Koontz, Dean R. - Strangers
Page 69
night had not prepared him for the unexpected.
Saturday night, when Corvaisis had arrived at the Tranquility, Leland
Falkirk and his surveillance experts had monitored the first
conversations between the Blocks and the writer with growing disbelief.
The outlandish tale of moon photographs animated by a poltergeist in
Lomack's Reno house had sounded like the product of a fevered mind no
longer able to distinguish between fiction and reality.
Later, however, after Corvaisis and the Blocks had eaten dinner at the
Grille, the writer had attempted to relive the minutes just before the
trouble had started on the night of July 6. What happened then was
astonishing, confirmed both by the hidden surveillance team watching the
Tranquility from a point south of the interstate and by the infinity
transmitter tap on the diner's payphone. Everything in the Grille had
begun to shake, and a strange rumble had filled the place, then an eerie
electronic ululation, culminating in the implosion of all the windows.
These phenomena came as a total-and nasty-surprise to Leland and to
everyone involved in the cover-up, especially the scientists, who were
electrified. The following day's discovery of Cronin's healing power
added voltage to the excitement. At first, these developments seemed
inexplicable. But after only a little thought, Leland arrived at an
explanation that made his blood cold. The scientists had come to
similar conclusions. Some of them were as scared as Leland was.
Suddenly, no one knew what to expect. Anything might happen now.
We believed we were in control of the situation that night in July,
Leland thought somberly, but perhaps it had escalated beyond our control
even before we arrived on the scene.
The single consolation was that, thus far, only Corvaisis and the priest
appeared to be . . . infected. Maybe "infected" wasn't exactly the
right word. Maybe "possessed" was better. Or maybe there wasn't a word
for what had happened to them, because what had happened to them had
never happened to anyone else in history, so a specific word for it had
not heretofore been required.
Even if the siege at Sharkle's house ended tomorrow, even if that
possibility of media exposure was eliminated, Leland would not be able
to strike at the group at the motel with full confidence. Corvaisis and
Cronin-and perhaps the others-might be more difficult to apprehend and
incarcerate than they'd been two summers ago. If Corvaisis and Cronin
weren't entirely themselves any more, if they were now someone else-or
something else-dealing with them might prove downright impossible.
Leland's headache was worse.
Feed on it, he told himself, getting up from the desk. Feed on the
pain. You've been doing that for years, you dumb son of a bitch, so you
can feed on it for another day or two, until you've dealt with this mess
or until you're dead, whichever comes first.
He left the windowless office, crossed a windowless outer chamber,
walked a windowless hall, and entered the windowless communications
center, where Lieutenant Horner and Sergeant Fiw sat at a table in one
corner. "Tell the men they can hit the sack," Leland said. "It's off
for tonight. I'll risk another day to see if the situation at Sharkle's
house gets resolved."
"I was just coming to you," Horner said. "There's a development at the
motel. They finally left the diner. After they came out, Twist brought
a Jeep Cherokee in from the hills behind the motel. He, Jorja
Monatella, and the priest piled in it and drove off toward Elko."
"Where the hell are they going at this time of night?"
Leland asked, uncomfortably aware that those three might have slipped
through his fingers if he had ordered his men to move against the motel
tonight, for he'd been certain the witnesses were settled down until
morning.
Horner pointed to Fiw, who was wearing headphones and listening to the
Tranquility. "From what we've heard, the others are going to bed.
Twist, Monatella, and Cronin have gone off as . . . as sort of
insurance against us getting our hands on all the witnesses in one quick
clean sweep. This had to be Twist's idea."
"Damn." Massaging his throbbing temples with his finger tips, Leland
sighed. "All right. We aren't going after them tonight, anyway."
"But what about tomorrow? What if they split up all day tomorrow?"
"In the morning," Leland said, "we'll put tails on all of them." To this
point, he had seen no need to tail the witnesses everywhere they went,
for he had known that, in the end, they would all wind up at the same
place-the motel-making it easier for him to deal with them. But now, if
they were going to be spread out when the time came to take them into
custody, he would need to know where they were at all times.
Horner said, "Depending on where they go tomorrow, they're likely to
spot any tails we put on them. In this kind of open country, it's not
easy to be discreet."
"I know," Leland said. "So let them see us. I've wanted to stay out of
sight, but we're at the end of that approach. Maybe seeing us will throw
them off balance until it's too late. Maybe, scared, they'll even get
back together for protection and make our job easier again."
"If we have to take some of them at a place other than the motel, say in
Elko, it'll be difficult," Horner said worriedly.
"If they can't be taken, they've got to be killed." Leland pulled up a
chair, sat down. "Let's work out surveillance details now and have the
tails in position before dawn."
3.
Tuesday, January 14
At seven-thirty Tuesday morning, in response to a telephone call from
Brendan Cronin very late the previous night, Father Stefan Wycazik
prepared to set out on a drive to Evanston, to the last known address of
Calvin Sharkle, the trucker who had been at the Tranquility Motel that
summer but whose telephone was now disconnected. In light of the
enormity of last evening's developments in Nevada, everyone was agreed
that every possible effort must be made to contact the other victims who
had thus far been unreachable. Standing in the warm rectory kitchen,
Stefan buttoned his topcoat and put on his fedora.
Father Michael Gerrano, who was just sitting down to oat meal and toast
after celebrating sunrise Mass, said, "Perhaps I should know more about
this whole situation, about what on earth's wrong with Brendan, in case
. . . well, in case something happens to you."
"Nothing's going to happen to me," Father Wycazik said firmly. "God
hasn't let me spend five decades learning how the world works just to
have me killed now that I'm able to do my best work for the Church."
Michael shook his head. "You're always so . "Certain in my faith? Of
course I am. Rely on God, and He will never fail you, Michael."
"Actually," Michael said, smiling, "I was going to say: You're always so
bullheaded."
"Such impudence from a curate!" Stefan said, winding a thick white scarf
around his neck. "Attend thee, Father: What is wanted of a curate is<
br />
humility, self-effacement, the strong back of a mule, the stamina of a
plow horse-and an unfailingly adoring attitude toward his rector."
Michael grinned. "Oh, yes, I suppose if the rector is a pious old
geezer grown vain from the praise of his parishioners-" The telephone
rang.
"If it's for me, I'm gone," Stefan said.
Stefan pulled on a pair of gloves but was not quite able to make it to
the back door before Michael held the receiver toward him.
"It's Winton Tolk," Michael said. "The cop whose life Brendan saved. He
sounds almost hysterical, and he wants to talk to Brendan."
Stefan took the phone and identified himself.
The policeman's voice was haunted and full of urgency. "Father, I've got
to talk to Brendan Cronin right away, it can't wait."
"I'm afraid he's away," Stefan said, "out at the other end of the
country. What's the matter? Can I be of assistance?"
"Cronin," Tolk said shakily. "Something ... something's happened, and
I don't understand, it's strange, Jesus, it's the strangest craziest
thing, but I knew right away it was somehow related to Brendan."
"I'm sure I can help. Where are you, Winton?"
"On duty, end of the shift, graveyard shift, Uptown. There's been a
knifing, a shooting. Horrible. And then . . . Listen,
I want Cronin to come up here, he's got to explain this, he's got to,
right away."
Father Wycazik elicited an address from Tolk, left the rectory at a run,
and drove too fast. Less than half an hour later, he arrived in a block
of identical, shabby, six-story, brick tenements in the Uptown district.
He was unable to park in front of the address he had been given and
settled for a spot near the corner, for the prime space was occupied by
police vehicles-marked and unmarked cars, an SID wagon-whose radios
filled the cold air with a metallic chorus of dispatchers' codes and
jargon. Two officers were watching over the vehicles to prevent
vandalism. In answer to Stefan's question, they told him the action was
on the third floor, in 3-B, the Mendozas' apartment.
The glass in the front door was cracked across one corner, and the
temporary repair with electrician's tape looked as if it had become a
permanent solution. The door opened on a grim foyer. Some floor tiles
were missing and others were hidden by grime. The paint was peeling.
As he climbed the stairs, Stefan encountered two beautiful children
playing "dead doll" with a battered Raggedy Ann and an old shoebox.
When he walked through the open door and into the Mendozas' third-floor
apartment, Father Wycazik saw a beige sofa liberally stained with
still-wet blood, so much that in some places the cushions were almost
black. Hundreds of drops had sprayed across the pale-yellow wall behind
the sofa, a pattern that evidently had resulted when someone in front of
the wall had been hit by large-caliber slugs that passed through him.
Four bullet holes marred the plaster. Blood was spattered over a
lampshade, coffee table, bookshelf, and part of the carpet.
The gore was even more disgusting than it might ordinarily have been
because the apartment was otherwise extremely well-kept, which made the
areas of bloody chaos more shocking by comparison. The Mendozas could
afford to live only in a slum tenement, but like some other poor people,
they refused to surrender to-or become part of-the Uptown squalor. The
filth of the streets, the grime of public hallways and staircases,
stopped at their door, as if their apartment was a fortress against
dirt, a shrine to cleanliness and order. Everything gleamed.
Removing his fedora, Stefan took only two steps into the living
room-which flowed without interruption into a small dining area., which
itself was separated from a half-size kitchen by a serving counter. The
place was crowded with detectives, uniformed officers, lab
technicians-maybe a dozen men altogether. Most of them were not acting
like cops. Their demeanor puzzled Stefan. Apparently, the lab men had
completed their work and the others had nothing to do, yet no one was
leaving. They were standing in groups of two or three, talking in the
subdued manner of people at a funeral parlor-or in church.
Only one detective was working. He was sitting at the dinette table
with a Madonna-faced Latino woman of about forty, asking questions of
her (Father Wycazik heard him call her Mrs. Mendoza), and recording her
answers on legal-looking forms. She was trying to cooperate but was
distracted as she glanced repeatedly at a man her own age, probably her
husband, who was pacing back and forth with a child in his arms. The
child was a cute boy of about six. Mr. Mendoza held the child in one
burly arm, talking constantly to him, patting him, ruffling his thick
hair. Obviously, this man had almost lost his son in whatever violence
had occurred earliere, and he needed to touch and hold the child to
convince himself that the worst had not actually happened.
One of the patrolmen noticed Stefan and said, "Father Wycazik?"
The officer's voice was soft, but at the mention of Stefan's name, the
entire group fell silent. Stefan could not remember ever seeing
expressions quite like those that came over the faces of the people in
the Mendozas' small apartment: as if he were expected to deliver unto
them a single sentence that would shed light upon all the mysteries of
existence and succinctly convey the meaning of life.
What in the world is going on here? Stefan wondered uneasily.
"This way, Father," said a uniformed officer.
Pulling off his gloves, Stefan followed the officer across the room. The
hush prevailed, and everyone made way for the priest and his guide. They
went into a bedroom, where Winton Tolk and another officer were sitting
on the edge of the bed. "Father Wycazik's here," Stefan's guide said,
then retreated to the living room.
Tolk was sitting bent forward, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden
in his hands. He did not look up.
The other officer rose from the edge of the bed and introduced himself
as Paul Armes, Winton's partner. "I ... I think you'd better get it
directly from Win," Armes said. "I'll give you some privacy." He left,
closing the door behind him.
The bedroom was small, with space for only the bed, one nightstand, a
half-size dresser, one chair. Father Wycazik pulled the chair around to
face the foot of the bed and sat down, so he could look directly at
Winton Tolk. Their knees were almost touching.
Removing his scarf, Father Wycazik said, "Winton, what's happened?"
Tolk looked up, and Stefan was startled by the man's expression. He had
thought Tolk was upset by whatever had happened in the living room. But
his face revealed that he was exhilarated, filled with an excitement he
could barely contain. Simultaneously, he seemed fearful-not terrified,
not quaking with fear, but troubled by something that prevented him from
giving in completely, happily, to his excitement.
"Father, who is Brendan Cronin?" The tremor in the big man's voice was
of an odd char
acter that might have betrayed either incipient joy or
terror. "What is Brendan Cronin?"
Stefan hesitated, decided on the full truth. "He's a priest."
Winton shook his head. "But that's not what we were told."
Stefan sighed, nodded. He explained about Brendan's loss of faith and
about the unconventional therapy that had included a week in a police
patrol car. "You and Officer Armes weren't told he was a priest because
you might've treated him differently . . . and because I wished to
spare him embarrassment."
"A fallen priest," Winton said, looking baffled.
"Not fallen," Father Wycazik said confidently. "Merely faltering. He'll
regain his faith in time."
The room's inadequate light came from a dim lamp on the nightstand and
from a single narrow window, leaving the dark policeman in velvet gloom.
The whites of his eyes were twin lamps, very bright by contrast with the
darknesses of shadows and genetic heritage. "How did Brendan heal me
when I was shot? How did he perform that . . . miracle? How?"
"Why have you decided it was a miracle?"
"I was shot twice in the chest, point-blank. Three days later I left
the hospital. Three days! In ten days, I was ready to go back to work,
but they made me stay home two weeks. Doctors kept talking about my
hardy physical condition, the extraordinary healing that's possible if a
body's in tip-top shape. I started thinking they were trying to explain
my recovery not to me but to themselves. But I still figured I was just