The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  This was going to be one of those nights. Maybe the best ever.

  Six

  Ash Wednesday, February 28

  1

  "Remember, man, you are dust, and to dust you will return."

  Grace dwelled on the priest's words as he dipped his thumb in the ashes of last year's palms and dabbed them on her forehead in the form of a tiny cross. She crossed herself and walked down the center aisle of St. John's toward the front entrance.

  Outside, she jumped at the touch on her arm as she stood atop the stone steps.

  "You're Grace Nevins, aren't you?"

  She turned and saw a thin, intense-looking young man perhaps half her age. His face was very pale; his blond hair was so thin and wispy she could see his scalp right through it; his pallor was accentuated by the dark smudge of ash in the center of his forehead. His mouth seemed too large for his face, his nose seemed too small. Two of him could have fit inside the stadium coat he clutched around him. It was of good quality, but he was too thin for it.

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm Martin Spano. We've been looking for you."

  Grace was immediately uneasy. Why should anyone be looking for her?

  "You've found me."

  "It wasn't easy. I waited outside every Mass at St. Pat's last Sunday. You weren't there. The Holy Spirit led me back downtown. This happens to be my parish."

  "What do you want?"

  "Brother Robert heard about what happened at choir practice at St. Patrick's last week."

  Grace turned away and started down the steps.

  "I don't want to talk about it!"

  She had not been back to St. Patrick's since that awful night. She now attended Mass at St. John's instead. It was closer to her apartment. And besides, what was there to go back for? The choir director obviously could not trust her with the solo. She had pleaded with him that she didn't know what had come over her, that she hadn't meant to sing those horrid words, but that only seemed to bolster his decision: If she could not help it, how could she guarantee it wouldn't happen on Easter?

  He was right, of course. She had rushed out of the cathedral in shame.

  The young man followed her down the steps to Thirty-first Street.

  "It wasn't easy to find you, Grace. You've got to listen to me. You're one of us!"

  That stopped her.

  "I don't even know who you are, Mr. Spano—"

  "Martin, please."

  "—so how can I be one of you?"

  "Brother Robert says that what happened to you at choir practice is proof. You've felt the presence of the Evil One. You know that he is among us!"

  Grace tensed. "Are you a Devil worshiper? I want nothing to do with—"

  "No-no! I'm just the opposite! I'm one of the Chosen."

  The Chosen? Hadn't she seen that title in bookstores on the cover of a best-seller?

  "Chosen by whom?"

  "By the Lord, of course. By the Holy Spirit. We have received the knowledge that the Antichrist is coming. We are to spread the warning among the nations of the earth. We are to expose the Evil One when he appears!"

  This was crazy!

  "I'm not interested."

  Martin gently took her hand. "You're afraid. I myself was afraid when I first realized the responsibility God was placing on my shoulders. But it's a responsibility neither of us can shirk. Brother Robert will explain it to you."

  "Who is this Brother Robert you keep talking about? I've never heard of him."

  Martin's eyes glowed. "A wise and holy man. He wants to meet you. Come."

  Something about the younger man's intensity frightened her.

  "I… I don't know."

  He gripped her arm insistently. "Please. It will only take a minute."

  Grace wanted to run from this man, yet he was offering her answers to the questions that had plagued her since that awful night in St. Patrick's when she had begun singing about Satan instead of the Blessed Virgin. She had not had a good night's sleep since.

  "All right. But only for a minute."

  "Good! It's this way."

  He led her up Fifth Avenue past the Art Deco splendor of the Empire State Building, then east on Thirty-seventh Street into the Murray Hill district with its procession of stately brown-stones in various states of repair. Halfway between Lexington and Park they stopped before a three-story brownstone.

  "This is it," Martin said.

  Brownstone steps ran up to the front door on the first floor. A shorter flight curved down to the right to the basement. A hand-printed sign on the basement door read CHAPTER HOUSE. A slim, leafless tree stood to the left. Naked vines clung to the stucco front.

  "Which floor is your apartment?"

  "All of them—this is my house."

  It occurred to Grace then that if she was getting involved with a crazy man, at least he was a well-to-do crazy man.

  He led her up to the heavy glass-and-oak front door and into the blessed warmth of the foyer, then down a narrow hall to a sitting room. Their footsteps echoed on the highly polished bare hardwood floor; the walls and ceilings were painted a stark, flat white. Grace followed him into a brightly lit sitting room—as stark and white and bare as the hallway except for some sparse ultramodern furniture and abstract paintings on the walls.

  And a man standing at the window, looking out at the street.

  She recognized him immediately as a Cistercian monk by his beige habit, wide leather belt, and long, brown, cowled scapular. The cowl was down. He stood bareheaded and tonsured, a striking anachronism amid the glass-and-chrome and abstractions, yet he appeared to be perfectly at home. His graying hair was on the long side, falling from the glistening bareness of his tonsure over the tops of his ears and trailing to the base of his neck. He was of average height but very lean. As he turned to face her Grace saw that he had a neat, full, dark beard, salted with gray. For all his leanness, he had a round, cherubic face. His eyes were deep brown and kind; the weathered skin around his eyes crinkled with his smile as he stepped toward her.

  "Miss Nevins," he said. His voice was deep, chocolate-smooth, and French-accented. "How good of you to come. I'm Brother Robert."

  He pronounced it Ro-bair.

  "I can only stay a minute," Grace said.

  "Of course. I simply wanted an opportunity to personally invite you into our little circle. And to impress upon you how special you are."

  His eyes… so wise… so gentle and kind…

  "Special? I don't understand."

  "God chose you to announce the warning in His own house. You must be destined to play an important part in His plan to defeat the Antichrist."

  Me? Why would God choose me?

  "The Antichrist?"

  "Yes. Your words in that song were a warning for all of us from the Lord. The Spirit touched you and made you aware— as He has Martin and myself and a few select others—that the devil has been made flesh and dwells among us."

  Grace didn't think she knew any such thing.

  "Why me?"

  Brother Robert shrugged inside his robes. "Who would be so bold as to explain why the Lord moves in the ways He does?"

  "Won't you come to the service tonight?" Martin said, his pale face eager.

  Grace hesitated. Then, in a burst of revelation, she realized that this might be the chance she had been praying for, the chance to atone for her past, to make right all the sins of her youth. All those lives. Was God offering her salvation?

  This would explain the horrid corruption of that lovely hymn, and the malaise she had felt lately. Satan had entered the world, and God had chosen her as a soldier in His army to battle him.

  Yet still she hung back. She wasn't worthy!

  "I…I don't know."

  "If not tonight," Brother Robert said, "then Sunday afternoons, here, at three o'clock."

  "Here?"

  "Martin has given us the use of his basement for our prayer meetings."

  "I'll try," Grace said, turning and heading dow
n the hall. She had to get away, be by herself, think this over. She needed time. "Not tonight. Maybe Sunday. Not tonight."

  "You can't stay away," she heard Martin say behind her. "You have been called. Like it or not, you are one of us now!"

  2

  Brother Robert went to the window and watched the plump little woman hurry down the sidewalk.

  At his elbow, Martin said, "She's afraid."

  "And well she should be," he replied.

  "I'm not afraid. This is the Lord's fight, and I am ready to die for His cause!"

  Brother Robert glanced at the younger man. Martin was a useful ally, dedicated and eager—sometimes too eager. His militancy could be a bit much at times.

  "I'm going to my room to pray that she does not turn away from us."

  "Will you be having lunch later?"

  He shook his head. "I am fasting today."

  "Then I will fast as well."

  "As you wish."

  Brother Robert went up to the second floor to the bare four walls and single window that served as his quarters. In the corner, straw had been spread on the floor and covered with a blanket. This was his bed. He lifted his habit and knelt bare-kneed on the uncooked rice he had sprinkled over the hardwood floor upon his arrival. He stared out the window at the cold blue of the sky. Before beginning his prayers, he thought about the abbey in Aiguebelle, and his cell there, and how he wished he could return. He missed the two a.m. rising for matins, the daily routine, the simple common labors, the time for meditation, the nearness to God, the silence.

  No weakness of the flesh had drawn him away, but rather a weakness of the spirit. The discipline, the celibacy, the fasting—these had not been burdens. He had reveled in them. No, it was another appetite that had called to him, an insatiable lust—for knowledge. He had wanted to know, he had hungered for answers. The hunger had driven him to the farthest, darkest corners of the world, where he had learned too much.

  It had finally brought him here, to this small group of Catholic Pentecostals who met in this brownstone. For some reason the people who gathered here had been touched by the Spirit and made aware that the Antichrist had slunk into the world like a thief in the night. These people—Grace Nevins as well—had been recruited, just as he had been recruited. He could not return to the abbey now. He had to stay with them and wait until the Spirit moved them all toward God's will, toward Armageddon.

  He prayed they would be strong enough for the terrible tests that lay ahead.

  3

  "Oh, I can hardly wait!" Emma said.

  Jim stood in his parents' small living room and smiled at his mother's childlike excitement over the prospect of a guided tour of the Hanley mansion.

  "It's quite a place," he told her.

  And it was. He had explored the old Victorian monstrosity with Carol yesterday. She was a longtime admirer of Victorian homes, and he had taken real pleasure in her delight over the place.

  "Dad's not home yet?" he said.

  "No." She glanced at her watch. "It's almost four. Maybe he was held up at the plant."

  Jim nodded absently as memories of Monday night strobed across his mind. He and Carol had explained away their bruises with the story of a slip on the ice, each one pulling the other down. That had stopped other people's questions, but it hadn't stopped the questions roiling in Jim's mind.

  Who had saved them two nights ago? And why?

  He couldn't escape the insistent impression that it had been Jonah Stevens wielding that club or whatever it was. But that was absurd! How would he have known where they were, let alone that they were in trouble? How would he have arrived in time? It was a crazy thought.

  And yet…

  "So what have you and Dad been up to lately?" he asked. "Been to the city?"

  She looked at him strangely. "Of course not. You know how your father hates to go out."

  "Just been hanging around the house, huh?"

  "Why are you asking?"

  "Oh, I don't know. When we were downtown Monday night, I thought I saw Dad—or someone who looks an awful lot like him."

  Jim thought he saw her stiffen, but he couldn't be sure.

  "Why, that's silly, Jim. Your father was with me all night. By the way… what was this man doing?"

  "Just walking by, Ma."

  "Oh. Well, we stayed at home Monday night. Watched Felony Squad and Peyton Place." She sighed. "Just like most other Monday nights."

  That should have settled it, but it didn't. The questions wouldn't let go. And that was when the idea hit him.

  "Is the door to the garage unlocked?"

  "I think so," she said. "Why?"

  "I wonder if I could borrow a"—Jim's mind searched for something to borrow: what?—"a tape measure. I want to get the dimensions of some of the rooms in the mansion."

  "Sure. Take a look. I'll wait out in the car with Carol."

  "Great!"

  As Emma went out the front door, Jim hurried through the kitchen to the door that opened into the garage. He searched along the wall where Jonah kept all his tools hung on nails and hooks. There were hammers and axes and even a rubber mallet, but they were too small. Their savior Monday night had wielded a longer, heavier weapon, using only one hand, and he had put some real power behind it. Jim picked up a tire iron and hefted it. This baby could have done it, but it still didn't look right.

  What am I thinking?

  His father—Jonah—had nothing to do with Monday night's madness. Sure, he was a strange guy; cool, aloof, impossible to get close to—hadn't Jim tried often enough through the years?—but he wasn't a crazed killer.

  Actually, Jonah was more than remote. He was damn near unknowable. Maybe Ma had some idea of what bubbled beneath that impenetrable granite exterior, but Jim didn't have the faintest. He wasn't really sure he wanted to know, either. Because there was a damn good possibility he wouldn't like what he'd find there. Although he had never witnessed a single overt act, he sensed a core of cruelty within his adoptive father. The closest thing he had to evidence had surfaced during his sophomore year in high school after he had tackled Glen Cove's quarterback and broken his arm. Jonah had been barely interested in the sport until then. But when Jim had ashamedly confessed to him how good it had felt to hear that breaking bone, Jonah had metamorphosed into an avid listener, questioning him closely on the details of the incident.

  Jonah never missed a game after that.

  But what he lacked in everyday human warmth and compassion, he made up for in reliability. He had always been around. A hard worker, a good provider. He did not steer his adopted son in any particular direction, but he did not discourage him from anything, either. More like a guardian than a father. Jim could not say he loved the man, but he certainly felt indebted to him.

  Jim was about to head back inside when he spotted the steel crowbar leaning in the corner. As soon as he lifted it and swung it, he knew this had been the weapon. Not this particular one, but something just like it. He was certain he wouldn't find anything, but he examined the leading edge of the crowbar's curve, anyway. He smiled to himself.

  What will I do if I find dried blood and bits of scalp?

  "Be kind of hard to measure a room with one of those," said a deep voice behind him.

  Jim whirled, his heart thudding. The tall, lean figure silhouetted in the doorway looked almost exactly like the man who had helped them Monday night.

  "Dad! Don't scare me like that!"

  Jonah's half smile was humorless, and his eyes bored into Jim as he stepped down into the garage.

  "What're you so jumpy about?"

  "Nothing." Jim quickly set the crowbar back in the corner, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt. "Where do you hide your tape measure?"

  Jonah reached into the toolbox and pulled out a Stanley fifty-footer. "Right where it's always been." He motioned toward the door. "We'd better go. The women are waiting."

  "Sure."

  Jim led the way to the front door, thinking of
what a jerk he was for still feeling uneasy. His mother had told him Jonah had been home all night, and the crowbar was clean. What more did he want?

  Nothing. Except that the crowbar had been too clean. Every other tool in the garage was layered with a fine winter's coat of dust… except the crowbar. Its hexagonal shaft had been dirt and oil free, as if someone had taken a Brillo pad to it within the last couple of days.

  He decided not to think about it.

  4

  Carol sat in the front seat and watched the Hanley mansion peek over the high stone wall as Jim unlocked the wrought-iron front gate. Its pickets were eight feet high, with an ornate torsade along the bottom and wickedly pointed atop. Beyond the gate was the house, and it was beautiful. She had never dreamed that she would someday live in a place like this. As Jim got back in and pulled into the driveway, she saw the whole house in all its splendor and it took her breath away again, just as it had yesterday.

  "Oh, it's beautiful!" Emma cried from the backseat.

  Jonah sat next to Emma and said nothing, but then Carol never expected to hear much from Jonah. She drank in the sight of the big, three-storied mix of Italianate and Second Empire features nestled amid its pines and willows, the long Island Sound gleaming behind it.

  The shingles were cream-colored, the wood trim and the mansard roof a deep brown. A square, five-story tower rose over the center of the front porch. There were ornate dormer windows on the third floor and bay windows on the sides, all leaded with fruit and flower designs. A fanlight window arched over the front door.

  Carol led them up the three steps to the front porch. To the right was a wicker swing settee, hung on chains, and wicker chairs to the left. The slim glass sidelights on either side of the front door were etched with graceful cranes and delicately arched reeds.

  Emma stood back on the driveway, staring.

  "Come on, Ma," Jim said.

  "Don't you worry about me. I'll be there, strangling along behind as usual."

  Carol gave Jim a look.

  "I won't say a word," he whispered.