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

by F. Paul Wilson

  Then she heard the refrigerator door open, heard the ker-shoosh of a beer can being opened.

  Emma bit a trembling lip. Oh, no. The beer meant he wouldn't be excited, wouldn't be in the mood. He'd sit there in the living room in the dark and sip beer for hours.

  She turned over and buried her face in her pillow to muffle the sobs she could no longer control.

  Nineteen

  Friday, March 15

  1

  "Honey, you're not looking well at all," Kay Allen said. "I mean like physically, y'know? Y'eatin'?"

  Carol glanced across the desk at her supervisor. There was real concern in Kay's eyes. Hospital social work might have given her a tough skin in regard to patients' problems, but she seemed genuinely worried about Carol.

  "I'm feeling worse than I look," Carol told her.

  The sickening nightmares kept her in a state of constant nausea. The dreams, combined with the depression and the constant dull ache of loss, had left her without an appetite. She was pale, she knew, and she had lost weight.

  She had come here for lack of anyplace better to go. Everywhere but the hospital reminded her of Jim. Everyone she met seemed so uncomfortable. No one made eye contact, and some even crossed the street to avoid her. She knew they felt for her and knew there were no words to express what they were feeling. Still, it made her wish she could run off to a deserted island somewhere. It wouldn't much increase her present sense of isolation. Aunt Grace was still unreachable. Emma only made her feel worse. She felt completely alone in the world.

  "Maybe you should have Doc Alberts check you over."

  "I think I need a shrink more."

  In an uncharacteristic show of affection, Kay reached across the desk and grasped her hand.

  "Oh, honey, I'd need a shrink, too, if I'd been through what you have!"

  Carol was touched by Kay's empathy and felt herself fill up. But she was not going to cry here.

  "So," she said, lightening her voice, "what's new here?"

  Kay released her hand.

  "Not much. It's still a funny farm. Oh, your old friend Mr. Dodd is back."

  "Oh, no. Why?"

  "Had a full-blown stroke this time. One of his rusty pipes finally clogged and ruptured all the way. They don't think he's gonna make it."

  Wasn't there any good news left in the world?

  "Maybe I'll stop up and see him."

  "You're still on leave of absence, honey. Besides, he won't know you're there. He's been gorked out since he hit the emergency room four days ago."

  "I think I'll just look in on him, anyway. A social call."

  "Suit yourself, honey."

  Carol walked the long route to the elevators. She wasn't in any hurry. The only other place to go was back to the mansion, and she wasn't looking forward to that. In the back of her mind was the idea of coming back to work next week. She certainly didn't need the money—all of Jim's inherited millions passed directly to her—but she needed the distraction, needed to fill the hours. Maybe if she got involved again in patient problems, she could get a better grip on her own.

  Mr. Dodd was in a semiprivate on the third floor. Neither he nor his roommate were conscious. The shades were drawn. Despite the warm spell and her sweater and bell-bottom jeans, Carol felt a chill in the room.

  She stepped toward the bed. In the dim light she could see an IV running into his arm; a green nasal oxygen tube snaked from his upper lip to the tank that stood like a steely sentinel next to his headboard. His eyes were closed, his face was slack, and his mouth hung open. He could have been sleeping, but as soon as Carol heard his breathing she knew he was in serious trouble.

  His respirations would follow a cycle, starting off shallow, then getting progressively deeper until he seemed to be filling and refilling his lungs to maximum capacity, then gradually becoming shallower and shallower again. Until they stopped. That was the scary part. There would be a period when there was no breathing at all. It never lasted more than thirty seconds, but it seemed to take forever before the cycle started all over again.

  She'd heard it before. Cheyne-Stokes respiration—that was what one of the internists had told her last year when she had first witnessed it. It was common in comas, especially when brought on by a massive stroke.

  Poor Mr. Dodd. Back only a week after his discharge. She hoped his last days were happy and peaceful in Maureen's home. She was sure both daughters were glad now that they had listened to her. Otherwise, if they'd put him in a nursing home only to have this happen, they'd probably never forgive themselves.

  She adjusted the covers over him, then gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

  That was when it happened.

  With no warning Mr. Dodd reared up in his bed. His eyes were wide. The left side of his face was slack, but the right was a half mask of horror as he began screaming hoarsely through his toothless, lopsided mouth.

  "Get away! Get away from me! Oh, God, save me, get away, get away, get awaaaaay!"

  Startled and frightened, Carol stumbled away from the bed just as his nurse came charging in.

  "What happened? What did you do?"

  "N-nothing," Carol said. "I only touched his hand."

  Mr. Dodd was now pointing at her. His eyes were still wide but his sightless gaze was directed straight ahead. His trembling finger, however, pointed directly at Carol.

  "Get away! Get awaaaay!"

  "You'd better leave," the nurse said.

  Carol needed no persuasion. She turned and fled the room. Mr. Dodd's voice followed her all the way to the elevator.

  "GET AWAAAAAAAY!"

  The elevator doors finally closed off the sound. Unnerved, she stood trembling as the car began its descent.

  I only touched his hand.

  As she walked out into the sunny employee parking lot, she decided that maybe today she could bring herself to return to Tall Oaks. She had wanted to visit the grave site yesterday but hadn't had the courage to brave it in the rain. Now she felt she needed to be near Jim, just to sit by his grave and talk to him, even if he couldn't answer.

  Oh, Jim. How am I going to get by without you?

  2

  There was an unseasonably warm breeze blowing across the bare knolls of Tall Oaks. They didn't allow gaudy headstones here. Only quiet granite plaques laid flat in the ground. A lot like Arlington National Cemetery in a way. Carol liked the style. If she didn't look too closely, she could almost convince herself that she was trodding the back lawn of a huge, provincial estate.

  Jim's grave was easy to find, and would continue to be so until they cleared away the flowers. About twenty yards to the right of his was another flower-decked plot where someone else had been buried the same day as Jim.

  Carol paused involuntarily in her approach, then forced herself forward. She had to get used to this, because she intended to come here often. She was not going to forget Jim. If he couldn't live on in this world, she would see to it that he stayed alive in her memory and in her heart.

  When she reached the grave, she stared down in shock. What she saw filled her with a creeping terror that sent her running for the car. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to hear her.

  There was someone she could call, though. She knew of only one person she could turn to about this.

  3

  "Look! You see it? It's dead! All of it! Like it's been dead for weeks!"

  The afternoon sun was warm on Bill's back as he stared down at Jim's grave. He removed the windbreaker he had thrown over his short-sleeved tunic and collar; he shut out Carol's agitated voice for a moment as he tried to think. She had called him in a state of panic this morning about Jim's grave. He hadn't been able to get a really clear story out of her but had soothed her with the promise that he would come out to Monroe as soon as he could get away from St. F.'s.

  The rectangle of grass over Jim's grave was all a dull, dead brown.

  Bill resisted an urge to say So what? and tried to tune in to Carol's emotions as she hu
ddled behind him, shielding herself from the grave, as if afraid it would bite her.

  "Why is it dead, Bill?" she was saying. "Just give me a good, sane reason why it's dead here on this grave and nowhere else and I promise you I'll never bother you again."

  "Maybe they didn't put the sod back right and it dried out," he said.

  "Dried out? It poured all day yesterday!"

  "Well then, maybe they didn't cut it thick enough and killed the roots. There's a special art to cutting sod properly, you know."

  "Okay, fine. But do you really think that they cut it all wrong over Jim's grave and all right on that one over there? They were both buried the same day!"

  "Maybe—"

  "Christ, Bill! Even if they cut the grass and sprinkled the clippings over his grave, it would still be green now!"

  Bill stared at the dead brown blades curling up from the dirt and had to admit Carol was right. This grass was dead! It was as if the life had been sucked right out of it. But how? And why? Why just here in this neat rectangle? Unless someone had poured an herbicide on it. But that didn't make sense. Who would want to do something like that?

  And the most disturbing part of the dead patch was the way it didn't quite reach the edges of the replaced sod. The dead grass was confined to a neat, narrow rectangle exactly the size of Jim's coffin lying six feet below. Carol hadn't mentioned it. Maybe she hadn't noticed. Bill wasn't about to point it out to her.

  He turned and looked at her, saw her tortured, frightened eyes, and wanted desperately to help her. But how?

  "Carol, what do you want me to say?"

  Her control began to crack. Her face screwed up and tears began to slide down her cheeks.

  "I want you to tell me that he wasn't possessed by the devil and that there's a good reason for the grass over his grave to be dead!" She leaned against him and began to sob. "That's all I want! That's not so much, is it?"

  Hesitantly Bill put his arms around her and gently patted her back. It seemed such a wholly inadequate gesture, but it was the best he could do, the most he dared do.

  For contact with Carol was sending intensely pleasurable but unwanted sensations racing up and down his body. All those hidden feelings and desires that plagued him in his bed at night were awakening here in the day and beginning to move. He hugged her a moment longer, then, with difficulty, put a little space between them.

  "No, it's not much at all to ask," he said, giving her a stern look. "But I'm surprised you have to ask it."

  "I know, I know," she said, and lowered her eyes. "But after all the things those awful people said on Sunday, and then to come up here and see this, I… I just cracked a little."

  "It is weird," he said, glancing back at the dead grass, "but I'm sure there's a good explanation that doesn't have anything to do with the devil."

  "Good. Tell me what it is."

  "Let's head back to the car," he said.

  He kept a protective arm around her shoulder as he guided her back down the hill toward the drive. He couldn't bring himself to break physical contact with her. Not yet, anyway.

  He finally let go when he opened the door for her on the passenger side.

  "What do you think?" she said as he started the car.

  She was so hungry for an explanation—he wished he had one for her.

  "I don't know. I'm not a horticulturist. But surely you of all people know that Jim wasn't possessed by the devil or any of that nonsense. We know he was an atheist, but the idea of Satan was as unacceptable to him as the idea of God."

  "But what about the hair on his palms? You heard them out there when they said it. They called it 'the Mark of the Beast.' They said it's a sign that Satan dwells within."

  "Jim was a hairy guy. A hairy palm means he was born with hair follicles in an unusual spot, and that's all it means. Nothing more. Probably genetic. If he was really a clone of that Hanley fellow, then I bet Hanley had hairy palms as well."

  "Well," Carol said slowly, "Hanley did look pretty hairy in those old photos."

  "What'd I tell you? Really, Carol, all that Satan garbage is just that—garbage."

  In the ensuing silence he glanced over and saw her shocked expression.

  "Bill!" she said. "You're a priest!"

  He sighed. "I know I'm a priest. I've spent the last decade studying theology—studying it intensely—and believe me, Carol, no one in the Catholic intellectual community believes in Satan."

  She smiled. Sadly.

  "Something wrong?" he asked.

  " 'Catholic intellectuals,' " she said. "I can hear Jim now."

  Bill's throat tightened. "So can I. He'd say, 'That's an oxymoron if I ever heard one.' "

  "Oh, God, Bill!" she said, sobbing. "I miss him so!"

  "I know you do, Carol," he said, feeling her pain, sharing a part of it. "So keep him alive inside you. Hold on to those memories."

  4

  With an effort Carol pulled herself together.

  "But what you said before, about not believing in Satan— you sounded almost like Jim!"

  "Well, Jim and I rarely disagreed on ethics or morals, just on their philosophical basis. And we'd both agree that there's no such being as Satan. Frankly I don't know of a single Jesuit who believes in Satan. There's God and there's us. There's no single being who embodies evil skulking through the world trying to get us to commit sins. That's a myth, a folk tale that's useful in helping people grasp the problem of evil. The evil in the world comes from us." He jabbed a finger against his breastbone. "From in here."

  "And hell?"

  "Hell? Do you think there's a place somewhere, a room or a cavern where all the sinners go to be tormented by demons? Think about it, Carol."

  She thought about it, and it did seem kind of farfetched.

  "It's all personification," he said. "It's a way of giving people a handle on some complex problems. It's especially useful with children—they have an easier time with theological concepts if we dress them up in myths. When we tell the kids, 'Resist the devil,' we're really telling them to hold out against the worst that's in them."

  "Lots of adults believe in those myths as well—I mean, really cling to them."

  Bill shrugged. "A lot of adults never grow up when it comes to religion. They could never accept that Satan is just a symbolic externalization of the evil that lurks in all of us."

  "But where does that evil in us come from?"

  "From the merging of the spirit and the flesh. The spiritual part of us comes from God and wants to return to Him. The physical part of us is like a wild beast that wants what it wants when it wants it and doesn't care who gets hurt in its drive to get it. Life is a process of striking a balance between the two. If the spiritual part prevails, it is allowed to return to God when life is over. If the baser drives and emotions of the physical aspect taint the spirit too deeply, it is not allowed to return to God. That, Carol, is hell. Hell is not a fiery place with pitchfork-wielding demons. It's a state of being bereft of God's presence."

  5

  Carol was still trying to digest Bill's words when they pulled into the driveway of the mansion.

  "I know it sounds pretty radical," he said, "but really it's not. It's just a different perspective. We tend to take what the nuns taught us in school and tuck it away in the backs of our minds and accept it at face value without question for the rest of our lives. But real grown-ups need a grown-up theology."

  "I'm working on it," she said.

  "And just think about this 'Mark of the Beast' or 'Vessel of Satan' or 'Gateway for Satan' crap. Even if you want to cling to the old mythology, remember that God doesn't move in obvious ways, that's why it's a trial at times to keep one's faith in Him. If Satan existed, don't you think he'd avoid the obvious as well? Because finding proof of the Ultimate Evil—Satan—would make it so much easier for us to believe in the Ultimate Good—God. An' dat wouldn't be to dat ol' debbil Satan's liking, would it now?"

  Carol couldn't help laughing—the first time
all week.

  "You make it sound so simple."

  "That's probably because I'm oversimplifying. It's not simple. But I hope it helps."

  "It does. Oh, believe me, it does."

  She felt so much better. She saw the whole idea of Jim being possessed by the devil for the juvenile, superstitious silliness it was. The fear, the uncertainty, all slipped away, to be replaced by a sense of peace.

  All thanks to Bill.

  But as Bill opened the mansion's front door for her and ushered her inside, the gratitude evaporated in a blast of rage.

  You smug, sanctimonious son of a bitch!

  She staggered a step. Where had that come from?

  She didn't feel that way about Bill at all! Why that instant of hatred? He was only trying to soothe her, doing his best to— impress her with his pseudo intellectual bullshit and make himself look so infinitely superior, so far above the petty fears of the common folk like her. Pompous, self-righteous Jesuit bastard! So fucking aloof! Thinks he's immune to the insecurities and frailties of the flesh! She'd show him!

  Carol didn't understand this sudden rage within her. It was a wild, alien emotion, coming out of nowhere, imposing itself on her, enveloping her, making her want to claw at Bill's blue eyes with her nails, making her want .to bring him down, degrade him, humiliate him, break him, drag him into a mire of self-loathing and make him wallow in it, rub his face in it, drown him in it.

  As soon as he was in the foyer she closed the door behind her. Passion was suddenly a white-hot flame inside her.

  "Kiss me, Bill," she said.

  He stared at her incredulously, as if trying to make himself believe that he really hadn't heard her correctly. A small voice deep inside her screamed, No, I didn't mean that! But a much stronger voice was overpowering the first, shouting that she did mean just that. And more.

  6

  "Carol?" Bill said, watching her. Her face had changed, as if the lighting had shifted to give her a strange, almost malevolent look. "Are you all right?"