Mr. Veilleur turns and glances at his wife, busy setting the table for Sunday dinner.
And then he'll come for us—but mostly for me.
For himself, he doesn't care much. He has lived long enough. But what of the world? What of the horrors the enemy will bring about when he comes of age?
Ah, well. That will be someone else's problem. And it will be a couple of decades hence. Maybe he and the wife will be lucky.
Maybe they'll be dead by then.
Epilogue
As suddenly as it had begun, the dark radiance diminished, shrinking to a cold, tight, hard little knot, and then it was gone. Carol shuddered.
Oh God, what's happening to me?
She looked at Jonah. She found him staring at her, smiling and nodding, his eyes aglow.
"I…I have to go to the bathroom," she said. She was feeling weak and nauseated. She didn't want to be sick on the floor.
He hopped out of his seat and stood in the aisle to let her by. As she rose, the cabin seemed to spin around her. A passing stewardess reached for her outstretched hand to steady her, but Carol pulled it away and clenched it into a fist between her breasts. She wasn't letting anyone touch her hands until she'd had a chance to shave off the fine little hairs she had found sprouting from her palms a few hours ago.
Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Part I: Now
September
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
The Boy
Chapter Four
The Boy
October
Chapter Five
The Boy
November
Chapter Six
The Boy
December
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
The Boy
Chapter Thirteen
Part II: Then
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part III: Now
January
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
February
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
The Secret History of the World
Also by F. Paul Wilson
Praise for The Adversary Cycle
Copyright
Acknowledgments
The Marquis de Sade for his warped philosophy; George Hayduke whose Make My Day inspired certain dirty tricks in this novel; Lisa Krause for helping me bring this into the twenty-first century; and as usual to Steven Spruill and Albert Zuckerman for their invaluable input.
Author’s Note
In reviewing and updating Reprisal for this new edition, I was struck by how dark it is. The Christmas Week sequence and the final scene in St. Ann’s Cemetery contain some of the most wrenching fiction I’ve ever written. I found it difficult to compose those scenes—I had to get up and walk away from the keyboard numerous times—but nothing here is gratuitous. The story demanded them. I’d created a strong character, secure in himself, his role in the world, his faith … and now I had to break him.
The finale of Reprisal is contemporaneous with Fatal Error, fusing the two strands of the Secret History. The Adversary Cycle and the Repairman Jack series now proceed as one through The Dark at the End to the conclusion of the Secret History in Nightworld.
—F. PAUL WILSON
the Jersey Shore
August 2010
Part I
NOW
SEPTEMBER
ONE
Queens, NY
Rain coming.
Mr. Veilleur could feel the approaching summer storm in his bones as he sat in a shady corner of St. Ann’s cemetery in Bayside. He had the place to himself. In fact, he seemed to have most of the five boroughs to himself. Labor Day weekend. And a hot one. Anyone who could afford to had fled upstate or to the Long Island beaches. The rest were inside, slumped before their air conditioners. Even the homeless were off the streets, crouched in the relative cool of the subways.
The sun poured liquid fire through the hazy midday sky. Not a cloud in sight. But here in the shade of this leaning oak, Mr. Veilleur knew the weather was going to change soon, could read it from the worsening ache in his knees, hips, and back.
Other things were going to change as well. Everything, perhaps. And all for the worse.
He had been making sporadic trips to this corner of the cemetery since he’d first sensed the wrongness here. That had been on a snowy winter night many years ago. It had taken him a while, but he’d finally located the spot.
A grave, which was perfectly natural, this being a cemetery. This grave was not like the others, however. This one had no marker. But something else made this grave special: Nothing would grow over it.
Through the years Mr. Veilleur had seen the cemetery’s gardeners try to seed it, sod it, even plant it with various ground covers like periwinkle, pachysandra, and ivy. They took root well all around, but nothing survived in the four-foot oblong patch over the grave.
Of course, they didn’t know it was a grave. Only Mr. Veilleur and the one who had dug the hole knew that. And surely one other.
Mr. Veilleur did not come here often. Travel was not easy for him, even to another part of the city he had called home since the end of World War Two. Gone were the days when he walked where he wished, fearing no one. Now his eyes were bad; his back was stiff and canted forward; he leaned on a cane when he walked, and he walked slowly. He had an old man’s body and he had to take appropriate precautions.
Age had not dampened his curiosity, however. He didn’t know who had dug the grave, or who was in it. But whoever lay down there below the dirt and rocks had been touched by the enemy … the Otherness.
The enemy had been growing steadily stronger for more than two decades now. But growing carefully, staying hidden. Good thing too, for he had no one to oppose him. But he did not know that. He was waiting. For what? A sign? A particular event? Perhaps the one buried below was part of the answer. Perhaps the occupant had nothing to do with the enemy’s quiescence.
No matter—as long as the enemy remained inactive. For the longer the enemy delayed, the closer Mr. Veilleur would be to reaching the end of his days. And then he would be spared witnessing the chaotic horrors to come. His Heir would shoulder that burden.
A shadow fell across him and a sudden gust of wind chilled the perspiration that coated his skin. He looked up. Clouds were moving in, obscuring the sun. Time to go.
He stood and stared one last time at the bare dirt over the unmarked grave. He knew he would be back again. And again. Too many questions about this grave and its occupant. He sensed unfinished business here.
Because the grave’s occupant did not rest easy. Did not, in fact, rest at all.
Mr. Veilleur turned and made his unsteady way out of St. Ann’s cemetery. It would be good to get back to the cool apartment and get his feet up and have a glass of iced tea. He tried to believe that his wife had missed him during his absence, but with her mind the way it was, Magda probably hadn’t even realized he was gone.
TWO
Pendleton, North Carolina
1
Conway Street had come to a virtual standstill. Like a parking lot. Will Ryerson idled his ancient Impala convertible between fitful crawls in the stagnant morning traffic and watched the heat gauge. Still well in the safe range.
He patted the dash. Good girl.
He glanced at his watch. He’d already had a late start for work, and this was going to make him later. He took a deep breath. So what? The grass on the north campus at Darnell University could wait a few extra minutes for its weekly trim. Only problem was, he was in charge of the work crews this morning, so if he didn’t get there, J.B. would have to get things rolling. And J.B. had enough to do. That was why he’d recently promoted Will.
Will Ryerson is moving up in the world.
He smiled at the thought. He’d always wanted an academic life, to spend his workdays on the campus of a great university. Well, for the last few years his wish had come true. Except he didn’t travel there every day to immerse himself in the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the ages; he came to tend the grounds.
With his degrees he could have been at Georgetown, or even Darnell or Brown as an academic, but proving his qualifications would require him to reveal his past, and he couldn’t do that.
He glanced in the rearview mirror at his long, salt-and-pepper hair—mostly salt now—still wet from his morning shower, pulled tight to the back; at his scarred forehead, bent nose, and full, graying beard. Only the bright blue eyes of his former self remained. If his mother were still alive, even she might have trouble recognizing him now.
He peered ahead. Had to be an accident somewhere up there. Either that or the road department had picked the town’s so-called a.m. rush hour to do some street repairs. Will had grown up in a real city, the city with the king—no, the emperor of rush hours. This little bottleneck couldn’t hold a candle to that.
He killed time by reading bumper stickers. Most of them were religious.
“BORN AGAIN”
“YOUR GOD DEAD? TRY MINE: JESUS LIVES!”
“LISTEN FOR THE SHOUT—HE’S COMING AGAIN!”
“A CLOSE ENCOUNTER OF THE BEST KIND: JESUS!”
And Will’s favorite …
“JESUS IS COMING AGAIN AND BOY IS HE PISSED!”
I can dig that, Will thought.
He considered turning on the radio but wasn’t in the mood for the ubiquitous country music or the crud that dominated the university’s student station, so he listened to the engine as it idled in the press. An ancient gas guzzling V-8 but it purred like a week-old kitten. It had taken him a while but he’d finally got the timing right.
Will noticed that the right lane seemed to be inching forward faster than his own. When a space opened up next to him, he eased over toward the curb and made slightly better time for half a block. Then he came to a dead stop along with everybody else.
Big deal. He’d picked up fifty feet over his old spot. Hardly worth the trouble. He peered ahead to see if the next side street was one he could use to detour around the congestion. He couldn’t make out the name on the sign. He glanced to his right and froze.
Oh, no.
A telephone booth stood on the sidewalk not six feet from the passenger door of his car.
Not many left these days, and usually he could spot one blocks away. But this had been hidden by the unusually large knot of people clustered at the bus stop next to it. He’d missed it.
Panic gripped the center of Will’s chest and twisted. How close was he? Too close. How long had he been stopped? Too long. He couldn’t stay here. He didn’t need much, just half a car length forward or back, but he had to move, had to get away from that phone.
No room in front—he’d already pulled up to the rear bumper of the car ahead of him. He lurched around in his seat, peering over the trunk. No room there either. The car behind was right on his tail.
Trapped.
Get out of the car—that was the only thing to do. Get out and walk off a short distance until the snarl loosened up, then run back and screech away.
He reached for the door handle. He had to move now if he was going to get away before—
No. Wait. Be cool.
Maybe it wouldn’t happen. Maybe the horror had finally let go. Maybe it was over.
He hadn’t allowed himself near a landline phone for so long, how did he know it would happen again? Nothing had happened yet. Maybe nothing would. If he just stayed calm and stayed put, maybe—
The phone in the booth began to ring.
Will closed his eyes, set his jaw, and gripped the steering wheel with all his strength.
Damn!
The phone rang only once. Not the usual two-second burst, but a long, continuous ring that went on and on.
Will opened his eyes to see who would answer it. Someone always did. Who’d be the unlucky one?
He watched the commuters at the bus stop ignore it for a while. They looked at each other, then at the phone, then back down the street where their bus was stuck in traffic somewhere out of sight. Will knew that wouldn’t last. No one could ignore a phone that rang like that.
Finally, a woman started for the booth.
Don’t, lady.
She continued forward, oblivious to his silent warning. When she reached the booth she hesitated. It was that ring, Will knew, that endless continuous ring that so jangled the nerves with its alienness. You couldn’t help but sense that something was very wrong here.
She looked around at her fellow commuters who were all staring at her, urging her on with their eyes.
Answer it, they seemed to say. If nothing else you’ll stop that damned incessant ring!
She lifted the receiver and put it to her ear. Will watched her face, watched her expression change from one of mild curiosity to concern, and then to horror. She pulled the receiver away from her head and stared at it as if the earpiece had turned to slime. She dropped it and backed away. Another of the commuters—a man this time—began to approach the booth. Then Will noticed the car in front of him begin to move ahead. He gunned the Chevy and stayed on the other car’s bumper as it pulled away.
Will kept his sweaty hands tight on the wheel and fought the sick chills and nausea that swept through him.
Thank God it didn’t happen with cell phones. At least not yet. Only landlines. And he had a pretty good idea of why.
2
Lisl Whitman sat in her office in the Math department at Darnell University and stared at her computer screen as she tried to ignore the insistent beeping of her watch.
Lunchtime.
Not too hungry now, and she was really rolling on these calculations. A very productive morning. She didn’t want to see it end just yet. This was good work. She had a feeling that it was going to make people sit up and take notice.
But that advanced calculus class at one o’clock wouldn’t wait, and a couple of those eager Darnell undergrads wouldn’t let her get away for at least another fifteen minutes after class, which meant she wouldn’t break free until well after two. She’d be famished by then and maybe even a little shaky. And when she got that hungry she always ran the risk of going into a feeding frenzy.
And so what if I do?
One more binge wasn’t going to matter. She was already at least twenty pounds overweight. Who’d notice a few more? Will Ryerson might, but her weight didn’t seem to matter to him. He accepted her for who she was, not how she looked.
Lisl had never had a weight problem until her late twenties—until after the divorce. She was thirty-two now and knew she’d let herself go in a big way. She’d been lonely and depressed, so she’d immersed herself in her doctoral thesis. And food. Food had been her only pleasure. And somewhere along the line she became a compulsive eater. She’d binge, hate herself for it, and then binge again.
Why not? She’d been considered a math nerd all her life, and nerds were supposed to look rumpled and slovenly. It came with the territory. She’d never allow herself to look slovenly, but the loose clothes she tended to wear did lend her a rumpled look. She rarely wore makeup—her high coloring didn’t require it—but took scrupulous care of her naturally blond hair.
Eat now, she told herself. Now!
Maybe her weight didn’t matter, but she had to draw the line somewhere. Had to say enoug
h sometime.
She saved and waited for confirmation. Satisfied that her work was now safely stored away in the university servers, she shut off the monitor and looked out the window. Another bright, warm, glorious September day in North Carolina.
Now … where to eat? Four choices: here in the Math department—either alone in her office or joining Everett in his—or in the caf, or al fresco. Actually, only three choices. Alone could be more company than Ev. Still, he was the only member of the department still on the floor and she guessed she owed him the courtesy of asking him to join her. The gesture risked nothing, and she sensed that Ev genuinely appreciated it whenever she asked.
She stepped across the hall to his open door. EVERETT SANDERS, Ph.D. ran in black across the opaque glass. She found him hunched over his computer keyboard, his narrow back to her. His shiny pink scalp gleamed through his thinning light brown hair. He wore the Ev Sanders uniform: short-sleeved white shirt and brown polyester slacks. Lisl didn’t need to see his front to know he had a slim, nondescript brown tie tightly knotted around his neck.
She tapped on the door glass.
“Come,” he said without looking around.
“It’s me, Ev.”
He turned and rose from his seat to face her. Always the gentleman. Only in his mid-forties but he looked older. And yes, another of his muddy brown ties was cinched up high under his Adam’s apple.
“Hello, Lisl,” he said, his watery brown eyes peering at her through his wire-rimmed glasses. He smiled, showing slightly yellowed teeth. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What?”
“The article.”
“Oh, yes! The article. I think it’s super, don’t you?”
The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) Page 152
