Strangers (50 page)

“Can I help you?”

Dom was aware that a waitress in a yellow sweater was standing beside him and had spoken to him, but he remained spellbound by the tantalizing ascension of some terrible memory. It had not swum into view yet, but it was rising, rising. The woman out of his past, whose face remained a blank to him, had sat in this booth, radiantly beautiful in the orange light of the sunset.

“Mister? Is something wrong?”

The young woman had ordered dinner, and Dom had gone on with his meal, and the sunset had faded, and night had fallen, and—
No!

The memory swam out of the deeps, almost broke through the murky surface into light, into his consciousness, but at the last moment he recoiled from it in panic, as if he had seen the horrible face of some monstrously evil leviathan streaking toward him. Abruptly not wanting to remember, refusing, Dom loosed a wordless cry, stumbled back, turned away from the startled waitress, and ran. He was aware of people staring, aware that he was making a scene, but he did not give a damn. All he cared about was getting out. He hit the door, flung it open, and rushed out under a post-sunset, black, purple, and scarlet sky.

He was afraid. Afraid of the past. Afraid of the future. But afraid mostly because he did not know
why
he was afraid.

Chicago, Illinois

Brendan Cronin was saving his announcement for after dinner, when Father Wycazik, with a full belly and with a glass of brandy in hand, would be in his best mood of the day. Meanwhile, in the company of Fathers Wycazik and Gerrano, he ate a hearty dinner: double portions of potatoes and beans and ham, disposing of a third of a loaf of homemade bread.

Though he had regained his appetite, he had not regained his faith. When his belief in God had collapsed, it had left in him a terrible dark emptiness and despair, but now the despair was gone, and the emptiness,
though not entirely filled, was shrinking. He was beginning to perceive that one day he might lead a meaningful life
that had nothing to do with the Church.
For Brendan—for whom no temporal pleasures had been as enticing as the spiritual joy of the Mass—the mere contemplation of a secular life was a revolutionary development.

Perhaps his despair had lifted because, since Christmas, he had at least journeyed along from atheism to a qualified agnosticism. Recent events had conspired to make him consider the existence of a Power that, though not necessarily God, was nevertheless above nature.

After dinner, Father Gerrano went upstairs to spend a few hours with the latest novel by James Blaylock, the fantasist whom Brendan, too, found interesting, but whose colorful tales of bizarre fantasy creatures and even more bizarre human beings were too imaginative for a hard-nosed realist like Father Wycazik. Adjourning to the study with Brendan, the rector said, “He writes well, but when I’m finished with one of his stories, I get the peculiar feeling that nothing’s what it seems to be, and I don’t like that feeling.”

“Maybe nothing
is
what it seems to be,” Brendan said.

The rector shook his head, and his gray hair caught the light in such a way that it looked like steel wire. “No, when I read for entertainment, I prefer it in big, solid, heavy blocks that let you grapple with the
reality
of life.”

Grinning broadly, Brendan said, “If there’s a heaven, Father, and if I somehow manage to get there with you, I hope I’ll have a chance to arrange a meeting between you and Walt Disney. I’d love to see you convince him that he should’ve spent his time animating the collected works of Dostoevsky instead of the adventures of Mickey Mouse.”

Laughing at himself, the rector poured their drinks, and they settled into armchairs, the fallen priest with a glass of schnapps, his superior with a small brandy.

Deciding there would be no better time for his news, Brendan said, “If it’s all right with you, I’ll be going away for a while, Father. I’d like to leave on Monday, if I can. I need to go to Nevada.”

“Nevada?”
Father Wycazik made it sound as if his curate had just said Bangkok or Timbuktu. “Why Nevada?”

With the taste of peppermint schnapps on his tongue and the scent burning his sinuses, Brendan said, “That’s where I’m being called. Last night, in the dream, though I still saw nothing but a brilliant light, I suddenly knew where I was. Elko County, Nevada. And I knew I must go back there in order to find an explanation for Emmy’s cure and Winton’s resurrection.”

“
Back
there? You’ve been there before?”

“The summer before last. Just before I came to St. Bernadette’s.”

Upon leaving his post with Monsignor Orbella in Rome, Brendan had flown directly to San Francisco to carry out a final assignment from his Vatican mentor. He stayed two weeks with Bishop John Santefiore, an old friend of Orbella. The bishop was writing a book on the history of papal selection, and Brendan came laden with research material provided by the monsignor in Rome. It was his job to answer any questions about those documents. John Santefiore was a charming man with a sly dry wit, and the days flashed past.

His task concluded, Brendan was left with two weeks to himself before he was required to report to his superiors in Chicago, his hometown, where he would be assigned as curate to some parish in that archdiocese. He spent a few days in Carmel, on the Monterey Peninsula. Then, making up his mind to see some of the country that he had never seen before, Brendan set out on a long drive eastward in a rental car.

Now, Father Wycazik leaned forward, brandy snifter clasped in both hands. “I remembered about Bishop Santefiore, but I’d forgotten you drove from there to here. And you passed through Elko County, Nevada?”

“Stayed there, at a motel in the middle of nowhere. Tranquility Motel. I stopped for the night, but it was so peaceful, the countryside so beautiful, that I stayed a few days. Now I’ve got to go back.”

“Why? What happened to you out there?”

Brendan shrugged. “Nothing. I just relaxed. Napped. Read a couple books. Watched TV. They have good TV reception even way out there because they’ve got their own little receiver dish on the roof.”

Father Wycazik cocked his head. “What’s wrong? There for a moment you sounded…odd. Wooden…as if repeating something you’d memorized.”

“I was just telling you what it was like.”

“So if nothing happened to you there, why is the place so special? What will happen when you go back there?”

“I’m not sure. But it’s going to be something…incredible.”

Finally revealing his frustration with his curate’s obtuseness, Father Wycazik put the question bluntly: “Is it
God
calling you?”

“I don’t think so. But maybe. A slim maybe. Father, I want your permission to go. But if I can’t have your blessing, I’ll go anyway.”

Father Wycazik took a larger swallow of brandy than was his habit. “I think you should go, but I don’t think you should go alone.”

Brendan was surprised. “You want to come with me?”

“Not me. I’ve got St. Bette’s to run. But you should be in the company of a qualified witness. A priest familiar with these things, one who can verify any miracle or miraculous visitation—”

“You mean some cleric who has the Cardinal’s imprimatur to investigate every hysterical report of weeping statues of the Holy Mother, bleeding crucifixes, and divine manifestations of all kinds.”

Father Wycazik nodded. “That’s right. Someone who knows the process of authentication. I had in mind Monsignor Janney of the archdiocese’s office of publications. He’s had a lot of practice.”

Reluctant to disappoint his rector but determined to proceed in his own fashion, Brendan interrupted: “There’s no visitation involved here, so there’s no need for Monsignor Janney. None of this has an obvious Christian significance or source.”

“And who ever said God isn’t permitted to be subtle?” Father Wycazik asked. His grin made it clear he expected to win this argument.

“These things could all be merely psychic phenomena.”

“Bah! Claptrap. Psychic phenomena are just the nonbeliever’s pathetic explanation for glimpses of the divine hand at work. Examine these events closely, Brendan; open your heart to the meaning of them, and you’ll see the truth. God’s calling you back to His bosom. And I believe a divine visitation is what this may be building toward.”

“But if this is building to a divine manifestation, why couldn’t it happen right here? Why’s it necessary to go all the way to Nevada?”

“Perhaps it’s a test of your obedience to the will of God, a test of your underlying desire to believe again. If your desire’s strong enough, you’ll discomfit yourself by taking this long journey, and as reward you’ll be shown something to make you believe again.”

“But why Nevada? Why not Florida or Texas—or Istanbul?”

“Only God knows.”

“And why would God go to all this trouble to recapture the heart of one fallen priest?”

“To Him who made the earth and stars, this is no trouble at all. And one heart is as important to Him as a million hearts.”

“Then why did He let me lose my faith in the first place?”

“Perhaps losing and regaining it is a tempering process. You may have been put through it because God needs you to be stronger.”

Brendan smiled and shook his head in admiration. “You’re never caught without an answer, are you, Father?”

Looking self-satisfied, Stefan Wycazik settled back in his chair. “God blessed me with a quick tongue.”

Brendan was aware of Father Wycazik’s reputation as a savior of troubled priests, and he knew the rector would not give up easily—or at all. But Brendan was determined not to go to Nevada with Monsignor Janney in tow.

From the other armchair, over the rim of his brandy snifter, Father
Wycazik watched Brendan with evident affection and iron determination, waiting eagerly for another argument that he could swiftly refute, for another thrust that he could parry with his unfailing Jesuitical aplomb.

Brendan sighed. It was going to be a long evening.

Elko County, Nevada

After hurrying out of the Tranquility Grille in fear and confusion, into the last fading scarlet and purple light of dusk, Dom Corvaisis went directly to the motel office. There, he walked into the middle of a scene that initially appeared to be a domestic quarrel, though he quickly saw that it was something stranger than that.

A squarely built man in tan slacks and a brown sweater stood in the center of the room, this side of the counter. He was only two inches taller than Dom, but in other dimensions he was considerably larger. He seemed to have been hewn from massive slabs of oak. The gray of his brush-cut hair, the weathered lines of his face, indicated he was in his fifties, although his bull-strong body had a younger presence and power.

The big man was shaking, as if enraged. A woman stood beside him, staring up at him with an odd and urgent expression. She was a blonde with vivid blue eyes, younger than him, though it was difficult to judge her age. The man’s pale face was shiny with sweat. As Dom stepped across the threshold, he realized that his flash impression was wrong: This guy was not enraged but terrified.

“Relax,” the woman said. “Try to control your breathing.”

The big man was gasping. He stood with his thick neck bent, head lowered, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor, inhalation following exhalation in an arhythmic pattern that betrayed a growing panic.

“Take deep slow breaths,” the woman said. “Remember what Dr. Fontelaine taught you. When you’re calm, we’ll go outside for a walk.”

“No!” the big man said, shaking his head violently.

“Yes, we will,” the woman said, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. “We’ll go outside for a walk, Ernie, and you’ll see that this darkness is no different from the darkness in Milwaukee.”

Ernie.
The name chilled Dom and immediately brought to mind those four posters of the moon on which names had been scrawled in Zebediah Lomack’s living room, in Reno.

The woman glanced at Dom, and he said, “I need a room.”

“We’re full,” she said.

“The vacancy sign is lit.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, but not now. Please. Not now. Go over to the diner or something. Come back in half an hour.
Please.
”

Until that exchange, Ernie had seemed unaware of Dom’s intrusion. Now, he looked up from the floor, and a moan of fear and despair escaped him. “The door. Close it before the darkness comes in!”

“No, no, no,” the woman told him, her voice firm yet full of compassion. “It’s not coming in. Darkness can’t hurt you, Ernie.”

“It’s coming in,” he insisted miserably.

Dom realized that the room was unnaturally bright. Table lamps, a floor lamp, a desk lamp, and the ceiling fixtures blazed.

The woman turned to Dom again. “For God’s sake, close the door.”

He stepped in, rather than out, and shut the door behind him.

“I meant, close it as you leave,” the woman said pointedly.

The expression on Ernie’s face was part terror, part embarrassment. His eyes shifted from Dom to the window. “It’s right there at the glass. All the darkness…pressing, pressing.” He looked sheepishly at Dom, then lowered his head again, shut his eyes tight.

Dom stood transfixed. Ernie’s irrational fear was horribly like the terror which drove Dom to walk in his sleep and to hide in closets.

Using anger to repress her tears, the woman turned to Dom. “Why won’t you go? He’s nyctophobic. He’s afraid of the dark sometimes, and when he has one of these attacks, we have to work it out together.”

Dom remembered the other names scrawled on the posters in Lomack’s house—Ginger, Faye—and he chose one by instinct. “It’s all right, Faye. I think I understand a little of what you’re going through.”

She blinked in surprise when he used her name. “Do I know you?”

“Do you? I’m Dominick Corvaisis.”

“Means nothing to me,” she said, staying with the big man as he turned and, eyes still closed, shuffled toward the back of the office.

Ernie moved blindly toward the gate in the counter. “Got to get upstairs, where I can pull the drapes, keep the dark out.”