Fresh tears seeped from Marion’s eyes. The strength of her sobs doubled her over.
“I don’t believe this! I don’t believe this…!”
Dan’s muffled moans seemed softer now, as though he experienced some sort of pleasure. When Peter touched a fingertip to his friend’s stapled lips, the metal fasteners dissolved through the savaged flesh and fell away harmlessly. Peter’s hand, laid gently upon Dan’s eye sockets, restored his vision and fluttering, long-lashed lids. As Dan began to cry, Peter removed the ice pick, as carefully as possible.
By this time the aura had expanded to envelop all of Dan’s body. Like St. Elmo’s fire, only centimeters away from his skin, it shimmered with a neon intensity.
Marion whispered in Peter’s ear as she looked down at Dan. “Peter, he looks beautiful. Oh, God, look at him! He’s beautiful!”
“Peter…?” Dan looked at him, totally perplexed. His voice was ragged.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“What’s happening to me?” Dan’s voice contained fear and wonder in equal parts.
“You’re going to be all right now. Just take it easy.”
Marion got up, looked hurriedly about the cluttered apartment until she found a closet. She pulled a coat from its hangar and returned to wrap it around Dan Ellington. Peter smiled. Modesty was the least of his friend’s concerns at this point.
“Was I dreaming?” asked Dan. “What happened to me?”
“Who did this to you?!” Marion’s voice quavered, but she fought to get it under control.
Dan looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“Uh, this is my friend, Marion Windsor,” said Peter. “She helped me.”
Dan nodded, still recovering from the gross shocks to his mind and body. He touched his face tentatively, looked at the tips of his fingers as if not believing the reality of the soft, pink flesh.
“I don’t know who the son-of-a-bitch was…” Dan shook his head. “Said he was a cop and had news about you. Peter, what happened?” He paused, took a shaky breath. “How did you do this? That guy cut me up like a birthday cake! Oh, Jesus…I don’t believe this!”
Peter started crying again. “I’m sorry, Dan. Oh, God, it’s my fault that this even happened to you…”
Daniel reached out and hugged his friend, pulling him close.
“When did this happen, Dan?” asked Marion.
“Late last night.” He relaxed his embrace.
“Didn’t anybody hear what was going on?”
Dan shrugged. “It’s a small building and it’s summertime. The other three guys are all on vacation. I was the only one dumb enough to teach a summer session…”
“Can you describe the guy?” asked Marion.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget him.” He looked at his hands. “Peter, the guy mutilated me! Now look! What’s going on here?”
Peter nodded.
“We’ve got to get the police,” said Marion, standing up, but not knowing where to go next.
“No,” said Peter.
“Why not?!” Marion looked at him in total surprise.
“What could we tell them?” Peter asked. “That Dan was tortured, but that he’s better now? What evidence could we offer them? And if by some chance they believe us, what then? The man who did this was a pro, dispatched by the Vatican. The cops could never find him—and we’d look like fools—or madmen.”
“You’re right,” said Marion.
Dan slowly stood up, drew the long coat about his body. He inspected the partially incinerated door.
“Couldn’t find a locksmith, huh?” He grinned, shook his head, then moved slowly to the couch where he collapsed into its familiar cushions. He looked at Peter warily. His eyes revealed a conflux of feelings—fear, disbelief, shock, even a touch of adoration. “You’ve got to tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“I know,” said Peter.
“It’s a long story,” said Marion.
Daniel essayed a shaky smile. “I think I owe you at least the time it’ll take to tell me,” he said. “Believe me, I’m listening.”
TWENTY-TWO
Brooklyn, New York—Windsor
* * *
August 28, 1998
Being followed seemed like the only thing Marion could think about as they drove back to Suzette’s apartment. The man who’d tortured Dan was following them, was going to kill them.
“There’s nothing back there,” said Peter, checking the darkness that trailed the Mazda down the Van Wyck. “You can relax.”
“Unless he put a bug on the car. Then he could track us electronically,” said Dan, hunched up in the minimalist back seat of the sleek vehicle.
“That’s a cheerful thought,” said Marion.
“Well, we could leave the car at a garage for the night. Take the subway the rest of the way,” said Dan. “Maybe you could get somebody from the TV station to check the car tomorrow.”
“Not a bad idea,” she said. Dan’s voice sounded so normal it was startling. Like the clash of cymbals, the memories of Peter healing Dan brightened in her mind. Maybe Peter still couldn’t accept who he might be, but he sure was doing a lot to make a True Believer out of her!
Watching that glow around Dan’s body, seeing all the blood and ravaged flesh just…disappear, had been the most beautiful experience of her life. To be a witness to such a thing! Just thinking about it brought a lump to her throat, fresh tears to the corners of her eyes. Even while Peter had recounted his unique tale to Dan. Marion had been weeping from the power she had seen. She’d watched the Jesuit calmly listen to every detail, never interrupting, never commenting. She could almost see the man’s mind weighing and analyzing every word, every aspect of the story.
“You know,” Daniel Ellington had said quietly, “it doesn’t sound that crazy to me. When you think about it, it all makes rather good sense, really.”
The young Jesuit had described the plausibility of the science involved, then cited the “talents” Peter had exhibited for healing and destroying. As Marion listened to Dan drone on in a perfectly calm, logical voice, she began to think she might be able to believe the unthinkable.
Dan had summed it up best of all. “Let’s face it, Peter,” he’d said. “After what you did to me tonight, I would have no trouble believing you might be the Son of God.”
And Peter had reacted pretty strongly against that. He kept insisting that he was just an instrument, that for some reason God was acting through him, that God was merely using him.
But using him for what?
They had no answers.
The more Marion thought about ditching the car and getting it debugged by one of the station’s techies, the more the idea appealed to her. She explained her thinking as she left the highway, heading for the big parking garage near the Queens Center Mall. The car would be safe enough there overnight.
“Sounds good to me,” said Peter. He looked at her and smiled halfheartedly. He looked scared and lost, like he had not the slightest idea what he might do next. They were going to have to spend some time planning their next moves.
Several minutes later, the three companions were riding the G train west. The line looped around to the south, past Greenpoint into the heart of Brooklyn. Marion had never liked riding the trains at night, and as a rule, never did. But as she stood by the gritty, paint-speckled door of the car, with Peter Carenza standing by her side, she knew she was safe.
“I don’t think you have much choice, Peter,” Daniel said, holding a bottle of Heineken in his freshly healed right hand. “You’ve got to get outta Dodge, buddy.”
Peter looked decidedly distressed. “But where do I go? I can’t run forever.”
“No, but there’s a guy looking for you right now who’s probably the baddest news this side of King Kong.”
Peter forced a smile. “Where do I go?” he repeated.
“I wasn’t kidding—I don’t think you have much choice but to head for western skies.” Daniel took a long pull f
rom the green bottle. “New Jersey’s a good place to start.”
“I don’t have much money. I don’t even have a car.”
Daniel waved off the objections. “I’ve got money.”
“And I’ve got a car,” said Marion, surprised by her own impetuous words. Apparently her subconscious had already made a decision. The offer had come out without hesitation.
“Your car? You’d give me your car?” Peter looked absolutely stunned.
“Not exactly,” said Marion, smiling. “I’d be driving it.”
“I can’t believe this! You mean you would come with me? How? Why?”
“I haven’t had a vacation in three years. My boss owes me,” she said, wondering if that was completely true. She’d probably have to beg for a leave of absence in promise for an utterly unmatchable story when she returned. That last thought burrowed deep into her conscience—she wasn’t doing all this just to get the story of the century, was she?
No. It was more than that.
But that was sufficient explanation for anybody who asked.
“Count me in,” Daniel was saying. “I can’t let you run from this guy by yourself. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Daniel smiled. “Says you. I’m coming, okay?”
“But we don’t have a plan—”
“We’ll make one,” said Daniel.
“And we’ll make it work,” added Marion.
She was suddenly suffused with a sense of adventure and excitement she had never known before. The feelings were oddly intoxicating. She felt no danger, nothing but security in the knowledge that she was doing the right thing.
She looked across the room at Peter Carenza, and for the first time Marion Windsor grappled with the thought she might truly be falling in love with him…
TWENTY-THREE
Du Bois, Pennsylvania—Carenza
* * *
August 29, 1998
Things were happening so fast, Peter was having a hard time adjusting to all the changes in his life. The rectory at Saint Sebastian’s already seemed distant, alien. It was as if his identity as a parish priest belonged to another person. Slowly he had begun to think of himself differently. Maybe he was a special person. If God had chosen him to do a special task, then maybe he’d better start getting used to the idea. He had to admit he was getting more comfortable with his…special abilities. Ever since he saw the healing, he’d definitely felt better, knowing he wasn’t built purely for destruction. He could learn to live with his new abilities, and learn to control them. He was more confident that he would eventually hold the power, so to speak, over his power.
He watched the green semi-mountainous terrain of northern Pennsylvania spool past. It was his turn in the cramped back seat of the Mazda as he, Dan, and Marion motored west on Interstate 80.
Having made up their minds to protect him, his two friends had acted quickly and in concert. After a station security tech, grumbling at being rousted out of bed, had declared her car clean, Marion had purchased the necessary supplies and equipment for a cross-country camping trip. Though Dan had plenty of camping gear, they’d decided not to risk the trip back to his apartment, in case the Vatican’s agent had bugged the place. They borrowed a small trailer from WPIX and headed north and west to the George Washington Bridge with the radio playing loud rock and roll. Once into New Jersey, they stopped at a K-Mart to buy the few things they hadn’t found at the Herman’s in Queens.
Dan and Marion seemed to be caught up in the spontaneity of the moment. They were like a couple of little kids running away from home, like Huck and Tom seeking adventure on the Mississippi. Peter wished he could feel so cavalier about what they were doing.
For Peter, it was an exhilarating but threatening experience. Most of his life had been planned and scheduled and ordered. He’d always known what he was going to do. He wasn’t used to this kind of freedom—in fact he almost felt guilty at being suddenly free of obligation, duty and expectation. He was afraid he wouldn’t know what to do without an outwardly imposed structure.
Towns slipped past them, and as Peter read their names on the signs, he wondered what small dramas were being played out in their thousands of homes. Stroudsburg, Fenridge, White Haven, Mooresburg, New Columbia, Clintondale. So many places he’d never see, full of people he would never meet. Already this journey was opening up his mind to a whole new range of experience. Perhaps he would not regret running away from the only life he’d ever known.
“I’d forgotten how pretty everything is when you get out of that ridiculous city,” Marion shouted over the back beat of an old Rolling Stones song.
Daniel turned down the volume and spoke. “We’re just about clear of the Appalachians now. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“We’re going to need some gas,” said Marion. “There’s an exit coming up, okay?”
“Fine with me,” said Peter. “It’s getting late. Maybe we should start looking for a place to put up for the night, too.”
Marion exited south on Route 219 and headed for an old red brick grocery story with a pair of Chevron pumps out front. A big maroon Harley touring bike was canted over by the door and a young blond girl in leathers was leaning against it. She looked oddly at Peter and the others as they exited their car. Taking a step toward the door of the grocery, she hesitated, then returned to the bike. The travelers passed her and entered the store.
None of them saw the kid with the gun right away.
“Can we get some gas?” Marion asked a middle-aged woman in a white apron at the counter. The woman was emptying the cash drawer into a small brown paper bag. She looked up, startled, as Marion approached.
“I—”
“Hey, what the fuck’s this!?” The slightly high-pitched voice belonged to a boy in his early twenties. Dressed in bike leathers, he held an automatic pistol in one hand and a large Hefty bag full of grocery items in the other. His naturally handsome features were obscured by three days of beard, road grime, and sweat. He was wide-eyed and taut-jawed; his gunhand waved the weapon erratically.
“Oh shit,” said Daniel. “I don’t believe this…”
“Believe it, man,” said the kid, looking frantically from one person to the other. “Okay, everybody! Everything outta your pockets and on the counter. Now!”
“Just do like he says,” said Daniel, slowly reaching into his jeans for his wallet and folding money.
“Okay, take it easy,” said Marion, opening her shoulder bag. Peter hadn’t moved. He kept looking at the kid, trying to get a read on him. Despite his appearance and his jacked-up motions, Peter didn’t think the kid was on any drugs. Fear and confusion, desperation and need, capered behind the boy’s eyes.
“Look,” Peter said. “If you’ve got trouble, maybe we can help. You don’t have to do this.”
The kid looked at him, forced a laugh. “Man, don’t preach to me! You are gonna help—you’re gonna give me all your money right now!”
“I don’t think so,” said Peter.
He said it in such a flat, emotionless tone that the young thief did a double-take.
“What? What’d you say?”
“I said we’re not going to give you our money.”
“And why not?”
The kid shifted his feet, tried to sneer but failed miserably. He pointed the gun at Peter’s face, but his motion was hesitant, as if he knew it wasn’t going to faze the tall, sinewy man.
“Because…because I can destroy you—if I want to.”
Peter could feel everyone’s gaze upon him, like headlights pinning a deer against the dark matte of a night road. He could hear the heavy echo of his own voice. “You know I’m telling the truth, don’t you?”
The kid started to answer, then held back. His eyes locked with Peter’s.
Peter stared into him, never flinching. He could feel his body beginning to tingle. The summer-air-before-lightning feel told him the power was gathering. If the kid tried anything, he could fry him
like a moth in a purple bug-zapper. No, that wasn’t quite right. The way he felt right now, the way the forces were boiling and twisting inside him, he didn’t need the kid to start the action. He no longer required a catalyst to bring forth the awesome energy.
Peter realized, with a suddenness that was deafening, that he now had control of his power, whatever it was. He accepted the knowledge without question or fear.
“Who are you, man?” The kid seemed to feel the shift in Peter’s soul.
“I’m whoever you need me to be,” said Peter. “Put down the gun and let us help you.”
The kid forced himself to break eye contact. He wheeled and pointed the automatic at Marion, then Dan, then the clerk.
“I’ll kill ’em, man! If you keep fuckin’ with me, I swear I’m gonna kill ’em!”
The front door opened and the long-haired blonde sauntered in.
“C’mon, Billy! What’re you waitin’ for?—the whole town’s gonna be in here before you’re done.”
“Shut up, you little bitch! Just you shut up, Laureen!”
“Put down the gun, Billy,” said Peter.
“Fuck you, man.”
Resisting, against his will, Billy stared into Peter’s eyes.
“I can’t let you do this, Billy.”
The gun began to glow a deep, cherry red. Its metal surface seared the flesh of Billy’s hand with a loud, serpentine hiss and a puff of white smoke. The boy dropped the weapon; before it hit the floor it had lost its shape, melting into a dull lump of bubbling lava.
Screaming like a baby, Billy staggered toward Peter, his still smoking palm as black as a burned steak. “My hand! My fuckin’ hand!”
He kept repeating the words as if they were a litany. The blonde had turned, racing for the door, but Marion grabbed her. She yapped like a small dog until Marion slapped her across the face. Good for her. The red-haired store clerk had started crying as she backed into the corner.
The Blood of the Lamb Page 16