Darkborn (37 page)

God help us, Will heard.

God help us. God help us. God help us
.

Except.

There is no God.

But Will knew now — at last — that he needed help. Of some kind. From somewhere.

Help.

* * *

31

The policeman went on talking, asking questions that Will couldn’t answer, telling him things about Whalen — now called “the deceased” — that Will didn’t want to know.

Then the cop was gone.

Will told Becca what happened.

First, just about Whalen.

She deserved to know, he thought. Sure she does. After all, she’s in the dream too. She has a right.

Then, when he felt her, how cold she was, maybe trembling beside him, he told her the rest.
Everything
he knew.

About Manhattan Beach.

At first, she didn’t see any connection.

Then she laughed.

“That’s crazy,” she said. “What are you saying?” She laughed again. “That something happened that night?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” Will said. Which was true enough.

And he thought that Whalen died knowing something … something that he didn’t.

What the hell is it?

“Maybe I need help.”

She laughed again, a hysterical sound. “Help? What do you mean, ‘help’?”

“I don’t know.” He took a breath. “There’s someone Jim Kiff wanted me to call, a priest, an ex-priest —”

“What?” Becca said.

This isn’t happening, Will thought. Not real. Not fucking verifiable. I’m just getting freaked out —

No. It’s not just that. It’s as if this is a script. A little play unfolding. The Reunion. And I have my fucking part, whether I want to play it.

Or not.

There’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

“I want to go see this man,” Will said.

“Stupid,” Becca said. “Now you’re just being stupid. And” — she took a breath and sighed —”you’re scaring me.”

Will grabbed her hand. His cold hand encircled hers .
 
.
 
.

A script. Everything scripted.

“What you should do is call Tim Hanna,” she said. “Let him know .
 
.
 
.”

Will nodded in the darkness. ‘‘I’ll try. I can try.”

Sure. Because if there’s a script, then Tim has a role too. Something that all his money, all his success building high-rent apartments and office complexes in the new Battery Park City, and in the new Boston Commons, and in the gentrified south Washington, won’t keep him safe from.

Becca lay there quietly.

Will didn’t hear the soothing rhythmic sound of Becca’s breathing, slipping back into sleep.

He turned to her, and saw that she was lying beside him wide-eyed. He gave her hand a squeeze.

He said something, meaning it as a joke, a bit of black humor to break the grim night mood. .

“Becca — babe — you haven’t seen any ants around, have you?”

The dumb words were out, hanging in the air. Serious, devoid of even the feeblest shot at humor.

And she turned to him, only her eyes shining in the near-total blackness. “No,” she said calmly, as if he had been checking their milk supply. “No, I haven’t.”

Will turned away.

He lay there a long time, wondering at how he suddenly felt trapped. And what he was going do about it.

* * *

1 A.M.

* * *

32

Will opened his eyes.

He felt the hand locked on his, the bone rubbing against bone. And the sound filled the concrete stairwell. The sound of skin splitting, tiny liquid sounds, bubbles and pops.

But he opened his eyes.

Don’t look at it.

He knew that. I must not look at it —

— or it will be an over.

Instead, he looked at his bag. His bag of tricks.

He felt like a fearless vampire killer. A comic character out of a mock-horror film. Hey, Abbott .
 
.
 
. you’re not going to
believe
what just came out of this lady here.

His hand fumbled with the latch of the bag.

James said to pray. So he did. Mumbling the words bereft of any meaning for him. Wishing that somehow he believed.

Dear God, have mercy. Guard my soul and protect me against evil.

The words reverberated in the suddenly empty corridors of his mind.
Protect me against evil. Protect me against evil.

And a terrible question.

What’s evil?

The latch popped open.

He felt the bony hand squeeze his wrist again. There was a sudden painful spike, the sound of something cracking.

It just crushed my wrist bone, he thought.

But Will didn’t turn. Instead he dug into the bag and grabbed the first thing his hand came to.

He pulled out the jar. He fumbled with the lid.

It was so damn hard to unscrew something with one hand. It didn’t move at all. He brought it against his body.

The thing holding his arm yanked him. The jar slipped a few inches, tumbling onto his lap. It almost hit the stone, he thought. Almost hit the stone and broke.

But it wedged in his crotch and he squeezed it with his legs. He grabbed the lid with his free hand, holding tight. The lid moved. He twisted the lid off. And then — taking a breath — Will turned.

The water flew out toward the dissolving hooker, the abomination, this bubbling, oozing mass that held him imprisoned.

“In the name of God, may all evil —”

He saw it now. The girl looked like a rumpled suit, discarded, curled up on the ground. She was a mess of bone and muscle and blood. But the head, the giant domehead was out now. Peering out of her midsection. And at the word “God,” he watched a dozen tiny mouths bloom all over its surface.

“All power of evil, every spirit —”

The watery splash landed, and a noxious vapor farted from the open pit that was the girl’s midsection. The dozen sets of teeth started chattering hungrily.

Still it held on, squeezing and crushing Will’s wrist, grinding bone against bone now.

“And let Lucifer be put to flight. By the power of God —”

He threw another splash. It howled. Out of a dozen orifices, it wailed, like a dozen mad babies, demented, screaming for their mother.

Will pushed back against the wall, kicking at the thing with his foot. He heard it ooze, he watched the Uncle Fester head wobble while he kicked at it.

“By the power of God!” he yelled. “By the power of God!” Begging. Screaming.

It let go of his wrist.

A tidal wave of pain crashed over him and Will moaned.

But now Will was able to stand up. He was free!

And the head with the mouths, all those teeth, was waving back and forth, suddenly acting like a balloon beginning to lose air.

He looked at the jar. The water was nearly gone. He backed up. And risked another splash, repeating his command.

Will backed up another step.

And the thing shriveled back into its hole.

In a second, it was quiet.

There was just the gentle, oozing sound of the dead hooker’s body as her blood sought ground zero.

Will heard the cars again. Horns honking.

He backed up one step. And then another. Then he stopped.

Got to cover the jar of water.

He brought his one hand around and looked at the damage. He tried to move his fingers. The hand just sat there, a useless claw. But he used that arm to hold the jar against his body. He picked the cap off the ground and sealed the jar. Tossed it into his bag.

His bag of tricks.

He laughed.

It actually worked. Praise — geez — praise God, it actually worked .
 
.
 
.

He closed up the bag.

Thinking: Got to get out of here. Got to get away. This will look very strange if someone comes by. Sure .
 
.
 
. very strange if some cops pull up in their car.

Oh, yeah, that would be a hard one to explain.

I — er — I just sent something back to God knows where.

Something with a lot of mouths.

Got to go.

He jabbed his bleeding wrist into his shirt, hoping it would stop the bleeding.

Up another step. Another.

Until he was on the street again.

Thinking: It was too easy.

Something was wrong for it to be so easy.

It won’t be easy if I find him out here.

He turned. Took a step.

And someone said something to him.

Someone said, “Hello, Will.”

* * *

Joshua James

* * *

33

Dr. Joshua James moved the pile of books on his table. A few tumbled off the edge. He used both his hands like bulldozers plowing through the jumbled pile of books and papers, searching for the elusive treasure.

Which in this case was his lecture notes for his next class.

He made a few more runs through the pile before he stopped and thought .
 
.
 
.

Well. I guess I could wing it. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He scratched his balding dome, as if remembering the curly dark hair that was once there. Now there were just the vestiges of a shocking black mane that had made him more than usually handsome, especially for a priest.

Now he was nearly bald — save for two silvery patches on each side of his head.

Now he was no longer a priest.

Not a day went by that he didn’t evaluate his decision — weigh his choice of options. Run through his entire checklist of feelings to see if he had done the right thing.

And always ending up with the same answer.

I just don’t know.

Who said ignorance is bliss?

He shook his head, abandoning the search for his lecture notes. How tough could it be? he thought. Ethics 101. The type of class I can walk through blindfolded .
 
.
 
.

Just as my materialistic students do.

Ethics. Was there any more endangered subject in the entire curriculum? On the whole planet?

He looked at the clock. Good, he thought, I have plenty of time before class begins. I can walk across the campus — the ancient trees on the Fordham campus not yet bare. A little physical exercise, just like my doctor ordered.

He walked to a wooden chair by his office door. He picked up his Verdi attaché, the fine leather now worn to a rough rawhide by years of traveling to conferences, guest lectures .
 
.
 
.

Consulting.

A few of the nicks in the case had come in a more dramatic fashion.

He tended not to think about those nicks and tears.

Bad memories, he thought. You have to guard against such things. They can debilitate the soul .
 
.
 
. weaken your resolve .
 
.
 
.

James picked up the attaché.

He sniffed the air.

A habit.

The former priest reached for the doorknob.

And though he didn’t smell any thing —

He knew — just knew — that someone was waiting on the other side.

He pulled open the door and looked at the man. James didn’t smile, didn’t nod .
 
.
 
. he offered him no encouragement at all.

Go away, he wanted to say. I have a class to teach, students. Go away. Take your long confused face somewhere else.

Instead, James stood there. And said something —

“Yes. What is it?”