Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  It seeks but will not be sought.

  It finds but will not be found.

  It holds the one who would touch,

  Who would cut away pain and ill.

  But its blade cuts two ways

  And will not be turned.

  If you value your well-being,

  Impede not its way.

  Treat the Toucher doubly well,

  For he bears the weight

  Of the balance that must be struck.

  It has better meter in the original language.”

  “A bit ominous, don’t you think?”

  “The song is a celebration and a warning. Twice a day, for an hour or so at a time, the one who possesses the Dat-tay-vao—or is possessed by the Dat-tay-vao, depending on how you look at it—can heal wounds, clear cancers, and cure illnesses with a touch.”

  Not too long ago, Bill would have scoffed. Today he remained silent, listening. His scoffing days were over.

  “The Dat-tay-vao came to Monroe last year and became one with a local physician, Alan Bulmer.”

  “Sounds vaguely familiar. Wasn’t he associated with Doc Alberts for a while?”

  “Possibly. He’s on his own now. Out of practice since the Dat-tay-vao enabled him to heal with a touch.”

  “That’s it—People did an article on him last summer.” He remembered leafing through the issue during a work break at Darnell U. “Hinted that he was a charlatan.”

  “He wasn’t. And isn’t. His cures were very real. He lives now with Sylvia Nash and her adopted son.”

  “Out on Shore Drive, you said?

  Glaeken nodded. “Two ninety-seven.”

  “The high-rent district.”

  The old Hanley mansion was out on Shore Drive too. Bill repressed a shudder as memories of the horrors he’d witnessed there in 1968 flashed within his brain like distant lightning.

  “The estate is called Toad Hall.”

  “Never heard of it. Must be new.”

  But as soon as he saw Toad Hall, Bill knew that it wasn’t. Only the brass plaque on the right-hand brick gatepost was new. He recognized the place as one of the Preferred North Shore’s most venerable mansions: the old Borg Estate. Three acres on the Long Island Sound surrounded by a stone wall and dense, insulating stands of white pine.

  He turned into the driveway. The house itself was set far back, close to the water; a many-gabled affair, flanked by weeping willows. He hated the thought of someone renaming the old Borg place, but as he turned off the ignition and heard the briny breeze whisper through the swaying willow branches, he conceded that the new name might be right on target.

  He accompanied Glaeken to the front door.

  “It’s a household of four,” the old man said as they walked. “Mrs. Nash, Doctor Bulmer, a Vietnamese houseman named Ba Thuy Nguyen, and Jeffrey, Mrs. Nash’s adopted son.”

  “You said yesterday we’re looking for a boy. Is he the one?”

  Glaeken nodded. “He is. And his mother is not going to like what I have to tell her.”

  “Why? What’s he got that—?”

  The front door opened as they stepped onto the porch. A tall, gaunt Asian towered in the doorway. This had to be Ba. His age was hard to judge: might be fifty, sixty, maybe older. His high-cheekboned face was expressionless, but his eyes were alert, active, darting back and forth between Glaeken and Bill, picking up details, assessing, measuring, categorizing. Bill knew someone else with eyes like that: Glaeken.

  “Yes, sirs.” His voice was thickly accented. “May I be of service?”

  “Yes, you may.” Glaeken fished a card out of his pocket. “My name is Veilleur. I believe Mrs. Nash is expecting me.”

  Ba stepped aside and ushered them through a marble-tiled foyer and into the living room. Doo-wop was playing softly through hidden speakers. A wave of nostalgia swept Bill away as he recognized “Story Untold” by the Nutmegs. He and Carol had danced to that song at CYO dances in the gym of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, not a mile from here.

  Ba’s voice yanked him back to the present.

  “I will tell the Missus that you are here. Do you wish coffee?”

  They both agreed and remained standing by the cold fireplace as Ba turned and left them alone.

  “That’s one powerful-looking fellow,” Bill said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Vietnamese that tall.”

  Glaeken nodded. “A one-man security force, I would say.”

  A slender woman with short black hair, blue eyes, and finely chiseled features strode into the room. She wore loose black slacks and a white blouse buttoned all the way to her throat. She moved with complete self-confidence.

  “I’m Sylvia Nash. Which one of you is—?”

  “I’m Veilleur,” Glaeken said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “And this is Father William Ryan.”

  Her handshake was as cool as the rest of her. A striking woman.

  Bill was making connections now. He’d heard of her. Greg Nash’s widow. Bill had gone to high school with Pete Nash, Greg’s older brother. Greg had been in the Gulf War. He’d come back in one piece, but then he’d been killed trying to break up a convenience store robbery. Sylvia had become a renowned sculptress. And obviously a very successful one if she could afford this place.

  “Please sit down,” she said, gesturing to the couch. She seated herself across from them. “You said you had something of a personal nature to discuss with me. I hope that wasn’t a scam to get in here and try to sell me something.”

  Bill glanced up at Ba as he returned with a silver coffee service set on a huge silver tray; he pitied anyone who tried any tricks in this house.

  “I assure you I have nothing to sell,” Glaeken said. “I’ve come to talk to you about the Dat-tay-vao.”

  The big Vietnamese started as he was setting down the silver tray. He almost spilled the coffeepot but righted it in time. He stared at Glaeken but his eyes were unreadable. Bill glanced at Sylvia. Her face was ashen.

  “Ba,” she said in a shaky voice. “Please get Alan.”

  “Yes, Missus.”

  Ba turned to go but at that moment a man in a wheelchair rolled into the room. He looked lean, pale, with gray-flecked brown hair and gentle brown eyes. He paused on the threshold, staring at Glaeken, a puzzled look on his face, then he came the rest of the way in. As the wheelchair rolled to a stop beside her chair, Sylvia reached over and grasped the man’s hand. They shared a smile. Bill immediately sensed a powerful bond between these two. Sylvia introduced him as Dr. Alan Bulmer.

  “They want to talk about the Dat-tay-vao, Alan.”

  Bill felt the weight of Bulmer’s gaze as he stared at them.

  “You’d better not be reporters.”

  Bill recognized a deep loathing in his tone as he spoke the last word.

  Glaeken said, “I assure you, we’re not.”

  Bulmer seemed to accept that. The old man had a gift for speaking the truth in a way that sounded like the truth.

  “What do you know—or think you know?” the doctor said.

  “Everything.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I know that your present condition is a direct result of your association with the Dat-tay-vao.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. I know that the Dat-tay-vao left Vietnam in late nineteen sixty-eight within a medic named Walter Erskine who couldn’t handle the responsibility and became a derelict alcoholic—”

  A flash of memory strobed Bill’s brain. Years ago … the parking lot of Downstate Medical Center … two winos, one was Martin Spano, the other a bearded stranger named Walter … Walter was a medic once … repeatedly asking, Are you the one? Could it have been…?

  “—but before he died, Erskine passed the Dat-tay-vao on to you. You used the power of the Dat-tay-vao to cure a great number of people—too many people for your own good. As a result—”

  Bulmer looked uncomfortable as he held up his hand.

  “Okay. Score one for you.”
>
  “May I ask if you regret your time with the Dat-tay-vao?”

  Bulmer paused, then: “I’ve thought about that a lot, believe me. It left me half vegetable, but that appears to be only temporary. With therapy I’m working my way back to full function. My arms and hands are as good as they ever were, and my legs are starting to come around. The Dat-tay-vao helped me cure—cure—a hell of a lot of people with an incredible array of illnesses—acute, chronic, debilitating, life-threatening. And in the process Sylvia and I found each other. A year or two of rehab is a small price to pay for that.”

  Bill knew then and there that this man operated on a different plane from most—and he liked him enormously for it.

  “May I ask then—?” Glaeken stopped speaking and looked to his right.

  A small boy stood in the living room entryway. He looked about nine; a round face, curly blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. He reminded Bill of another child from what seemed like another epoch … Danny.

  The child’s gaze roamed over the occupants of the room … and came to rest on Glaeken.

  “Hello, Jeffy,” Sylvia said. She obviously didn’t want him listening to this. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I came to see who was here.”

  He walked past Bulmer and his mother and stopped before Glaeken where he sat on the couch. For a long moment he stared almost vacantly into the old man’s eyes, then threw his arms around Glaeken’s neck and hugged him.

  Sylvia found herself on her feet, stepping toward Jeffy and Mr. Veilleur who was returning the hug, gently patting the boy’s back. This wasn’t like Jeffy at all. He was usually so shy. What had got into him?

  “Jeffy?” She restrained her hands from reaching for him. “I’m very sorry, Mister Veilleur. He’s never done this before.”

  “Quite all right,” Veilleur said, looking up at her over Jeffy’s shoulder. “I’m rather honored.”

  He gently pulled Jeffy’s arms from around his neck, engulfed one of the child’s little hands in his own, and patted the couch cushion next to him.

  “Want to sit here between me and Father Bill?”

  Jeffy nodded, his eyes huge. “Yes.”

  He snuggled between them.

  “Good.”

  Sylvia sat again but remained perched on the edge of the chair. She tried to catch Jeffy’s attention but he had eyes only for Veilleur.

  This whole scene made her uneasy.

  “He used to be autistic,” she said.

  Jeffy had made such strides since his sudden release from autism, but he was still backward socially. He was learning, but remained unsure how to act, so he wasn’t comfortable with strangers. Until now, apparently.

  “I know,” Veilleur said. “And I know that Doctor Bulmer’s final act with the Dat-tay-vao was to cure Jeffy.”

  Sylvia glanced at Alan. His expression mirrored her own alarm and confusion. How did this stranger know so much about them? It gave her the creeps.

  “All right,” Alan said, shrugging resignedly. “So you do know about the Dat-tay-vao. But I’m afraid you’re too late. I don’t have that power anymore. The Dat-tay-vao is gone.”

  “The Dat-tay-vao has left you,” Veilleur said, “but it is not gone.”

  Sylvia sensed Ba stiffen where he stood behind her. Why was he suddenly on the alert?

  “That may be,” she said. “But I still don’t see what we can do for you.”

  “Not what you can do for me—for everyone. We are entering a time of great strife, of darkness and madness. The days are getting shorter when they should be lengthening. The Dat-tay-vao can help forestall that. Maybe even prevent it.”

  Sylvia glanced at Alan again. He nodded imperceptibly. This poor old man had blown a few fuses. She darted a glance at the priest—a good-looking man, older than Alan, with graying hair, a scarred face, and a nose that looked as if it had been badly broken. She wondered if he’d ever been a boxer. She also wondered how he could sit there with a straight face. Unless he was as crazy as the old fellow. Ever since yesterday’s news of the sun’s erratic behavior, the kooks had been coming out of the woodwork, predicting the end of the world and worse. And to think she had let two of them into her house.

  And then she saw something flash in the priest’s eyes. A look of tortured weariness, as if he’d seen too much already and was dreading the time to come.

  “But I told you,” Alan said. “The Dat-tay-vao is gone.”

  “Gone from you, yes.” Veilleur put his arm around Jeffy. “But it hasn’t traveled far.”

  Sylvia shot to her feet, fighting the panic vaulting within her. She let anger take its place.

  “Out! I want you out of here! Both of you. Now!”

  “Mrs. Nash,” the priest said, rising. “We mean no harm—to anyone.”

  “Fine. Good. But I want you both to leave. I have nothing to say to either of you, nothing more to discuss.”

  The priest pointed to Veilleur. “This man is trying to help you—help us all. Please listen to him.”

  “Please leave now, Father Ryan. Don’t force me to have Ba eject you.”

  She looked at Ba. Over the years she’d learned to read his usually expressionless face. What she saw there now was reluctance. Why? Did he want them to stay? Did he want to hear them out?

  No. It didn’t matter what Ba wanted in this situation. She had to get them out of here. Now.

  She strode through the foyer and opened the front door. With obvious reluctance, the old man and the priest made their exit. On the way out, Mr. Veilleur left a card on the hall table.

  “For when you change your mind,” he said.

  He sounded so sure, she found herself unable to frame a reply. As she slammed the door behind them, she heard the sound of Alan’s wheelchair rolling toward her.

  “Kind of rough on them, weren’t you?”

  “You heard them. They’re crazy.” She stepped to one of the sidelights flanking the front door and watched the old man and the priest stand by their car in the driveway. “They might be dangerous.”

  “They might be. But neither of them struck me that way. And that old fellow—he knew an awful lot about the Dat-tay-vao. All of it accurate.”

  “But his end-of-the-world stuff … about a time of ‘darkness and madness.’ That’s crazy talk.”

  “I recall someone who reacted exactly the same way when I told her that I had the power to heal with a touch.”

  Sylvia remembered how she’d thought Alan had gone off the deep end then. But this was different.

  “You weren’t talking about doomsday.”

  The priest and the old man were getting into the car.

  “True. But something’s happening, Sylvia. It’s spring, yet the days are getting shorter, and the scientists can’t say why. Maybe we are heading for some sort of apocalypse. Maybe we should have listened a little longer. That man knows something.”

  “He doesn’t know anything I care to hear. Certainly not doomsday nonsense.”

  “That’s not what you’re afraid of, is it, Sylvia?”

  She turned and faced him. She still wasn’t used to seeing Alan in a wheelchair. She refused to become used to it. Because Alan wouldn’t be in it forever. The Dat-tay-vao had left him in a coma last summer, but he had fought back. And he was still fighting. That was why she loved him. He was a fighter. His will was as strong as hers. He’d never admit defeat.

  “What do you mean?”

  She knew exactly what he meant, and because of that she had trouble meeting his gaze.

  “We’ve skirted around this for months now, but we’ve never really faced it.”

  “Alan, please.” She stepped up beside the wheelchair and ran her fingers gently through his hair, then trailed them down to his neck, hoping to distract him. She didn’t want to think about this. “Please don’t.”

  But Alan wasn’t going to be put off this time.

  “Where’s the Dat-tay-vao, Sylvia? Where did it go? We know it transferred from Erskine to me as he
died. We know I still had it when it cured Jeffy of his autism. But when I came out of the coma in the hospital, it was gone. I can’t cure anymore, Sylvia. The tide comes in and my touch is no different from anybody else’s. So where’d it go? Where’s the Dat-tay-vao now?”

  “Who knows?” she said, angry that he was pushing her like this, forcing her to face the greatest fear of her life. “Maybe it died. Maybe it just evaporated.”

  “I don’t believe that and neither do you. We’ve got to face it, Sylvia. When it left me it went to someone else. There were only three other people in the house that night. We know you don’t have the Touch, and neither does Ba. That leaves only one other possibility.”

  She wrapped her hands around his head and pressed it against her abdomen.

  No! Please don’t say it!

  The possibility had kept her awake far into so many nights, and it skulked through her dreams when she finally did manage to drop off to sleep.

  “You saw how Jeffy responded to Mr. Veilleur. He’s attuned to him. So am I, I think. I just didn’t happen into the living room earlier. I was drawn. And when I saw that old man I felt this burst of warmth. I can only guess at what Jeffy felt.”

  She heard a noise over by the window and looked.

  Jeffy was there, pressing his face and hands against the glass.

  “I want to go with him, Mom. I want to go!”

  Bill was disappointed and found it difficult to hide his irritation. This whole trip had been for nothing.

  “Well,” he said, glancing at Glaeken, “that was a fiasco.”

  The old man was staring out the side window at the house. He did not turn to Bill as he spoke.

  “It didn’t go quite as I’d hoped, but I wouldn’t say it was a fiasco.”

  “How could it have gone worse? She kicked us out.”

  “I expect resistance from the people I must recruit. After all, I’m asking them to believe that human civilization, such as it is, is on the brink of annihilation, and to put their trust in me, a perfect stranger. That’s a difficult pill to swallow. Mrs. Nash’s dose is doubly bitter.”

  “I gather you think this Dat-tay-vao is in Jeffy.”

  “I know it is.”

  “Well, then, I think you’ve got a real selling job ahead of you. Because it’s pretty clear that not only does that woman not believe it, she doesn’t want to believe it.”