There was no answer.
The figure did not move.
Maybe the person was dead, he thought. Maybe whoever it was had been shot or stabbed and had come here to make peace with God.
But there were no drops of blood on the floor. And the door had been locked, the lights turned off, so the person had to have broken in.
‘‘Hello!’’ he called again. ‘‘May I help you?’’
The silhouette shifted in its seat but said nothing.
The reverend walked up the aisle, concerned but not afraid. Nothing appeared to have been stolen or vandalized. He himself had not been threatened or attacked. This wasn’t an ordinary criminal. This was someone suffering a crisis of conscience, and it was his responsibility to show that person the Way.
He reached the center of the church and stopped, frowning at the figure in the pew, not sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. ‘‘George?’’ he said, squinting in the dim light. ‘‘George Howells?’’
The man stared straight ahead blankly.
It was him, although Reverend Charles never would have made the connection had not Alice Howells been confiding her fears to him for the past week. The figure in the pew, hairy and filthy, dressed in rags, bore absolutely no resemblance to the clean-cut and meticulously groomed young family man he remembered from all those years ago. Privately, he had dismissed Alice’s rantings as the delusions of an unbalanced woman. She was a good parishioner and could always be counted on to support the church’s causes, but lately there’d been a whiff of fanaticism to her activism that made him slightly uncomfortable. So when she’d started telling him about the return of her husband, he’d taken it all with a grain of salt.
Obviously, though, she’d been telling the truth.
‘‘George?’’ he said again.
There was no answer.
The reverend was suddenly afraid. He shouldn’t have been. This was his church. And the house of the Lord. But fear followed no logic, and while he could tell himself that there was no place on earth that was safer or more comforting—and believe every bit of it—the fact remained that the dirty man frightened him. He said a quick prayer and took a step between the pews toward the hairy figure.
The head swiveled toward him.
And grinned.
He had never seen a smile so evil. Even in his dreams of hell, his mind had been unable to conjure a look such as that.
It was not God who had called him here tonight, he realized.
The light at the front of the chapel switched off.
They were not alone in the church. He saw movement in his peripheral vision. The slinking of shadows darker than the surrounding night. He held still, tried not to move or make noise. These beings were not human at all. They were monsters, demons, and they were here for him.
One by one, the windows of the chapel were shattered. Faint light from the city outside crept in at odd angles, throwing curious segments of the church’s interior into relief. A stray ray of diluted blue shone upon a section of side wall, highlighting a confluence of boards that suddenly looked like a face. Refracted moonlight made the back of a pew resemble a coffin.
George Howells was gone, but there was movement all around, though he could see only suggestions of shapes, not the actual outlines of the monsters themselves. They were there, though, massing in the vestibule, blocking his exit, creeping up the side aisles, moving between the pews. He had no idea how many were there, but it felt like dozens, and their foul stench was overpowering in his nostrils.
A floor-shaking crash sounded from the front of the church as the mounted statue of the crucified Christ was dislodged from its perch and slammed down on the dais.
A car drove by on the street outside, its headlights shining through first one broken window then another, like a searchlight, as it passed the church. Now he could see one of the demons. It was coming toward him from the aisle on the right, a hideous thing of fur and scale, vaguely humanoid but with a mane of wild hair, ultralong arms and cloven hooves that hit the floor sounding like nails being pounded into the wood. Its mouth was impossibly wide, with too many teeth, and its red eyes glittered in the darkness.
Claws scraped along the backs of the pews as the monster approached.
The reverend looked around frantically for a way to escape. The church’s front entrance was out of the question, but to the side of the pulpit was his office, and it had a door that led outside. If he could just get there, he might be able to run away and . . . and . . .
And what?
He could go to the police, but he doubted that bullets would stop these hell spawn. He could run to his fellow clergymen, but what could they do that he couldn’t? His only hope was to simply hide and pray that God protected him by keeping those demons far, far away from him.
God wasn’t protecting him now, though.
He didn’t want to think about that. Couldn’t think about that.
There was a whispery moan from behind him, followed by what sounded like a mocking human laugh.
George Howells.
The reverend ran. He knew every square inch of this church, could have navigated it blindfolded. Such familiarity served him well as he dashed for the office, maneuvering around pockets of darkness and the unknown horrors they hid, as well as the curiously methodical monsters moving toward him in the indirect light.
He reached the door to his office and—
It was locked.
The key was on the ring in his pocket, and if he had time he could have found it, but he did not. The demons were suddenly next to him, segmented bodies leaning toward him at impossible angles. There were just two of them, and when he glanced out at the pews and toward the rear of the chapel, he saw only George Howells standing in the doorway, grinning hugely. His mind had merely thought there’d been more, darkness and shadows exaggerating the threat and creating the illusion of creatures that were not there. He probably could have escaped, he realized; he probably could have gotten away.
A clawed hand grasped his shoulder, sharp nails sinking into his flesh.
There was no escaping now.
He was turned around to face the demon, and he closed his eyes to pray. There was no better place to die, he thought, than inside the house of the Lord.
Only he didn’t die. Not right away. They played with him first. One of them was female, and it did things to him that were so wrong and evil that his soul cried out in torment even as his body responded with ecstasy.
The other was male, and it participated, too, humiliating him, debasing him before slowly tearing him apart.
And then he died.
Fourteen
Carrie stared at the massive bouquet of flowers sitting in a crystal vase on top of her desk. Jan, Donna and Lateeka stood nearby, curious yet patient, waiting for her to open the tiny envelope and find out who had sent the obviously very expensive array. She was sure they would have checked themselves, but the small envelope accompanying the flowers had been sealed shut.
Carrie put down her purse and briefcase. ‘‘What is this?’’
‘‘You tell us,’’ Lateeka said, grinning.
‘‘It arrived about ten minutes ago,’’ Jan explained.
Matt? Carrie wondered. She picked up the small envelope and opened it. Inside was a card with a picture of red flowers on the cover. On the blank space within, written in a sloppy, unfamiliar hand totally unlike Matt’s mannered calligraphy, was a message: ‘‘Dear Ms. Daniels, I enjoyed meeting you Saturday night. I was wondering if we could continue our conversation sometime. Please give me a call.’’
It was signed ‘‘Lew’’ and was followed by a phone number.
She frowned. ‘‘I don’t know any Lew.’’
‘‘Oh my God,’’ Donna said. ‘‘Saturday night? Lew? I bet it’s Lew Haskell!’’
‘‘No,’’ Carrie protested, but even as she denied it, she knew that was exactly who it was.
‘‘It is!’’ Lateeka said, reading her fac
e.
‘‘Oh my God,’’ Donna repeated. ‘‘You must have made some impression on him.’’
Carrie sat down, stunned. ‘‘I don’t see how. I talked to him for a little while, thanked him like Alex told me to, but . . .’’ Her voice trailed away. Already she was remembering their conversation and the way they’d instantly hit it off. But he was married, wasn’t he? The man couldn’t be hitting on her. Not this publicly. This had to be legitimate, business-related.
But then why the flowers?
‘‘Well?’’ Lateeka asked. ‘‘Are you going to call him?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘That’s a ‘yes,’ ’’ Donna said.
‘‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’’ she repeated more forcefully.
Sanchez poked his head out of his office. ‘‘Ladies?’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t we have some work to do around here?’’ He nodded at the huge display of flowers. ‘‘And let’s find a more convenient place for those.’’
Carrie picked up the vase, looking around for a spot in the office where she could store them until it was time to go home. The other three grudgingly returned to their desks, but not before Donna tapped her on the shoulder. ‘‘It’s the best way to meet people,’’ she said sincerely.
‘‘Through work. That’s how I met my husband.’’ She glanced around, to make sure Sanchez wasn’t in view. ‘‘Call him.’’
As it happened, he called her. She was out on a case at the time—interviewing a seventeen-year-old girl who’d been pretending to be the mother of her ten-year-old sister so the two of them would not be split up and sent to foster homes after their parents had abandoned them—but she got his voice mail when she returned. The tone was light, casual, but the fact that he had called at all meant that he was serious about getting together. He was an important man, a busy man, and if he had taken time out of his day to contact her—twice!—then obviously he really wanted to meet with her.
For the next half hour, she tried to write her report on the abandoned sisters, but her gaze kept straying from the computer screen to the miniature envelope that had come with the flowers and now sat propped against her cat cup. Finally, she took out the little card and called the phone number. To her surprise, there was no assistant to go through, no secretary. Lew Haskell himself answered, and she could tell from the change in his voice when he found out it was her that he was happy she had called.
They spoke very briefly. He was about to go to a meeting, and she wasn’t supposed to be using her line for personal calls, so they acknowledged their conversation on Saturday night, said a few words of mutual appreciation and made an appointment to get together for dinner that evening.
Carrie hung up the phone to discover Jan, Donna and Lateeka standing very close by while they pretended to engage in other business.
Donna grinned. ‘‘We couldn’t help overhearing.’’
‘‘A date?’’ Jan said. ‘‘Tonight?’’
‘‘It’s not a date.’’
‘‘You’re going out to dinner,’’ she pointed out.
‘‘But he’s married,’’ Carrie said. ‘‘Isn’t he?’’
‘‘That’s a slippery slope,’’ Lateeka warned. ‘‘Don’t go there.’’
‘‘I’m not going anywhere.’’
‘‘It’s about time,’’ Donna whispered. ‘‘I’m happy for you.’’
Carrie reddened. Was it that obvious? Was her lack of a social life actually discussed and speculated about by her coworkers? ‘‘It’s not a date,’’ she protested. ‘‘It’s just a . . . meeting.’’ Still, the rest of the day seemed long, and she found that she was looking forward to this evening far more than was probably appropriate.
There was a crisis in the late afternoon. She was checking in with Rosalia, just a quick call to let her know the status of her various applications, but the woman was in such distress that her English was nearly indecipherable, and the only information Carrie could get out of her was that she was going to move right away, somewhere where no one would be able to find her.
‘‘Listen to me, Rosalia,’’ Carrie said carefully. ‘‘I’ve been working really hard on your case, and I think we have a very good chance of getting coverage for your medical expenses. But if you drop from sight or change your address or exhibit any behavior that tags you as unreliable, all that will be lost. Do you understand?’’
It was clear from the panicked jumble of English and Spanish that she didn’t understand.
‘‘Don’t go anywhere. Don’t do anything,’’ Carrie told her. ‘‘I’m coming over.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ Rosalia agreed, and hung up the phone.
Carrie considered bringing along someone who was fluent in Spanish, but she knew that Rosalia would close down in the presence of an unfamiliar person. Even if she couldn’t understand everything Rosalia said, it was still better for Carrie to go it alone and try to muddle through. The two of them had developed a sort of rapport, and she was counting on that to see them through whatever had arisen.
Carrie reached across her desk, opened the tiny envelope once again, got out the card and called Lew Haskell. He answered on the second ring. ‘‘Hello, Carrie.’’
‘‘Hello. Mr. Haskell—’’
‘‘Lew,’’ he said. ‘‘Call me Lew.’’
‘‘Okay, Lew, I—’’ She frowned. ‘‘How did you know it was me?’’
‘‘Caller ID. Who else would be calling me from Social Services?’’
‘‘Right. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I have to cancel tonight.’’
He sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘‘What happened? Second thoughts?’’
‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘Nothing like that. It’s one of my clients. She has a . . . problem that I need to address right away, and I doubt that I’ll be able to get away before six. By the time I go home and change—’’
‘‘I’ll wait.’’
‘‘No, really.’’
‘‘You don’t even have to go home. Why don’t I just pick you up at your office?’’
Carrie looked down at her unfashionable jeans and plain cotton blouse. ‘‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’’
‘‘We’ll play it by ear. Give me a call at this number when you’re through, and if I can’t convince you to relax and unwind a little after a hard day’s work, well then we’ll call it a night and reschedule. How about it?’’
She really did want to see him. And if everything went smoothly, there was no reason she couldn’t be ready to go by seven o’clock. ‘‘Okay,’’ she agreed. ‘‘But I have to leave now. I’ll call you later.’’
‘‘I’ll be waiting.’’
He’s married, she told herself as she gathered Rosalia’s case file. But maybe he wasn’t happily married, maybe he and his wife were separated, maybe . . .
Rosalia had calmed down quite a bit by the time Carrie arrived at the Oliveras’ apartment. She had started to pack a suitcase, but she hadn’t finished, and Carrie considered that a good sign. At the moment, she was sitting on the faded sofa, watching a judge show on her little black-and-white television, Juan cuddling next to her.
After all these visits, she should have been used to Juan, or at least not shocked every time she saw him. But as usual, the inscrutable expression on his animal face caused her heart to beat faster, the skin on the back of her neck to prickle, and for a few brief seconds she was back in the abattoir of Holly’s apartment, staring at the Rhino Boy’s head on top of the bureau.
She concentrated on Rosalia, not looking at her son. ‘‘Now, Rosalia, tell me what’s the matter. I’ll do anything I can to—’’
‘‘I see him!’’
Carrie frowned. ‘‘You saw him? Saw who?’’
‘‘Him!’’
An idea occurred to her. ‘‘Juan’s father?’’
Rosalia nodded vigorously. ‘‘He see me, too! And he shake his fist like this.’’ She demonstrated. ‘‘He is after me!’’
> ‘‘Wait a minute. Slow down. First of all, where did this happen? And when?’’
‘‘It happen today, this afternoon, by bus stop. I see him across the street. Only because other people there he leave me alone. But he shake his fist at me!’’ Her pretty features were contorted in an expression of anguish. Next to her on the couch, Juan was sitting up straight, but Carrie did not look at his face.
‘‘Listen to me,’’ Carrie said. ‘‘Did he come after you? Did he try to follow you?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Does he know where you live or where you work?’’
‘‘I do not think so.’’
‘‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’’
Carrie spent the next half hour convincing Rosalia that she was safe and that it was in her best interests to remain where she was. In the back of her mind, she was not at all sure that her reassurances were true. In fact, she was possessed of a completely unfounded belief that Rosalia and Juan were in grave danger—
Rhino Boy
—but at least if they remained where they were, she would be able to keep an eye on them, look out for them. If they took off and disappeared, they would be completely on their own, and Carrie suspected that that would be far more dangerous.
She was finally able to extract a promise from Rosalia that everything would remain as is for now, and she returned to the office much earlier than expected. Calling Lew Haskell, she asked him what his plan was for tonight. He seemed caught off guard. ‘‘Well . . . I thought we’d have a nice dinner and then . . . see where the evening leads from there.’’ He sounded suddenly embarrassed. ‘‘I like to keep my options open. I mean,’’ he said quickly, ‘‘there are a lot of other places we could go after dinner . . .’’
‘‘I understand,’’ she said, laughing. ‘‘Why don’t you tell me where you’d like to eat, and I’ll meet you there at, say, six thirty?’’
‘‘But I thought I’d pick you up.’’
‘‘I’d rather drive myself and meet you,’’ she said. ‘‘If that’s all right.’’
There was a slight pause. ‘‘Sure. Of course. Whatever you want would be fine.’’ He gave her the name of an expensive Italian restaurant downtown, asked her if she needed directions, and when she said she didn’t, he told her he’d see her there.
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