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

by F. Paul Wilson

  This was all so damn unreal!

  He squinted in the bright morning sun pouring through the window. The clock read a little after eight. Almost reflexively he reached for the journals.

  They weren't there!

  He could have sworn he'd left them right here by his side on the couch. He jumped up and lifted the cushions. He looked under the couch, even unfolded the hidden mattress. Gone!

  His heart thudding in his throat, Jim hurried down the short hall and across the living room toward the master bedroom. The smell of fresh coffee stopped him.

  "Carol?"

  "In here, Jim."

  What was Carol doing home? She wasn't off today. Then it struck him: She must have taken the journals! She must have read them! No!

  He rushed into the kitchen.

  "Carol, the books! Where are they?"

  She put down her coffee cup and slipped her arms around his neck. Her long, sandy hair trailed over the shoulders of her robe. She looked beautiful.

  "I love you, Jim."

  Normally this would have stirred his desire, but there was room in his mind for only one thing.

  "The journals—did you take them?"

  She nodded. "And I read them."

  Jim felt as if the floor were giving way beneath him.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry, Carol. I didn't know, really I didn't. I never would have married you if I'd known."

  "Known what? That you were cloned from Hanley?"

  Her eyes were so soft, so loving, her voice gentle and soothing. How could she be so calm?

  "Yes! I swear I didn't know!"

  "What difference does it make, Jim?"

  "What difference? How can you say that? I'm a freak! A scientific experiment!"

  "No you're not. You're Jim Stevens. The man I married. The man I love."

  "No! I'm a piece of Roderick Hanley!"

  "You're Jim Stevens—Hanley's twin."

  "I wish! He took a piece of himself and stuck it in that whore and grew me out like a goddamn cutting from one of our forsythia bushes. You know—snip it off, stick it in the ground, water it enough, and you've got a new bush."

  "Don't talk like—"

  "Or maybe I'm not a cutting. I'm more like a tumor. That's what I am—a fucking tumor!"

  "Stop it!" she cried, showing strong emotion for the first time. "I won't have you talking about yourself like that!"

  "Why not? Everybody else will!"

  "No they won't. I'm the only other person who knows, and I don't feel that way."

  "But you're different."

  "Well, I'm it. Because nobody else will ever know unless you tell them. And even then, they won't believe you."

  She said it with a tone of such finality that Jim was afraid to ask the next question.

  "The journals! Where are they?"

  "Where they belong—in the garbage."

  "Oh, no!"

  He spun and headed for the front door.

  "Don't bother," he heard Carol say behind him. "The truck came by at six-thirty."

  Suddenly he was angry. More than angry. He was enraged.

  "You had no right! No goddamn right! Those journals were mine!"

  "I'm not going to argue that with you. They were yours but I threw them out anyway. If they haven't been fed into the incinerator yet, they soon will be."

  She was so cool, so composed, so utterly remorseless. Her attitude of fait accompli infuriated him.

  "How could you?"

  "You gave me no choice, Jim. You were letting those journals eat you alive. So I got rid of them. You were going to let what they said ruin your life. I couldn't stand by and watch that happen. But now it's over and done. They're gone, and so you're going to have to take what you learned from them and pick up the pieces and go on from here. You've got to admit that's going to be easier if you don't have those journals staring you in the face all the time, if you don't keep going back to them time after time, looking for some sort of flaw that will prove them wrong."

  She was right. The cool logic of her words was worming its way past his anger, damping it but not dousing it. After all, they had been his journals. His legacy.

  "Okay," he said. "They're gone. Okay… okay…"

  He kept repeating the word, walking around the kitchen in small circles. His thoughts were all jumbled up with his emotions. He couldn't separate them. If this had been someone else's problem, he was sure he would be calm and cool and completely rational.

  But this is me!

  "I did it for you, Jim," Carol said.

  He looked at her eyes and saw the love there.

  "I know, Carol. I know." But what did he really know? What could he be sure of now? "I just… I need to sort this out. I need to take a walk."

  "You're not going back to that mansion, are you?"

  "No. Just a little walk. I won't even leave the yard. I'm not running away. I just need to be by myself a bit. I won't be long. I just…"

  He opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the backyard. The air was cold outside, but he barely noticed. Besides, he couldn't bring himself to go back inside to get a jacket. Not just yet. As he strode around the side of the house, he noticed that the cover on the crawl space entry had fallen out. He fitted it back into place and kept on walking.

  2

  As the door closed, Carol slumped against the stove and held back the tears. That performance had been the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.

  But it's going to work. It has to!

  She hadn't slept a wink last night. Hour after hour she had lain awake planning how to handle this confrontation. Should she cry, beg his forgiveness for throwing the journals out, and make a thousand promises to make it up to him? Or should she simply apologize, admit she was wrong, and leave the rest up to him—put the ball in his court, so to speak?

  Her heart had pulled for the easy way, urging her, in fact, to run out to the crawl space and bring those damn books back inside. She hadn't wanted the confrontation she knew the morning would bring. But she had to face it. This was too important to back away from.

  She had chosen the second. And it hadn't been easy. The hurt and betrayal she had seen in his eyes had required every ounce of her will to keep her from blurting out where the books were hidden. But she had held on, resisting the urge to take him in her arms and coo to him and whisper that everything was going to be fine. Instead she had kept pushing him, almost goading him, to take the control of his life back into his own hands.

  Would it work? She hoped so. She prayed she hadn't made the wrong choice.

  3

  Carol was sitting in the living room a short while later, waiting with her nails digging into her palms, when she heard the back door open. It was Jim. He came out of the kitchen and stood there looking all around the room, anywhere but directly at her. Finally, with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans, he walked over to where she sat and plopped down next to her on the couch. She noticed how badly he needed a shave. He didn't say anything for a while, just stared straight ahead.

  Carol watched his troubled profile, aching to touch him, to throw her arms around him, but holding back, waiting for him to make the first move.

  Finally, when the tension within her had reached the screaming level, he spoke.

  "You shouldn't have thrown out those journals," he said, still staring straight ahead.

  "I had to," Carol said as softly as she could. "I had no right, but I had to."

  After a pause he said, "I thought about what you did. I think it was the right thing to do, and pretty damn brave."

  She put her hand on his arm and ran it down to his hand; his fingers grabbed hers when she reached them.

  "But neither of us can erase what we learned from them. That's there to stay, like a brand. It's—" His voice broke and he swallowed. "It's kind of funny, isn't it? I spent all those years trying to figure out who I am, now I've got to figure out what I am."

  Carol saw a tear slide down his cheek, and h
er heart broke for him. She drew his head down onto her shoulder.

  "You're my Jim. That's the who and what of you. That's all you have to be as far as I'm concerned."

  He began to sob. She had never seen him cry, and she held him close, aching with the wonder of it. Finally he straightened and pulled away.

  "Sorry," he said, sniffing and wiping his eyes. "I don't know what started that."

  "It's okay, really."

  "It's just that it's such a shock. I'm kind of torn up inside. Don't know which way to turn. Didn't mean to go wimpy on you."

  "Don't be silly! You've been through hell these past few days. You've earned it."

  "Did you really mean that… what you said about it not mattering? I mean, it matters a hell of a lot to me, so why doesn't it matter to you?"

  "It doesn't change a thing. What we had before we have now—if you'll allow it."

  His eyes searched her face. "You really mean that, don't you?"

  "Of course! If I didn't, those journals would still be here and I'd be gone instead."

  He smiled for the first time. "Yeah. I guess you're right." He grasped her hand. "Carol, if I can believe that, hold on to that, I think I can make it. The more I think about it, the more I see you were right to get rid of the evidence."

  "Thank God!" she said and really meant it. "I thought you'd never forgive me!"

  "Neither did I. But now I see that I've got to go on just as before. I can't let this thing own me. Only you and I know about it. I can live with that. I can adjust to being a… to being what I am."

  Carol decided then that it would be a long, long time before she told him where the journals were hidden.

  "Just go on being the same Jim Stevens I married," she said. "That's what's really important."

  He smiled again. "You sure you don't want any changes? This is probably your only chance to put in your order."

  "Just one, maybe."

  "Name it."

  "Next time something upsets you, don't keep it to yourself like you did this time. Share the load. We're partners in this. There shouldn't be any secrets between us."

  He slipped his arms around her and squeezed, almost crushing her. Carol wanted to laugh and wanted to cry. He was back—her old Jim was back.

  4

  Grace sat in the last row in the basement of the Murray Hill brownstone and listened to Brother Robert's homily. Wednesday evening seemed an unorthodox time for a prayer service, but she found herself intrigued by these people who called themselves the Chosen. Especially Brother Robert. There was a magnetic quality about his ascetic appearance, such an air of wisdom about him, yet he was not distant. He exuded a love of God and humanity. And his speaking voice—strong, clear, wonderful, almost mesmerizing. He had been speaking for nearly an hour now, yet it seemed like no more than ten minutes.

  Suddenly he stumbled over a word and stopped. He stood at the lectern and stared. For an awful moment Grace thought he was staring at her, then realized that his gaze was directed past her. She turned and saw a gray-haired stranger standing at the rear of the room.

  Martin immediately rose from his chair near the front and approached the man.

  "This is not a public meeting," he said indignantly.

  The stranger seemed a bit confused, a little unsure of himself.

  "I will go if you wish," he said. "But surely you would allow me to listen."

  Grace suddenly recognized him. He was the man who had been standing across the street from this old brownstone last Sunday, watching them. What did he want?

  She watched Martin. He seemed undecided as to what to do. They both turned and looked at Brother Robert.

  Grace remembered how on Sunday the monk had inferred that the man was some sort of enemy, even though he obviously didn't know him.

  "Martin," Brother Robert said, "we cannot deny someone the right to listen to the word of God. Please be seated, friend."

  Grace stiffened as the man seated himself at the end of the last row, her row, just two chairs to her right. She kept her eyes straight ahead and listened to Brother Robert as he resumed his homily. But the monk was clearly distracted. He stumbled over some sentences, rushed through others, and was not nearly as effective as he had been before he was interrupted.

  Grace risked a glance at the newcomer.

  Close up like this, she realized how big a man he was, his large frame made even bulkier by a heavy tan double-breasted raincoat. There was the slightest hint of swarthiness in his complexion and the faintest of red highlights in his silvery hair. High cheekbones, a long straight nose, and no hint of jowls despite his years. He sat straight and tall with his big, scarred hands resting in fists on his thighs. A gold band encircled his left ring finger. And all around him, an aura of faded power.

  He must have sensed her scrutiny, for he turned her way and gave her a faint smile that narrowed his blue eyes. Then he returned his attention to Brother Robert.

  Grace felt the tension ease out of her. That smile… it had been as much to reassure her as himself. This was not a man to fear.

  The service ended with Brother Robert's plea:

  "Give us a sign, Lord. Reveal the Antichrist to us so that we may confront him with Your holy power."

  Then all twenty or so of the gathered Chosen stood and said the Apostles' Creed and a Hail Mary while they held hands. The newcomer neither stood nor prayed. As before, Grace kept her hands to herself while she prayed with them.

  Suddenly she felt a tingling in her face. She turned toward the stranger and began to speak to him. To her horror the words were not her own. The language was alien to her.

  The stranger started in his seat, his eyes wide as he stared at her. She tried to stop herself, but her voice went on, uttering those strange, incomprehensible syllables.

  "Stop that!" he said. "You don't know what you're saying!"

  Members of the Chosen were turning to look at her. Brother Robert hurried up, beaming.

  "The Spirit is with you, Grace! Don't fight it! Give praise to the Lord!"

  "She's not praising anything!" the stranger said.

  "You understand the tongue she's speaking?" Brother Robert said, his eyes wide.

  Before he could answer, the words stopped and Grace's voice was once more her own. The stranger remained seated as the worshipers drifted out, staring at him as they passed. Soon only Grace, Brother Robert, Martin, and the newcomer remained in the room. Brother Robert approached his chair and stood over him.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Veilleur," said the gray-haired man. "And you?"

  "Brother Robert from the Monastery at Aiguebelle." Neither offered to shake hands. "You understand the tongue? What was she saying?"

  "You wouldn't understand."

  "Don't be so sure of that," Brother Robert said.

  Martin stepped forward. "Why did you come here? Why have you been lurking outside, watching us?"

  Veilleur's face was troubled. "I don't know. I sense something here. I seemed to be drawn to this group."

  Grace tried to place his faint accent. It sounded vaguely British, and yet not like any she had ever heard.

  "You are not one of us," Martin said with a certainty that brooked no argument.

  "Quite true. But who is this 'us' you refer to? Why do you come together here?"

  Brother Robert said, "We come to praise the Lord and to prepare ourselves to do battle with His enemy. The Antichrist is among us. We await a sign."

  "The Antichrist?"

  "Yes. The Evil One has taken on flesh."

  Mr. Veilleur stared at Brother Robert, then at Grace, who felt the weight of his gaze like a blow.

  "So… you know."

  Brother Robert nodded. "Satan has come to try to claim this world for his own."

  "I don't know about Satan. But something is coming. What I don't understand is why you people have been touched."

  Martin stiffened. "What do you mean, 'touched'? We are as sane as anyone else—saner, in fact
!"

  "I meant sensitized, alerted, made aware. Why you people in particular?"

  "Why not?"

  "Because you make a pitiful defense force."

  "And I suppose you think you should lead us?" Martin said.

  Mr. Veilleur's smile was sour as he shook his head. "No, I want no part of this. I'm out of it. In fact, I thought it was all over."

  "It's never over," said Brother Robert.

  "Perhaps you're right. I suppose I should have known that. But I'd hoped it might be."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You wouldn't understand."

  Brother Robert's eyes narrowed as he spoke in a low voice. "I have traveled far. I have looked into places good men were never meant to see. I have read the forbidden books—"

  "Is that proper for a man of the cloth?" Veilleur said.

  " 'Know thine enemy' is a wise saying. God may work in the world in many guises, but so does the devil. I have exposed myself to hideous evils and have turned away from them, never having the slightest temptation to release myself to what they offered."

  Veilleur appeared to be studying Brother Robert. He nodded respectfully. "But one cannot tread those coals and emerge unscorched."

  "True. The experiences have left me… sensitized, as you say. It is as if I've developed an extra sense, something like a sense of smell for the devil's work. And the stench of him is heavy here."

  "Not here, exactly," Mr. Veilleur said. "Farther to the east."

  Brother Robert stared at him. "You too?"

  "As your friend here said"—he nodded toward Martin—"I am not one of you."

  "I know that," Brother Robert said. "And yet… you are."

  "Was. I was, but no longer."

  As Mr. Veilleur stood, Grace stepped back. He seemed to tower over the three of them.

  "Please tell me," Grace said. "What language was I speaking?"

  "The Old Tongue."

  "I've never heard of such a thing," Martin said.

  "No one has spoken it for thousands of years."

  "I don't believe you!" Martin said.

  "Hush, Martin," Brother Robert said gently. "I believe him."