Darkborn (41 page)

“He followed a girl. A young streetwalker, I guess. I don’t know. I was so far away. I followed him. He turned down a block. Thirtieth Street. Thirty-first, I’m not sure. There didn’t seem to be any police around. None of those patrols. As if he knew that they wouldn’t be there. As if he could keep them away.”

Will took a breath.

He looked at the refrigerator. America’s bulletin board. With Sharon’s last spelling test, a 96. And Beth’s picture of a pumpkin with a giddy toothless face that mirrored her own. A page from the Sunday
Times
about the Gauguin show at the Met. Yellowed, old, the show long gone.

Missed.

And a grocery list. Whole-wheat bread. Yogurt. Fles color.
Fles color?
What’s that? Will wondered, an alien item suddenly on the list. He looked at it again, the scribbled word resolving into intelligibility.

Flea collar. Right. For the cat.

Will looked back to James.

The man hadn’t gone away, he hadn’t vanished while Will tried to absorb all the reassuring normalcy that filled the kitchen.

James was watching him.

“We have to start,” James said. “I have to teach you everything you need to know. All this” — James’s birdlike eyes scanned around the room, an unclean act that made the room seem sullied — “is in danger, Will. You must know that. Trust me.” James’s hands left his cup and grabbed for Will. “You’re the last one left. You know that? The last payment. You will have to stop him.”

James waited for an answer. It was quiet. Will waited too, sat there, listening, waiting, until he realized that he was the one that had to answer.

“Yes,” he said. ‘‘I’m ready.”

But he wasn’t. Not really. Not for what he was about to hear .
 
.
 
.

* * *

36

Will insisted that they stop at dawn.

But first, James went out to his car and got the bag.

It was the first time Will saw the black bag, sitting on the kitchen table, right at the spot where Beth ate her Kix, where there probably were sticky stains from yesterday morning’s juice.

James wanted to go through it all again. But now only bits and pieces of what the man was saying stuck .
 
.
 
.

Disconnected phrases.

“It’s like Rumpelstiltskin,” James said, laughing to himself. “And of course he’d pick prostitutes. The tension, the emotional pain, is perfect .
 
.
 
. just what he needs.”

Will asked few questions.

He asked, “What is it? What am I really fighting?”

“Evil,” James said, as if describing the postman. “A demonic power. There are many. There are thousands —”

Will remembered the word Kiff used. Legion.

James nodded. “This one — this one, though — is special. Very powerful. Very clever.”

Will rubbed his eyes.

The chunk of sky in the kitchen window, bordered by the blue gingham curtains, shifted from black to gray. There was no bright sun this morning. There were faint drops of water on the window.

“You
have
to be prepared for deceptions, for the paradox. Tricks. I can tell you about some of them. But you can’t let them surprise you.”

Will nodded, punch-drunk with nonsense.

But every time he thought of getting up from the table and ordering James out, he thought of Whalen. Covered with ants. Crawling over his body, in his body, until he was completely flayed. Flayed. And poor crazy Kiff, kicking at the rats, dozens and dozens of rats.

He heard footsteps upstairs. Little ones. Beth, an early riser, was up. Tiny feet padding on the floor.

“We have to stop,” Will said groggily. “For now. Get some rest. We can do more. This afternoon.”

Will followed the sweet sound of the small footsteps. Trooping into the bathroom. Then out again. Stopping in her room. For a Barbie. Or maybe a softie to drag downstairs as a TV companion.

“Yes,” James said, his voice overcome with exhaustion. “Yes. You’re right. But Will —”

James waited. Until Will was looking at him.

“Will. You have to know this now. You have to know this.” James licked his lips.

Footsteps coming down the stairs.

Will knew what was coming.

It had been there. At the corners, just hovering there, unsaid.

“Will. God help you. You may never see them again.”

Footsteps. Down to the living room, hurrying out to the kitchen, hearing their voices.

Beth. Running in.

“Daddy!” she said. “Why are you up?”

She wore a pink quilted robe. Mickey Mouse slippers. She climbed onto his lap. “Huh, Daddy? How come?”

Will used a hand to cradle her head against his chest, pressing it tight against him.

“Because, honey,” he said. His voice felt funny, his voice tight, closing up tight. He coughed. “Because, honey, Daddy has to do something.”

The girl asked no other questions.

And Will’s tears fell onto her hair, unfelt by Beth, who just enjoyed the warmth of being held close and tight.

* * *

37

Will woke up and he didn’t know what time it was. The bed sheets twisted around his body, covering his head, and his right arm was numb.

He moved his head out from under the sheets.

He looked at the clock: 1:33.

He watched it a moment.

1:34.

It’s afternoon, he thought. He sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes. He saw the window, covered with rain. He heard the steady ping as the drops splashed against the window.

Then he heard voices. Downstairs.

He got up, slid on his pants, and hurried down.

Joshua James was sitting in the kitchen with Becca, smiling, chatting.

Just a neighborly visit.

“Well, good
afternoon
,” she said. “Your day is pretty well shot. Coffee?”

“Yeah.”

James looked different, refreshed, smiling.

But when he looked at Will, his eyes narrowed, as if sending a warning. Will drew a blank and then the message — obvious — appeared.

Act normally. It’s important to act normally.
Everything is fine. Everything is okay.

“Yes, your husband was a great help to me last night. I’m in a terrible way. All these legal things I don’t understand .
 
.
 
.”

Becca put the coffee down on the kitchen table. “Well, I should hope he helped you .
 
.
 
.” She rolled her eyes at Will. “Because the public defender’s office is getting curious where he’s been.” She stood next to him. “You know you have a trial starting tomorrow?”

“Damn,” Will said, sitting down. “I —”

James interrupted. “Oh, I’m sure your husband will be all prepared,” he said affably. “He’s very good.”

Becca grunted noncommittally.

James turned to Will, his eyes still cut into slits, but now an easy smile on his face. “I was telling your wife why I left the priesthood, Will.”

“Oh, really.”

James laughed. “She thought that maybe I wanted to get married or something.” James turned back to Becca. ‘‘I’m afraid that wasn’t the reason .
 
.
 
. not at all.”

Will sipped the coffee.

Becca had her coat on.

And keys in her hand.

“Leaving?” Will said. My voice, he thought. It sounded —

Worried. .

She laughed. ‘‘I’m helping with Beth’s Halloween party. You and Dr. James can have some more time to —”

“Please,” James said, “call me Joshua. I feel old enough without the ‘Doctor.’” He turned to Will. “I explained to your wife that I left because I wasn’t allowed to write. Not what I wanted to write. Mother Church keeps such a tight control on the works that its clerics publish. I felt that I could be more effective freed of the collar.”

Becca scooped up her purse from the counter.

“You didn’t tell me that Doc — Joshua — writes books.”

Will cleared his throat. “No, I —”

“Well, I’m off. Give you some more time to work.” Becca looked at Will, an unspoken plea that the house guest must move along.

“See you,” Will said.

Becca left by the side door. And when it slammed, Will asked, “Is that really why you left?”

“That’s not the whole truth. I made some enemies at the Vatican. An Order of Silence was handed to me, a very serious thing. Apparently someone in the Papal Nuncio didn’t appreciate my writing and talking about my work.”

“Which was?”

James laughed. “A consultant. A tactician. Fighting the good fight against chaos. When I said that we were losing that fight, some of the good cardinals asked for my resignation.” James shook his head. “That’s when I knew that the level of corruption — of influence, if you will — had reached even there.”

Will nodded.

“I’ve been thinking,” Will said. He waited for James to interrupt, as if the former priest might anticipate his thoughts. “I’ve been thinking that maybe this is all wrong. I’m getting carried away. How do you know someone was killed last night? How do you know it was- — He smiled. “Maybe it’s hysteria. That’s all, and —”

James nodded. He unfolded the newspaper lying on the table near him. He slid it over to Will.

It was the
New York Times
, its first page cluttered with stories. But James pointed to the first column.

Another Midtown Murder.

Then, below it, in smaller type: “More Signs of a Bizarre Ritual.”

James’s face was set, granite hard, unsmiling. “You have no choice, Will. You know that.”

Right, thought Will. No choice.

Free will was a thing of the past.

The past. Maybe the future. But not now.

James was quiet while Will read the dispassionate description of the “suspected prostitute’s grossly mutilated body.”

Then — when Will finished the article — James stood up. “I’ll stay with them, Will. I’ll stay here tonight. You can tell your wife you have to do some research, some work. I’ll be here. I’ll try to make things easier.”

Will thought that he might start shaking. crying again.

Make it go away, he begged. Make this whole damn thing just disappear.

“I’ve arranged for a rental car. It will help.”

Will nodded.

He rubbed at his cheeks, and he felt the bristles of a day-old beard. I should shave, he thought. I should get myself together.

But it didn’t matter.

James looked at the kitchen clock.

Tick. Tock. The second hand moved noisily around the circle of numbers.

“Your wife won’t be gone long, Will. We have to go over it all again. We have to make sure you’re ready.”

Will nodded.

Trapped. A prisoner.

No way out, he thought.

No way at all. My personal Vietnam.

There’s only one escape — if James is wrong. And then what?

But that possibility was even more terrible.

He couldn’t bear to even think about that.

Becca came home with Beth holding a construction-paper pumpkin. James was in the tiny guest room resting. He’d have a long night, a night when he’d have to stay awake.

And Will had been in the bedroom — dumb thing. Looking at the old photo albums. Summers at the beach. Holidays, so many holidays .
 
.
 
. Christmases melting into birthdays, year after year.

Beth trudged up the stairs and ran into her room to show her artwork to Barbie. Will stood in the hallway and watched his daughter — dressed in a yellow rain slicker — vanish into her room without even seeing him.

Daddy wasn’t supposed to be home.

Daddy worked.

He was tempted to walk up to her doorway and just watch her play.

Watch her without her knowing it. But then Becca followed upstairs, carrying a basket of laundry.

“Oh,” Will said, startled. “I can help you with that.” He took the basket from her.

“Tanks, bub. It’s all part of the challenging career of housewifery.”

Will smiled. Becca bore the boredom and the chowder — but just barely.

He followed her into the bedroom.