“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t—”
“No, your curiosity is perfectly natural.” Her fingers drifted down to touch the blue numbers, then stopped before they made contact. “My father was a strong man. When the Nazis started rounding up the Jews, he didn’t hesitate. He hid our neighbors in the crawl space. Someone turned us in, and we were sent to the concentration camps. It was…well, you know.”
“People can’t understand, can they?” Merrin said. “If they weren’t there, I mean. If they didn’t see.”
“No. And my husband turned out to be one of them. We came to Africa together, completely in love. One night I realized I had to tell him the truth about…about the Nazis…what they’d done to me.” She paused and cleared her throat. Merrin wanted to reach across the table and take her hand, but his own hands wouldn’t move. “It was a big mistake. After I finished, he never touched me again.”
Pain creased her face, a pain Merrin knew all too well. He forced his hand to move, touch the back of hers. It was cold. Her eyes found his, and her voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s amazing what you’re capable of when your own survival is at stake,” she said. “The things you’ll endure. The things you’ll…do.”
He nodded. “Is that why you came here?”
“I was drawn here, I guess,” she said. “To help these people. I won’t give up just because there’s trouble.” She straightened in her chair and blinked rapidly. Her hand left his. “So. What turns a man of the cloth into an archaeologist?”
“I was an archaeologist first.”
Sarah smiled. “That’s not an answer.”
Her directness caught him by surprise, as did a rising desire to satisfy her curiosity. He liked it that she listened to him, paid attention to him. “I found I needed to work with something real,” he said. “Something I could hold in my hands.”
“Do you miss it? Being a priest?”
Again, her directness surprised him. This time he looked away, before she could see his own pain. “There’s no point in missing it.”
“Sometimes I think the best view of God is from hell.”
Merrin stared into his lap, considering this. His arousal had died. At last, he said, “I should get to bed.” He rose and turned to go, then halted. “I’m leaving for Nairobi in the morning to see Bession.”
She looked surprised. “To what end?”
“I need to see if he can tell me anything about the site.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” she said with an unexpected note of bitterness. “He was drooling when Chuma put him on the lorry.”
“I have to try.”
“Then you’ll want to talk to Father Gionetti. He runs the sanitarium.”
“All right. And thank you. For the medical care, I mean.”
“Just be sure to pay your bill.” She smiled up at him, and her dimple showed again. He found himself smiling back.
“Good night, Doctor,” he said.
“Good night,” she returned, watching Merrin as he left.
Six
Village of Derati, British East Africa
No child should be babied while another is offered to the hyena to bite.
—Kenyan proverb
KNEELING ON THE hard wooden floor of his room in Emekwi’s hotel, Father William Francis recited his evening prayers in a low, soft voice. It was a quiet, comforting ritual he had used to end his day since childhood, and he found it relaxed him, helped him let go of the stress and strain of the day’s events. It felt good to lay his problems at God’s feet and release his worries, if only for a single night.
Tomorrow he would have to start the mission school. He had a precious handful of books and supplies, and Emekwi was supplying the space. Will had been putting off the project, telling himself he was needed at the dig site and that he needed to get acquainted with the Derati before opening a school for their children. It was true that Merrin’s discovery rated attention from the Church, but it was also true that Merrin was far better qualified than Will to handle any artifacts. And he had to admit that the buried church scared the hell out of him.
Was he using the school as an excuse to avoid the place? Will bit his lip. Perhaps. On the other hand, he did have to get the school up and running, and the sooner, the better.
To his annoyance, he found he had stopped praying. Will sighed. This was supposed to be a time to let his problems go until morning, not mull them over further. He opened his eyes and saw the crucifix he had nailed to the wall was upside down.
“Qui?” he said, the Latin of his prayers momentarily carrying over into the spoken word. For a moment he flashed back on the giant crucifix dangling from its chain in the depths of the church, and he shivered. Who had done such a blasphemous thing, and how had he done it? More mysteries, more worries. With a slightly shaky hand Will righted the crucifix, blew out the lamp, and climbed into the narrow bed. A soft night breeze eddied in through the mosquito netting that covered the window.
There was a whisper of movement. Will sat bolt upright, his nightshirt tangling around his legs. He stared around the dark room and strained to listen. Nothing but jungle noises in the distance. Will lay back, willing his thudding heart to calm down. The darkness seemed to ooze about him like a hungry panther, ready to pounce and slash through the blankets. Paralyzed with fear, breath coming in little spurts, Will’s eyes strained to catch sight of whatever was out there, but he saw only utter blackness. He could strike a match, light the lantern. The matchbox was only a handbreadth away. But that would mean moving, drawing attention to himself.
A faint scraping sound came from the far wall. The hair on Will’s neck prickled and his skin went cold. The scraping sound came again. He told himself it was just a mouse or a rat in the wall, but the terror didn’t abate. He was being ridiculous, a child afraid of monsters in the dark. But still he couldn’t move.
He remembered a time when he was small and just about to climb into bed. A furry claw had shot out from under the bedstead and grabbed his ankle. Will had screamed and screamed, but when his parents came bursting into the room, the culprit had turned out to be his older brother Peter, hiding under the bed with a big woolen mitten. The scraping was certainly something equally mundane, perfectly normal.
The scraping noise stopped, but Will’s heart continued to pound. Finally, he lunged for the matchbox and struck a flame. Yellow light flared, driving the shadows to the corners and making them dance there. Will held the match high and scanned the room. Nothing. No monsters, no mice, no rats.
Feeling foolish, Will shook the match out and lay back down. Eventually he drifted off to sleep, unaware that across the room, hidden by shadow, the crucifix once again hung upside down.
Former Father Lankester Merrin sat on his bed with Bession’s drawings spread out around him like a demonic quilt. In the center of them lay the rubbing Semelier had given him. An alarm clock ticked on the nightstand. Merrin stared at the drawings, trying to find a pattern, something that made sense. Nothing came to him. He was about to gather the papers up and go to bed when a noise caught his attention. Standing in the open doorway of the bedroom was the silhouette of a woman. Merrin sat upright.
“Sarah?” he breathed. No response.
A dozen questions swirled in his mind, questions and possibilities. Had she come hoping to share his bed? A part of him was embarrassed at the idea, and a part of him was intrigued, even excited. But it would be breaking his vow of chastity. She had to know that. Maybe she just wanted to talk, talk about the camps. Merrin didn’t know if he could bear more of that tonight, though.
The woman opened her palm, revealing a dripping, bloody wound. With a gasp, Merrin tried to get up and go to her, but he found himself tangled in drawings and bedclothes.
“Can’t rise to the occasion, priest?” whispered a wet voice in his ear. Merrin twisted and saw a black-uniformed SS officer standing next to him. His collar bore a lieutenant’s insignia.
“Kessel?�
� Merrin said.
The alarm clock ticked. Granville’s butterflies fluttered madly in their glass cases, pinned to the boards and unable to move. Merrin wanted to free them, but Kessel was standing at the foot of his bed, a mocking laugh emerging from the wet cave of his mouth.
“If you want her, you have to go through me, priest,” Kessel sneered. Behind him, the woman fluttered about, pinned to the wall by her hand. “Come forward. Forward, now.”
The ticking of the clock became the tramp of marching boots. A girl, fifteen or sixteen years old, was singing as she skipped down a cobblestoned street. Merrin tried to reach out to her, tell her to run, but he couldn’t speak. A cold rain began to fall on a small crowd of villagers huddled in the town square. A troop of armed soldiers kept guard on them.
“You, priest,” Kessel snapped. “What is your name?”
“I am Father Merrin,” he said, still trying to stand up.
Kessel reached into the group of villagers, yanked out the teenage girl, and pressed a gun to her head. “God is not here today, priest.”
“No!” Merrin shouted. But Kessel pulled the trigger.
Merrin jerked awake. Three drawings fluttered to the wood floor like obscene snowflakes. He stared around, wild-eyed. The lamplight was dimming, going out, and the room lay in twilight. The alarm clock ticked its usual rhythm. Everything was normal.
Merrin’s breath came short and fast, and his heart pounded hard enough to make his wounded ear throb. He lay among the drawings for a long moment, calming himself. Everything was all right. It was just the usual dream. He started gathering up the papers, then saw Semelier’s rubbing. The demonic figure seemed to be staring up at him. Merrin reached for it, then noticed that the alarm clock had stopped ticking.
James took a deep drink from the ladle and dropped it back into the bucket with a small splash. He wasn’t really thirsty, but needing a drink was a perfectly legitimate excuse to be out of bed this late at night. Papa said he and Joseph would be up early tomorrow so they could attend the new school. James had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, school would be something new, and being able to read was a sign of status. On the other hand, it would mean spending the day cooped up inside with Joseph and the new white father. None of the other parents in the village were making their children attend school, but Papa said they would come in time, especially if they saw how much James and Joseph were learning.
Bobo, James’s little monkey, dashed out of the hotel and scampered up to the bucket. James filled the ladle and held it down for the animal to drink. James petted Bobo’s soft head with a finger, and the monkey let out a screech. James jerked his hand back. Bobo hissed and showed his fangs at something behind James. James whirled—
—and found Joseph standing in the dimly lit doorway.
“I had a bad dream,” Joseph said softly.
Bobo screeched again, and James hushed him. Papa wasn’t very fond of the monkey, and it wouldn’t take much for him to decide Bobo had to go. “It’s late,” James said in his best older-brother voice. “You should go back to bed.”
Joseph gave a violent shake of his head.
“Papa will get mad,” James warned.
Joseph shrugged, then glanced down at the boards that made up a rough back porch for the hotel. Lying there was the little rock hammer, the gift of the other white father. Joseph reached down for it, but James was quicker. He snatched it away and, in true big-brother style, held it high above his head. Bobo screeched again. Joseph stood on his toes, reaching for the hammer.
“Give it back!” he shouted angrily. “It’s mine!”
James backed into the yard. Bobo hissed at Joseph, who chased after his brother, demanding the hammer back. Finally he started to cry in huge gulping sobs.
“All right, all right,” James said, suddenly afraid Joseph would go wake Papa and get them both in trouble. “Go back to bed and I’ll give you the stupid thing.”
Joseph stopped crying, sniffed hard, and put out his hand for the hammer. Bobo, who was standing between them, hissed. He jumped away from Joseph, leaping for James’s shoulder. James didn’t follow what happened next, it all came so fast. There was a breath of air, damp and smelling of carrion. A dark and powerful form burst from the dark and snapped up the monkey in midair. Bobo’s scream of pain died in a wet crunch.
James took a step backward as the hyena turned yellow eyes on him. Bobo’s mangled corpse hung in shreds from its mouth, and blood pattered the ground under its chin. James could have reached out and patted the beast like a big, friendly dog. He smelled Bobo’s blood and bowel. On the other side of the hyena, Joseph made a strangled sound. A terrible cold giggle slid out of the shadows, and a second hyena moved in toward Joseph, its claws click-click-clicking on the hard ground.
“Joseph!” James whispered. “Joseph, look out!”
Joseph saw the second hyena. His breath was coming in quick gasps, and he couldn’t seem to move. James wondered if Joseph’s body would crunch like Bobo’s. But the shaggy animal moved past the younger boy and instead focused on James. Terrified, James backed away and almost bumped into a third hyena. It laughed in his ear, spraying him with gooey saliva and breath that smelled of rotting meat. Warmth ran down James’s leg as his bladder let go. The three hyenas paced around him in a slow, lazy circle. Their yellow eyes never left his.
“Get Papa, Joseph,” James croaked. “Quick!”
But Joseph stood rooted to the spot. One of the hyenas raised a lightning paw and swiped James’s side. Hot pain slashed his body and he screamed. The hyenas whooped and giggled, a high sound that spoke of insanity. James screamed again as the first hyena leaped.
Merrin was out of bed and halfway down the hotel stairs before his mind fully registered what he had heard. He pounded through the kitchen and out the back door, only barely aware that Will Francis was right behind him in a nightshirt.
A terrible scene greeted him. Joseph was staring wide-eyed, only three feet from a trio of hyenas. The animals were tearing at young James. One had pulled his left arm off. Another had taken a bite out of his shoulder. Blood sprayed into the air. James screamed and screamed and screamed.
An explosion slammed through Merrin’s bones and the head of one of the hyenas vanished in a cloud of blood and brain. Emekwi stood in the doorway with a shotgun, frantically trying to reload. The bigger of the two remaining hyenas bit down on the top of James’s head. Merrin heard a horrible popping sound as the animal’s teeth punched through the boy’s skull. James stiffened, and his screams stopped. Then the hyenas were off and running, dragging James’s body with them. Emekwi raised the shotgun and fired again. He missed. The hyenas ran laughing into the darkness. Emekwi screamed something incoherent and ran after them, brandishing the shotgun.
Stunned, Merrin turned to Joseph just in time to see the boy’s eyes roll back in his head. He collapsed to the ground. Operating on pure instinct, Merrin scooped Joseph up and ran for the hospital, not slowing to see if anyone followed him.
Sarah flung the door open just as he arrived. “I heard screams and shots,” she said. “What—?”
“Joseph. I think he’s in shock,” Merrin said. He dashed inside—Sarah had already lit lamps—and lay Joseph on one of the beds. Sarah pushed past Merrin and tried to check Joseph’s pupils, but his eyes had rolled back into his head. Next she checked his pulse and examined his face. His lips and gums were turning blue.
“His pulse and breathing are shallow and rapid,” she said, “and he is becoming cyanotic. It’s shock. Get me those blankets. Now!” Merrin pulled blankets off several nearby beds and covered Joseph up while Sarah elevated his feet and set up an IV bottle. “I don’t have any vasodilators. There isn’t much I can do except try to rehydrate. What happened to him?”
“Hyenas,” Merrin said. “They tore James apart while he watched.”
Sarah gulped but didn’t stop working on the IV even as the door burst open and Francis stumbled in, still in his nightshirt. “Did you s
ee that, Lankester? He was standing right there, and the hyenas ignored him!”
“I saw,” Merrin said. “They were focused on James, that’s all. Not particularly abnormal.” But even as he said the words, he knew they were lies. Any normal pack of hyenas would have gone after both boys—more to eat, less to share.
“That was more than focused,” Francis said emphatically. “They acted as if Joseph wasn’t even there.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Merrin demanded.
“That it’s—that there’s…” He trailed off. “Look, have you noticed anything strange tonight? Anything else, I mean?”
Merrin thought about the dream and the demon drawings and the blood writing. They were certainly strange, but he had the idea that Francis meant something else, something that couldn’t be explained by mundane forces.
“No,” Merrin said. “Nothing.”
Francis looked uncertain. “Are you sure?”
“Have you noticed anything?” Merrin countered. Sarah, meanwhile, disinfected the skin on the inside of Joseph’s elbow, inserted a metal needle, and attached it to the rubber IV lead. The boy didn’t react.
“I…I think that…” Francis hesitated again under Merrin’s hard gaze, then said, “No. I guess not.”
“Are you still leaving for Nairobi tomorrow?” Sarah asked.
Merrin nodded. “I have questions to ask Mr. Bession. If you need vasodilators, better give me a list.”
Three days later, Merrin entered a low, forbidding building made of bloodred brick and gray stone. A sign out front read, in English, ST. JOHN’S SANITARIUM. The enormous front doors gaped like a hungry mouth.
Merrin entered and allowed the metal doors to boom shut behind him. He kept on moving forward into the entrance area. The last three days had been full of movement for Merrin. First he had moved to pack a suitcase. Then he had moved to drive three days to Nairobi. Now he was moving forward into the asylum. If he kept moving, he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to think about the popping noise that James’s skull had made. He didn’t have to think about the torn limbs and spraying blood. He didn’t have to think about Joseph lying unconscious in Sarah’s clinic. He didn’t have to think about Emekwi’s grief-stricken face.
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