Reprisal
( Adversary Cycle - 5 )
F. Paul Wilson
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Reprisal by F. Paul Wilson
PART I
NOW
ONE
Queens, New York
Rain coming.
Mr. Veilleur could feel the approaching summer storm in his bones as he sat in a shady corner of St. Ann's Cemetery in Bay side. He had the place to himself. In fact, he seemed to have most of the five boroughs to himself. Labor Day weekend. And a hot one. Anyone who could afford to had fled upstate or to the Long Island beaches. The rest were inside, slumped before their air conditioners. Even the homeless were off the streets, crouched in the relative cool of the subways. The sun poured liquid fire through the hazy midday sky. Not a cloud in sight. But here in the shade of this leaning oak, Mr. Veilleur knew the weather was going to change soon, could read it from the worsening ache in his knees, hips, and back.
Other things were going to change as well. Everything, perhaps. And all for the worse.
He had .been making sporadic trips to this corner of the cemetery since he had first sensed the wrongness here. That had been on a snowy winter night five years ago. It had taken him a while, but he had finally located the spot. A grave, which was perfectly natural, this being a cemetery. This grave was not like the others, however. This one had no marker. But something else made this grave special: Nothing would grow over it.
Through the past five years, Mr. Veilleur had seen the cemetery's gardeners try to seed it, sod it, even plant it with various ground covers like periwinkle, pachysandra, and ivy. They took root well all around, but nothing survived in the four-foot oblong patch over the grave.
Of course, they didn't know it was a grave. Only Mr. Veilleur and the one who had dug the hole knew that. And surely one other.
Mr. Veilleur did not come here often. Travel was not easy for him, even to another part of the city he had called home since the end of World War II. Gone were the days when he walked where he wished, fearing no one. Now his eyes were bad; his back was stiff and canted forward; he leaned on a cane when he walked, and he walked slowly. He had the body of a man in his eighties and he had to take appropriate precautions.
Age had not dampened his curiosity, however. He didn't know who had dug the grave or who was in it. But whoever lay down there below the dirt and rocks and weeds had been touched by the Enemy.
The Enemy had been growing steadily stronger for more than two decades now. But growing carefully, staying hidden. Why? There was no one to oppose him. What was he waiting for? A sign? A particular event? Perhaps the one buried below was part of the answer. Perhaps the occupant had nothing to do with the Enemy's quiescence.
No matter—as long as the Enemy remained inactive. For the longer the Enemy delayed, the closer Mr. Veilleur would be to reaching the end of his days. And then he would be spared witnessing the chaotic horrors to come.
A shadow fell across him and a sudden gust of wind chilled the perspiration that coated his skin. He looked up. Clouds were moving in, obscuring the sun. Time to go.
He stood and stared one last time at the bare dirt over the unmarked grave. He knew he would be back again. And again. Too many questions about this grave and its occupant. He sensed unfinished business here.
Because the grave's occupant did not rest easy. Did not, in fact, rest at all.
Mr. Veilleur turned and made his unsteady way out of St. Ann's Cemetery. It would be good to get back to the cool apartment and get his feet up and have a glass of iced tea. He tried to believe that his wife had missed him during his absence, but with her mind the way it was, Magda probably hadn't even realized he was gone.
TWO
Pendleton, North Carolina
Conway Street was nearly at a standstill. Like a parking lot. Between fitful crawls, Will Ryerson idled his ancient Impala convertible in the stagnant traffic and watched the heat gauge. It was staying well in the safe range.
He patted the dash. Good girl.
He glanced at his watch. He'd already had a late start for work this morning, and this was going to make him later. He took a deep breath. So what? The grass on the north campus at Darnell University could wait a few extra minutes for its weekly trim. Only problem was, he was in charge of the work crews this morning, so if he didn't get there, J.B. would have to get things rolling. And J.B. had enough to do. That was why he had recently promoted Will.
Will Ryerson is moving up in the world.
He smiled at the thought. He'd always wanted an academic life, to spend his work days on the campus of a great university. Well, for the last three years or so, his wish had come true. Except he didn't travel there every day to immerse himself in the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the ages; he came to tend the grounds.
Of course, with his degrees, he could have been at Darnell as an academic, but proving his qualifications would require him to reveal his past, and he couldn't do that.
He glanced in the rearview mirror at his long, salt-and-pepper hair, still wet from his morning shower, pulled tight to the back, his scarred forehead, bent nose, and full, graying beard. Only the bright blue eyes of his former self remained. If his mother were still alive, even she'd have trouble recognizing him now.
He peered ahead. Had to be an accident somewhere up there. Either that or the road department had picked the town's so-called a.m. rush hour to do some street repairs. Will had grown up in a real city, the city with the king—no, the emperor of rush hours, and this little bottleneck couldn't hold a candle to that.
He killed time by reading bumper stickers. Most of them were religious, including a fair number of worn "PTL CLUB" stickers, and others like, born again, listen for the shout—HE'S coming AGAIN, YOUR GOD DEAD? TRY MINE: JESUS LIVES, A CLOSE
encounter of the best kind: jesus, and Will's favorite, jesus
IS COMING AGAIN AND BOY IS HE PISSED.
I can dig that, Will thought.
He considered turning on the radio but wasn't in the mood for the ubiquitous country music or the "new music" that dominated the university's student station, so he listened to the engine as it idled in the press. A quarter-century-old, gas-guzzling V-8 but it purred like a week-old kitten. It had taken him a while, but he'd finally got the timing right.
Will noticed that the right lane seemed to be inching forward faster than the left, the one he was in. When a space opened up next to him, he eased over toward the curb and made slightly better time for half a block. Then he came to a dead stop along with everybody else.
Big deal. He'd picked up fifty feet over his old spot in the left lane. Hardly worth the trouble. He peered ahead to see if the next side street was one he could use to detour around the congestion. He couldn't make out the name on the sign. He glanced to his right and froze.
There was a telephone booth on the sidewalk not six feet from the passenger door of his car.
Usually he could spot one blocks away, but this one had been hidden by the unusually large knot of people clustered at the bus stop next to it. He'd missed it completely.
Panic gripped the center of Will's chest and twisted. How close was he? Too close. How long had he been stopped? Too long. He couldn't stay here. He didn't need much, just half a car length forward or back, but he had to move, had to get away from that phone.
There was no room in front; he had pulled right up to the rear bumper of the car ahead of him. He lurched around in his seat, peering over the trunk. No room there either. The car behind was right on his tail. Trapped.
Get out of the car—that was the only thing to do. Get out and walk off a short distance until the snarl loosene
d up, then run back and screech away.
He reached for the door handle. He had to move now if he was going to get away before—
No. Wait. Be cool.
Maybe it wouldn't happen. Maybe the horror had finally let go. Maybe it was over. He hadn't allowed himself near a phone for so long, how did he know it would happen again? Nothing had happened yet. Maybe nothing would. If he just stayed calm and stayed put, maybe—
The phone in the booth began to ring.
Will closed his eyes, set his jaw, and gripped the steering wheel with all his strength.
Damn!
The phone rang only once. Not the usual two-second burst, but a long, continuous ring that went on and on.
Will opened his eyes to see who would answer it. Someone always did. Who'd be the unlucky one?
He watched the commuters at the bus stop ignore it for a while. They looked at each other, then at the phone, then back down the street where their bus was stuck in traffic somewhere out of sight. Will knew that wouldn't last. No one could ignore a phone that rang like that.
Finally, a woman started for the booth.
Don't, lady!
She continued forward, oblivious to his silent warning. When she reached the booth she hesitated. It was that ring, Will knew, that endless continuous ring that so jangled the nerves with its alienness. You couldn't help but sense that something was very wrong here.
She looked around at her fellow commuters, who were all staring at her, urging her on with their eyes.
Answer it, they seemed to say. If nothing else you'll stop that damned incessant ring!
She lifted the receiver and put it to her ear. Will watched her face, watched her expression change from one of mild curiosity to concern, and then to horror. She pulled the receiver away from her head and stared at it as if the earpiece had turned to slime. She dropped it and backed away. Another of the commuters—a man this time—began to approach the booth. Then Will noticed the car in front of him begin to move ahead. He gunned the Chevy and stayed on the other car's bumper as it pulled away.
Will kept his sweaty hands tight on the wheel and fought the sick chills and nausea that swept through him.
And he didn't look back.
Lisl Whitman sat in her office in the math department at Darnell University and stared at her computer screen while trying to ignore the insistent beeping of her watch.
Lunchtime.
She was only a little hungry now, and she was really rolling on these calculations. A very productive morning. She didn't want to see it end just yet. This was good work. She had a feeling that it was going to make people sit up and take notice.
But that one o'clock advanced calculus class wouldn't wait, and a couple of those eager Darnell undergrads wouldn't let her get away for at least another fifteen minutes after class, which meant she wouldn't get free until well after two. She'd be famished by then and maybe even a little shaky. And when she got that hungry, she always ran the risk of going into a feeding frenzy.
And so what if I do?
One more binge wasn't going to matter. She was already at least twenty pounds overweight. Who'd notice a few more? Will Ryerson might, but her weight didn't seem to matter to him. He accepted her for who she was, not how she looked.
Lisl had never had a weight problem until her late twenties. Until after the divorce. She was thirty-two now and knew she'd let herself go in a big way. She'd been lonely and depressed, so she immersed herself in her doctoral thesis. And food. Food had been her only pleasure. And somewhere along the line she became a compulsive eater. She'd binge, hate herself for it, and then binge again.
Why not? She'd been considered a math nerd all her life, and nerds were supposed to look rumpled and slovenly. It came with the territory, didn't it? She'd never allow herself to look slovenly, but the loose clothes she tended to wear did lend her a rumpled look. She rarely wore makeup—her high coloring didn't require it—but she took scrupulous care of her naturally blond hair.
Eat now, she told herself. Now!
Maybe her weight didn't matter, but she had to draw the line somewhere.
She hit the save button and watched the monitor return to the READY screen. Satisfied that her work was now safely stored away in the memory banks of the university's Cray II, she shut off the monitor and looked out the window. Another bright, warm, glorious September day in North Carolina.
Now. Where to eat? Four choices. Here in the math department—either alone in her own office or joining Everett in his—or in the caf or al fresco. Actually, there were only three choices. Alone could be more company than Ev. Still, he was the only member of the department still on the floor and she guessed she owed him the courtesy of asking him to join her. It was a gesture that risked nothing, and she sensed that Ev genuinely appreciated it whenever she asked.
She stepped across the hall to his open door, everett Sanders, ph. D. ran in black across the opaque glass. He was hunched over his computer keyboard, his narrow back to her. His shiny pink scalp gleamed through his thinning light brown hair. He was dressed in the Ev Sanders uniform: short-sleeved white shirt and brown polyester slacks. Lisl didn't need to see his front to know that a nondescript brown tie was tightly knotted around his neck.
Lisl tapped on the door glass.
"Come," he said without looking around.
"It's me, Ev."
He turned and rose from his seat to face her. Always the gentleman. Only in his mid-forties but he looked older. And yes, another of his muddy brown ties was cinched up high under his Adam's apple.
"Hello, Lisl," he said, his watery brown eyes peering at her through his wire-rimmed glasses. He smiled, showing slightly yellowed teeth. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"What?"
"The article."
"Oh, yes! The article. I think it's super, don't you?"
U.S. News & World Report's annual college issue had given Darnell University a top rating, even going so far as to call it "the new Harvard of the South."
"I'll bet John Manning's sorry now that he left for Duke. All we need to complete the picture is a Division I basketball team."
"And you can coach it," Lisl said.
Ev gave one of his rare, heh-heh-heh laughs, then rubbed his palms together.
"Well, what can I do for you?"
"I'm going to lunch now. You want to come?"
"No, I don't think so." He glanced at his watch. "I'll be stopping work in two minutes. After that, I'll be eating lunch here and catching up on some reading. You're welcome to join me."
"That's okay. I didn't bring anything today. See you later."
"Very well." He smiled, nodded, and reseated himself at his computer console.
Relieved, Lisl turned away. Asking Ev to lunch was a private game she played. He always brown-bagged it, always ate in his office. It was a safe courtesy to ask him to join her. He never accepted. Ev Sanders was nothing if not predictable. She wondered what she'd do with him if he ever did accept.
She grabbed the vinyl-covered cushion from behind her office door and headed for the caf.
The caf's lasagna was good as a rule, but the weather was a little too warm for a hot lunch. She picked out a fruit cocktail and a turkey on white.
There. That looked sensible.
Then she came to the dessert counter and snatched a piece of coconut cream pie before she could stop herself.
Who'll notice?
She scanned the tables in the faculty room and saw no one she cared to sit with, so she headed outdoors to the grassy knoll behind the caf. She hoped Will would be there.
He was. She spotted Will Ryerson's familiar figure leaning against the wide trunk of the knoll's only tree, a battered old elm. He was sipping a can of pop and reading, as usual.
Her mood buoyed at the sight of him. Will was a tonic for her. Ever since she had started dabbling with this idea of submitting a math paper, Lisl had found that her insides tended to twist into tight little knots of tension when she was working on it.
Her underarms would dampen from the intense concentration, like someone doing hard physical labor. All that tension uncoiled within her now as Will looked up and saw her. A welcoming smile lit through his graying beard. He closed the little book in his hand and slipped it into his lunch box.
"Beautiful day!" he said as she joined him under their tree. Their tree. At least that was the way she thought of it. She didn't know how Will thought of it.
"That it is." She dropped the cushion on the mossy ground and sat on it. "What were you reading there?"
"Where?"
"When I came up."
Will suddenly seemed very interested in his sandwich.
"A book."
"I gathered that. What book?"
"Uh …The Stranger."
"Camus?"
"Yeah."
"I'm surprised you haven't read that one by now."
"I have. I thought I'd try it again. But it doesn't help."
"Help with what?"
"Understanding."
"Understanding what?"
He grinned at her. "Anything." Then he took a savage bite out of his sandwich.
Lisl smiled and shook her head. So typical of the man. She'd once heard something described as an enigma wrapped in a mystery. That was Will. The philosopher groundskeeper of Darnell University.
Lisl first met him two years ago under this very tree. It had been a day like today and she had decided to sit outside to correct some test papers. Will had come up and informed her that she'd taken his spot. Lisl had looked up at a tall bearded stranger in his late forties. His accent was definitely from somewhere to the north, he smelled of motor oil, his hands were heavily callused and looked to be permanently stained with engine grime, his green overalls were dusty and sweat-stained, his work boots were clumped with grass clippings. He had clear blue eyes and long, dark brown hair heavily streaked with gray, pulled back and fastened into a short ponytail with a red rubber band, a nose that had been badly broken, and a wide scar on the right side of his forehead. An aging hippie-type handyman who'd managed to land himself a steady job, she'd thought as she smiled and moved exactly three feet to her right. He'd seated himself and produced a sandwich and a Pepsi. Again, typical. But when he pulled out a copy of Kierkegaard's Sickness Unto Death and began reading, Lisl had to revise her assessment. And she had to talk to him.
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