation of life around him. And the day will come—as it inevitably must—when he realizes that his power is unopposed. Once he knows that, he will let in all the lunatic darkness stalking the edges of what we call civilization."

  "You said something about what the world will do to itself. Will he make us all depraved and evil?"