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

by F. Paul Wilson

  No reply. But Veilleur knew he’d find out soon. Too soon.

  He sipped his coffee and continued his solitary vigil.

  North Carolina

  2

  Another New Year’s Eve.

  Will sat alone in his drafty living room watching the roiling crowd in Times Square on his TV. God, how he hated this night.

  Years ago on this very night he had committed The Atrocity, the act that had drawn an indelible line between himself and the rest of humanity.

  This year would be worse than usual because of the phone call.

  So long since he’d heard it. For years he’d managed to avoid it. And then Lisl’s party. He shouldn’t have gone, but he’d thought he could get away with it. He’d tempted fate. Someone trying to make a call must have plugged the phone back into the wall.

  And he’d heard that voice. All the way across the room, he’d heard that poor boy’s voice.

  Will got up and turned off the TV. If he looked at the host’s grinning face much longer he was afraid he’d toss a chair through the screen. All those people milling around in Times Square, ready to jump around like idiots to celebrate the start of a new year.

  A new year. Right. For him it was the start of another year in hiding.

  But this new year would be different. This year he’d find the strength to go back, to try to resume his former life. And the best way to do that was to start the year off in prayer.

  He pulled his old Breviary from his rear pocket—the book he’d been hiding from Lisl since September—and got an early start on tomorrow’s daily office.

  But tonight the prayers seemed even more meaningless than they had since he’d gone back to them. Usually he could count on the rhythm of the familiar phrases to provide temporary relief from the memories of the horrors of the past.

  But not tonight.

  The faces, voices, sights, sounds—they splattered him like raindrops, falling fitfully at first, then increasing to a steady trickle, finally swelling to a rush that flooded the room. He fought the current but it was too strong tonight. Despite his best efforts it swept him into the past.

  Part II

  THEN

  FOURTEEN

  Queens, NY

  1

  Things started going wrong toward the end of winter that year. In March, with spring only a couple of weeks away.

  People hadn’t called him Will then. His friends and folks called him Bill. The rest of the world called him Father.

  Father Ryan. The Reverend William Ryan, S.J.

  “I’ve got you now,” Nicky said from the other side of the chessboard.

  Bill stretched inside his navy blue sweatsuit and reminded himself for the thousandth time to stop thinking of him as Nicky. He wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was teenager. And he had a last name too. Justin and Florence Quinn had adopted him in 1970 and he carried their name proudly.

  Nicky … Bill was proud of him, as proud as he’d have been if Nick were his own son. His SATs had merited a free ride through Columbia where he earned a BS in physics in three years. Then he’d breezed through the graduate program, blowing the faculty away with his doctoral thesis on particle theory. Nick was brilliant and he knew it. He’d always known it. But along the way to gaining maturity he’d lost his old smugness about it. His skin had cleared up—mostly—and his long unruly hair now covered the misshapen areas of his skull. And he was wearing contacts. That had proved the hardest to adjust to: Nicky without glasses.

  “Checkmate?” Bill said. “So soon? Really?”

  “Really, Bill. Really.”

  Another sign of Nick’s adult status: He no longer felt he had to call him Father Bill.

  Bill studied the board. Nick had spotted Bill both his bishops and both his rooks, and still Bill was losing. In fact he could see no way to spring his king from the web Nick had woven around it. He’d lost.

  Bill knocked over his king.

  “I don’t know why you continue to play me. I can’t be any sort of challenge for you.”

  “It’s not the challenge. It’s the company. It’s the conversation. Believe me, it’s not the chess.”

  Nick was still a social misfit, Bill knew. Especially with women. And until he found himself a woman—or one found him—the traditional Saturday night chess games here in Bill’s office at St. F.’s would probably go on indefinitely.

  “But I seem to becoming worse at the game instead of better.”

  Nick shook his head. “Not worse. Just predictable. You fall into the same kind of trap every time.”

  Bill didn’t like the idea of being predictable. He knew his main flaw in chess was lack of patience. He tended toward impulsive, seat-of-the-pants gambits. But that was his nature.

  “I’m going to start reading up on chess, Nick. Better yet, I’m going to invest in a chess program for the computer. That old Kaypro you gave me will be your undoing. It’ll teach me to wipe up the board with you.”

  Nick did not appear terribly shaken by the threat.

  “Speaking of computers, have you been tapping into those bulletin boards I keep giving you?”

  Bill nodded. “I think I’m becoming addicted to them.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first. By the way, I recently downloaded this new article about cloning. It reminded me of that brouhaha back in the sixties over that friend of yours—”

  “Jim,” Bill said with a sudden ache in his chest. “Jim Stevens.”

  “Right. James Stevens. Supposedly the clone of Roderick Hanley. The Stevens case, as they called it, was mentioned in the article. Current wisdom, as stated in the article, says that it was technically impossible to clone a human being back in the forties. But I don’t know. From what I’ve picked up over the years, Roderick Hanley was a real wild card. If anybody could pull off something like that, it was him. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think about it.”

  And that was almost the truth. Bill rarely allowed himself to think about Jim, because that brought on thoughts of Jim’s wife, Carol. Bill knew where Jim was—under a plaque at Tall Oaks—but where was Carol? The last time he’d seen her was at LaGuardia shortly after Jim’s death. She’d called him once after flying off with Jonah, to tell him she was all right, but that had been it. She might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

  During the twenty-plus years since she’d disappeared he’d learned how to avoid thinking about her. And he’d become pretty damn good at it.

  But now Nick had gone and stirred up those old memories again … especially of the time when she had taken her clothes off and tried to—

  “It’s too bad—” Nick began, but was cut off by the arrival of a pajama-clad whirlwind.

  Little seven-year-old Danny Gordon ran in from the hall at full tilt, then tried to skid to a halt in front of the table where Bill and Nick had set up their board. Only he didn’t time his skid quite right. He slammed against the table and nearly knocked it over.

  “Danny!” Bill cried as the chessboard and all the pieces went flying.

  “Sorry, Father,” the boy said with a dazzling smile.

  He was small for his age, with a sinewy little body, pale blond hair, and a perfect, rosy-cheeked complexion. A regular Campbell Soup kid. He still had his milk teeth, so when he smiled, the effect of those tiny, perfectly aligned white squares was completely disarming. At least to most people. Bill was used to it, almost totally inured to it. Almost.

  “What are you doing up?” he said. “You’re supposed to be in the dorm. It’s”—he glanced at his watch—”almost midnight! Now get back to bed this instant.”

  “But there’s monsters back there, Father!”

  “There are no monsters in Saint Francis.”

  “But there are! In the closets!”

  This was old territory. They’d been over it a hundred times at least. He motioned Danny toward his lap. The child hopped up and snuggled against him. His body seemed to be all bone and no flesh, and weighed next to noth
ing. He was quiet for the moment. Bill knew that wouldn’t last too long.

  “Hi Nick,” Danny said, smiling and waving across the carnage of the chessboard.

  “How y’doing, Danny-boy?”

  “Fine. Were there monsters here when you were a kid, Nick?”

  Bill answered for Nick—no telling what he might say.

  “Come on now, Danny. You know there’s no such thing as monsters. We’ve been through all the closets again and again. There’s nothing in them but clothes and dust bunnies.”

  “But the monsters come after you close the doors!”

  “No they don’t. And especially not tonight. Father Cullen is staying here tonight.” Bill knew most of the kids at St. F.’s were in awe of the old priest’s stern visage and no-nonsense manner. “Do you know of any monster—and there aren’t any such things as monsters, but if there were, do you know of any monster that would dare show its face around here with Father Cullen patrolling the halls?”

  Danny’s already huge blue eyes grew larger. “No way! He’d scare them right back to where they came from!”

  “Right. So you get back to the dorm and into your bed. Now!”

  “‘Kay.” Danny hopped off his lap. “But you have to take me back.”

  “You got here all by yourself.”

  “Yeah, but it’s dark and…” Danny cocked his head and looked up at him with those big blue eyes. “You know…”

  Bill had to smile. What a manipulator. He knew only a small part of Danny’s fears were real. The rest seemed to be a product of his hyperactivity. He needed much less sleep than the other kids, so the fantasy of monsters in the closets not only bought him the extra attention he craved, but got him extra time out of the sack as well.

  “Okay. Stay put for a minute or two while I talk to Nick here and I’ll walk you back.”

  “‘Kay.”

  Bill watched as Danny picked up two of the fallen chess pieces and, with all the appropriate sound effects, pretended they were dogfighting jets.

  “I can’t imagine why no one has adopted him yet,” Nick said. “If I were married I’d think of taking him in myself.”

  “You wouldn’t get him,” Bill said. When he saw Nick’s shocked face he realized he’d been more abrupt than he’d intended. “I mean, Danny’s adoptive parents will have to have special qualities.”

  “Oh, really?”

  He could tell Nick was a little miffed, maybe even hurt. He hurried to explain.

  “Yes. I’m holding out for an older couple who’ve already raised a couple of kids. A young childless couple is definitely out.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “How many times have you seen Danny before?”

  Bill was keeping a close eye on Danny as he zoomed around the office with his makeshift airplanes. He knew from experience that the boy could dismantle a room in under ten minutes if he wasn’t watched.

  “At least a dozen, I’d say.”

  “And how long were you with him each time?”

  Mimicking the sound of an explosion, Danny rammed the two chess pieces together in a mid-air crash, then let them fall. Before they hit the floor he was on his way toward Bill’s desk.

  “I don’t know. A few minutes I guess.”

  “Most of which time he was either on his way in and out, or sitting on my knee, right?”

  Nick nodded slowly. “I guess so.”

  Bill leaned back in his chair and pointed to Danny.

  “Watch.”

  In a matter of a minute, certainly no more than two, Danny had tipped over and explored the contents of the waste basket, climbed to a standing position on the chair and inspected everything on the desktop, tapped away on the computer keyboard, fiddled with the calculator, drawn on the blotter, opened every drawer and pulled out whatever was in his way, picked up and inspected anything that piqued his interest then dropped it on the floor as soon as something else caught his eye, then crawled into the kneehole and began playing with the plugs on the electric cords under the desk.

  “Stay away from the electricity, Danny,” Bill warned. “You know it’s dangerous.”

  Without a word Danny rolled out from under the desk and looked around for something else. His eyes lit on Nick’s overstuffed briefcase and he zeroed in on it.

  Nick reached it first and snatched it off the floor and onto his lap.

  “Sorry, Danny,” he said with a smile and a quick glance at Bill. “This may look like a wastepaper basket, but it’s highly organized. Really.”

  Danny veered off in another direction.

  “See what I mean?” Bill said.

  “You mean he’s like this all day?”

  “And most of the night. Nonstop. From the crack of dawn till he collapses from sheer exhaustion.”

  “No nap?”

  “Never.”

  “Was I ever like that?”

  “You had your own unique set of problems, but your hyperactivity was exclusively mental.”

  “I get pooped just watching him.”

  “Right. So you see why I need a pair of experienced parents for Danny. They have to have the patience of Job and they have to go into this with their eyes completely open.”

  “No takers?”

  Bill shrugged and put a finger to his lips. He didn’t like to discuss the children’s adoption prospects in front of them—no matter how preoccupied they seemed, their ears were usually wide open.

  He clapped his hands once and got to his feet.

  “Come on, Danny me-boyo. Let’s get you under the covers one last time tonight.”

  Nick rose with him, yawning. “I think I’ll be getting on my way too. You’ve still got to drive out to the Island.”

  They shook hands.

  “Next Saturday?” Bill said.

  Nick waved. “Same time, same station.”

  “Bye, Nick!” Danny said.

  “Bye, kid,” he said to Danny, then winked at Bill. “And good luck!”

  “Thanks. See you next week.”

  Bill held out his hand to Danny who took it and allowed himself to be led down the long hall to the dorm section. But only for a moment. Soon he was skipping ahead and then scampering back to run circles around Bill.

  Bill shook his head in wonder. All that energy. He never ceased to be amazed at Danny’s endless store of it. Where did it come from? And what could Bill do to govern it? Because until it was brought under control, he doubted Danny would find an adoptive home.

  Yes, he was a lovable kid. Prospective parents came in, took one look at him—the blond hair, those eyes, that smile—and said that’s the boy we’ve been looking for, that’s the child we’ve always wanted. His hyperactivity would be explained to them but the parents were sure they could handle it—Look at him … it’s worth anything to raise that boy. No problem.

  But after Danny’s first weekend visit they all tended to sing a different tune. Suddenly it was, We have to give this some more thought, or, Maybe we’re not ready for this just yet.

  Bill didn’t hold it against them. Euphemistically speaking, Danny was a trial. That one little boy required as much attention as ten average children. He’d been examined by a panel of pediatric neurologists, put through batteries of tests, all resulting in no hard findings. He had a non-specific hyperactivity syndrome. The medications they’d tried caused no significant improvement.

  So day after day the incessant activity went on. And one after another, Danny simply wore people out.

  Which somehow made Bill grow more deeply attached to him. Maybe it was the fact that of all the kids now residing in St. Francis, Danny had been here the longest. Two years. He’d grown from a shy, introverted hyperactive five-year-old survivor of a drug-addict mother who’d accidentally immolated herself while free-basing, into a bright, personable, hyperactive seven-year-old. And it wasn’t so hard taking care of him here at St. F.’s. After many hundreds of residents over its century-plus of existence, the building was as childproof as any place cou
ld be. Proof even against Danny Gordon.

  But the days of the St. Francis Home for boys were numbered. The Society of Jesus was cutting back—like all the religious orders, the Jesuits were gradually dwindling in membership—and St. F.’s was slated as one of the casualties. The city and other Catholic agencies would fill the void when the place closed its doors in another two or three years. The old orphanage had fewer boys in residence now than at any time in its history.

  As he tucked Danny into bed and helped him say his prayers, Bill wondered if he might be getting too attached to the child. Hell, why not admit it: He was already too attached. That was a luxury someone in his position couldn’t afford. He had to put the child’s interests first—always. He couldn’t allow any sort of emotional attachment to influence his decisions. He knew it would hurt when Danny left. And although it might take some time to arrange, adoption was inevitable. He could not forestall that pain at Danny’s expense.

  But he was certainly determined to enjoy Danny while he was here. He had grown attached to some of the other boys in years past—Nicky had been the first—but most of them had started out at St. F.’s a few years older. Bill had been watching Danny grow and develop. It was almost like having a son.

  “Good night, Danny,” he said from the bedroom door. “And don’t give Father Cullen any trouble, okay?”

  “‘Kay. Where you goin’, Father?”

  “Going to visit some old folks.”

  “Those same old folks you see all the time?”

  “The same ones.”

  Bill didn’t want to tell him he was making one of his regular trips out to visit his own parents. That would inevitably lead to questions about Danny’s parents.

  “When you comin’ back?”

  “Tomorrow night, same as ever.”

  “‘Kay.”

  With that he rolled over and went to sleep.

  Bill returned alone to his own room where a half-packed overnight bag waited. If he stepped on it he could probably make it out to Monroe before one a.m.