“Enough.” The FBI man spoke softly into his radio. “Vicki? Where is everybody?”
“Can’t tell. From here, everything looks like it’s getting darker.”
Clark raised his head. Matthews was right; the area inside the Lawn’s oval had become darker and more mysterious, its pockets of light compressing as though the darkness had actual weight. Ahead, he saw the vague shape of something—some things—stretching across the bottom of the Lawn.
“Hey!” Darenelli shouted. “There goes someone!”
Two white slashes danced across the grass expanse. They dropped a pair of torches and melted into the dark. Something in the grass caught fire. A blazing circle erupted, fully displaying what stood in the way of the police—the heads of the Central Park Precinct officers on stakes. Their limbs, still clad in their uniforms, had been torn off and formed into a giant word:
WELCOME
Throughout the dark, a message whispered: “Two hundred sixty-four and kill the rest!”
***
Donovan dropped the spires and dove back into the reservoir. About ten feet away the two figures bobbed to the surface, their struggles churning a froth of black water and white slashes. Father Carroll wrestled The Jogger’s head above the surface before dunking it and repeating his adjuration. “The power of Christ commands you—depart this man!” Hissing and biting, The Jogger tried to roll onto his back. His chalky bluish skin blistered as the priest jerked him under.
The surface of the reservoir calmed.
Donovan thrashed towards them. The spot where they’d gone below strobed once; a dark, amorphous cloud erupted and vanished north.
“Donovan!”
The priest struggled to support what was now an unconscious man in a filthy track suit. His skin had returned to a pale, human shade, and its blisters were gone. Donovan swam over, and together they dragged him to the reservoir’s edge and hoisted him out. The Jogger’s head lolled back on the dirt, tongue draped over his lower lip. Donovan checked to see if he needed mouth-to-mouth, grateful to find he didn’t. “That cloud…was that—?”
“‘The fiend in his own shape is less hideous than when he rages in the breast of man.’” Father Carroll stood next to him, looking down. “Nathaniel Hawthorne, ‘Young Goodman Brown.’” He suddenly began to tremble. Donovan thought he was cold, but as he looked into the priest’s face he saw it was not cold but an overwhelming excitement that made him seem twenty years younger. “Astounding!” He smoothed his dripping beard with a trembling hand. “I…I’ve participated in hundreds of exorcism investigations, performed nine true exorcisms, but this…this was astonishing!” He glanced around. “Where did it go?”
“North, back to the portal in the Cancer Hospital. Are you all right?”
“I feel…energized.”
In spite of the circumstances, Donovan allowed a small smile. They looked at each other, unable to articulate anything more about what had happened. “We have to go.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah.” The spires lay at their feet. Donovan picked them up, slid one up his right sleeve and offered the other. “Just in case.” He stopped and looked around. “Damn!”
“What is it?”
“Frank’s gun; I left it over there when I jumped in the water. It must have gotten knocked in during the fight.”
“I apologize.”
“Not your fault.” Donovan looked at The Jogger, still unconscious, and restrained an urge to throw him into the reservoir to look for it. “Have to manage without it.”
They stood in the eye of the hurricane and looked at each other.
“Are you afraid?”
“Terrified.” Donovan thought of Joann. “But afraid isn’t an option.”
“Fear ends where the inevitable begins. I believe God has a plan for you, a destiny. Accept it, and follow it with faith.”
The noise of the police assault was getting closer as the force worked its way towards the Lawn.
“There is one more thing,” the priest said, going back into his gym bag. He removed something, hurried through the hole in the fence, and stooped to the reservoir. Donovan watched, unsure, as he hurried back. “Here. Take this.”
He gave Donovan a handful of purple silk that was darkened to black by the water. Donovan unrolled it. It was about six feet long, with a thin edge of gold embroidery and a gold cross embroidered at each end. “What’s this?”
“It’s the stole I’ve worn for all nine of the exorcisms I’ve performed.” He gestured. “For extra protection.”
Donovan hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“You face greater peril, I think.”
“Yeah.” Donovan looked at the stole. “But I’m ready now. I’ll see you after all this is over, or,” he glanced at the foreboding shadow of the South Gate House, “I’ll see you back here. Good luck.”
“Go and save Joann, my son.” Father Carroll swept him up in a bear hug. “God be with you.”
He released him, turned, and ran towards Central Park West.
***
Joann locked her eyes on the handkerchief at her feet as Valdes walked off, focusing on the bright scarlet stain.
I can’t. I can’t look. I can’t…see him again.
Her teeth began to chatter as she realized she no longer thought of the giant as Coeus anymore. She squeezed her eyes shut.
I’m in serious danger, but I believe Donovan will come. I believe Donovan will save me. He has to come. He has to.
She heard the giant’s words over and over again: “Hold onto your life preserver, Joann.”
Why isn’t he here yet? How long has it been since Valdes grabbed me from his apartment, two, three days? Hasn’t he figured it out yet?
She groaned softly and hung her head.
Has he abandoned me?
***
The police charged past the gruesome display of their comrades’ bodies and into…
…nothing.
The Lawn was a vast, dark, empty void.
Cold dread seized Yarborough. “What the fuck is going on?”
He and Clark had followed their men, expecting to face what Donovan Graham had described as an all-out war with an apocalyptic cult. What they found when they crossed onto the Lawn was darkness as thick as fog but not as tangible, so dense they could barely see the man next to them.
“Link arms! Hold the line!” Clark’s voice came from somewhere next to him. “Nobody panic! Chief, have your units report in!”
“Harley, are you with me?”
“I’m here, Vicki. What happened? We can’t see anything.”
“Everything just went black. We didn’t know if it was technical or not.”
“No, it’s out here, too. Stand by.” He groped in the darkness and found Yarborough’s arm. “How are your people doing?”
“All units report!” Yarborough barked.
Immediately a hundred voices responded, offering information, asking for explanations, waiting for orders. “What did these fuckers do?” Darenelli’s voice was unmistakable as it cut through the commotion. “How did they—”
“Hold your positions,” Clark advised everyone. To his amazement, his teeth were chattering with fright. He clenched his muscles in resistance and leaned towards Yarborough. “They sucked us in with that display back there. We should pull back, see how localized this darkness is.”
“What is it?” Yarborough tried to wave it away from in front of his eyes. A quaver in his voice made him clear his throat. “Chemical smoke screen?”
“I doubt it; Valdes didn’t have the connections necessary to get his hands on that kind of stuff.” Clark kept his eyes moving, wondering if this was how cavalry felt waiting for a Lakota Sioux attack. “Our sniffers picked up nothing.”
Suddenly, the radios burst alive with frenzied panic.
“Captain, I—aaaaaaaahhhh!”
“Harley, what the fuck—”
“Sit rep!” Clark demanded.
“They’re hitt
ing us in packs!” came a high-pitched reply. “We linked arms and they’re coming from everywhere, taking groups of us!”
“Taking?” Yarborough growled. “What do you mean? Taking out? Killing?”
“No, taking! They’re grabbing more hostages, I think!”
“261…219…188…”
Clark strained his ears. Are those…numbers? “They’re counting something down. Could be a bomb.”
“Too quick. Too uneven a count.” Yarborough clutched his radio. “Pull back! Regroup at Turtle Pond!”
More shouts and screams punctuated his order. “They’re all around us!”
“Then use your nightsticks, goddammit! No guns!” Yarborough thrust the radio into his pocket and started to back up slowly. “What the fuck is going on?”
***
“You’ve begun to doubt.”
Joann’s head jerked up at the giant’s voice. “No,” she stated. “No. Donovan will save me.” She looked around and blinked. The giant was nowhere in sight; his voice had come from a plainly dressed monk. “Who are you?”
“I am who you think I am.” The monk grinned slyly. White swirls spiraled in his gaze. “I have many forms and faces. Surely that doesn’t surprise you?”
She gaped at him, recognizing his eyes. “N-no. I don’t—” She shook her head. “No. Donovan will be here. He’ll save me.”
“Well that would be a neat trick. From what I understand, he’s already dead.”
“Dead?” She started to panic. “I don’t believe you. Valdes would have made a point of telling me before now.”
The monk shrugged. “I only know what I’m told. They send dead people to the tombs, don’t they?”
“Tombs?” Joann hesitated. “The Tombs?”
“I’m told he’s on his way there now. Apparently there was an altercation with the police officials. He started ranting about devils or some such, and perhaps it got out of hand. Perhaps he was high.”
“You’re wrong! He’s still alive!” The knowledge lifted her spirits. “The Tombs is a jail. It’s one of the places downtown they hold detainees.”
“Oh. Well, then that would be good news, I suppose. He’s not dead, he’s only on his way to imprisonment.” The monk raised one curved eyebrow. “Miles from here.”
High? The understanding his words brought weighed her shoulders. Ranting about devils?
“He tried.” The monk patted her shoulder. “But…he is only a bartender.”
Arrested. Her head hung down in defeat. You should have known they wouldn’t understand…
“Damn you, Donovan…” she whispered.
“Exactly.” The monk inhaled slowly, satisfied. “And now it’s time to do what we came here to do.”
Joann barely noticed as he raised his index finger and touched her forehead.
Then it all went black.
***
Still soaking wet, Donovan returned to the Vulcan. He looked at the stole, then at the bandage on his left hand. Quickly he wound the stole around his right hand, neatly tucking in the end. He flexed both hands and made fists.
Just like you’re getting into the ring.
He gingerly walked the bike down the steps from the South Gate House, across an overpass and along a paved walkway that wound near the Lawn. The darkness was thicker here, closer to the source, and it became more difficult to see. He thought he should be more frightened than he was, but with everything else stripped away, all that remained was saving Joann.
Fear ends where the inevitable begins.
He left his key in the ignition and edged through trees and bushes. Every branch he moved near threatened to crack, forcing him to pick each step with care. Caution made him take short, shallow breaths. A thin white trail from his nostrils made him realize how low the temperature had dropped here. Despite the cold, sweat mixed with holy water and trickled down his back. He swiped drops from his eyes and carefully held a branch aside. From here he could see most of the stage, its backdrop dripping gore from the damned that had been hung. In front of the stage sat an altar made of stone and wood. Only a few shapes moved around it; Donovan guessed most of Valdes’s mob were fighting the police. He couldn’t identify any of the shapes until he saw someone in a brown monk’s robe carrying Joann’s limp body to the stage.
“Joann!”
As he started forward, his path was immediately blocked by sharp white edges. He whipped his arm out and the spire slid into his hand. He lashed out, and the blessed iron cracked against a sliver of white face. The possessed man howled and dropped backwards, black blood stark against his skin. Donovan pivoted and threw a roundhouse punch at another who stood behind him. His left hand, its bandage wet with holy water, caught the creature full in the jaw. Pure white light burst from the contact. It howled in pain and clapped spindly, jagged fingers to the burn. Two more possessed grabbed his arms. Donovan lurched, staggered, and tumbled to the ground, taking them with him. His holy water-soaked jacket made them screech and smoke, and he was able to wrest himself free. He sprang to his feet and raised the spire in time to parry the scythe-blade that had unfolded from another creature’s arm.
“He burnsssss!!”
Donovan dodged a blade that swung at his head and made a break for the altar. The darkness grew thicker and deeper, confusing him after a few steps. He saw no one near him, but he could hear rustling and the wet slicing sound of scythe blades unfolding from the forearms of the possessed. In the distance he saw meager torchlight and ran for it. Suddenly, the monk appeared in front of him. He no longer carried Joann, and he stared at Donovan with bemusement. Donovan stopped short and started to raise the spire, but found to his amazement he couldn’t. He stared at his arm. It began to tremble, a shiver that ran up to his shoulder and spread through his entire body. His chest contracted and he gasped, unable to breathe. His throat muscles trembled and squeezed shut in the throes of fear he’d never before experienced or even comprehended. His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees. Paralysis swept over him. He tried to raise his head but his muscles were locked, and he could only stare at the ground. Valdes and a bald man in scholar’s robes joined the monk, but Donovan’s muscles had stretched so tight he could barely move to see them. Everything felt tight and cold and dark…
***
“I trust this is the last distraction we’ll have this evening?” Mephistopheles said archly. “We have no more time to waste.”
“Faustus hath completed the spells. As the bargainer, Valdes, it falls to thee to open the Amaranthine Gateway.”
“I’m well aware of my duties, Herr Doktor,” Valdes said. He turned to Mephistopheles. “As for distraction, yes, that should be the last of them. I suspected Donovan Graham would show up, so I took precautions. Here, and at the Hospital.”
“A Circle of Neith hath been cast there,” Faustus assured him. “None shall enter—”
“If he was able to get this far,” Valdes scoffed, “do you think simple magic would stop him? Or anyone helping him? I sent someone to guard it. Don’t worry; it’s safe.” He looked down at Donovan. “He’s not going anywhere, is he?”
“No. I found what the dark represents for him.” Mephistopheles brushed off the forearm of his sleeve. “Are you ready, Neil?”
Valdes looked towards the stage. “Yes, I am.”
TWENTY-SIX
CONSUMMATUM EST
With all the action on the Great Lawn, the NYPD perimeter around the park had grown skeletal. The sidewalks were practically deserted and lit by flashing lights from sporadic clusters of patrol cars. Sawhorses jutted into Central Park West, abandoned in the face of reality. Disarray and anxiety clouded the air. Father Carroll crossed the avenue and hurried north.
The interior of the once-impressive medical complex was as silent as a deserted stadium. Father Carroll located the shimmering light that Donovan had seen and quickly made his way to the corner tower’s top floor.
He found himself in the center of a corridor. The portal was in the room at on
e end: four lit candles, all black, marked the primary compass points around a circle on the floor, a circle formed by a chain of tarnished silver links. Outside the circle, touching a point facing Central Park, white powder had been poured in the shape of a scallop shell. In the middle of the circle, broken bits of copper wire were arranged into a Star of David. At each corner of the star fat red candles burned, propping up six mirrors to face each other. Burnt almonds and singed wheat stalks lay scattered around the circle’s interior while in the middle of the Star of David, a glyph had been drawn in dark, shiny liquid.
Carefully, the priest brought his face close to the doorway. A familiar, static-electricity buzz tingled his beard. He looked the entrance up and down and gingerly extended a hand. A purplish light shimmered as his touch came closer. He nodded, respectful of the craft.
“Circle of Neith, I’d say.”
The spire felt sturdy and righteous in his hand. As blessed iron, it would split the blockage like gossamer. He took a step away and raised it like a paladin’s sword.
“Father! Praise be!”
The voice made him freeze. He turned, arm still high, and found himself facing the silhouette of a stout woman dressed like an Old World Irish mum.
“Can you help me find my son? He was with that nasty man, and I’m afraid something might have happened to him.” She started to approach, then cowered back at the raised spire. “Please don’t hurt me, Father.”
Father Carroll looked at the spire, gave a sheepish smile, and slowly lowered his arm.
***
“73…51…22…8…0!”
Shadows receded like the tide, making the normal dark of a summer night a sunrise by comparison. Clark lowered his machine pistol to survey the landscape. Over a third of their force was gone; no blood, no bodies, no evidence of their presence remained. The officers and agents who were left fired random shots as they drew together. “Vicki, what happened? Can you see?”
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