The Omen (12 page)

Thorn arrived home after midnight and stood for a long time in the darkness of the downstairs foyer, gazing at the spot on the tile floor where Katherine had landed. He felt numb, his body racked with exhaustion, and he longed for sleep, anything to wipe out the tragedy of what had occurred. Their life had changed now, unalterably; it was as though they were under a curse.

Thorn flicked out the downstairs lights and stood for a time in the darkness, his eyes finding their way to the landing at the top of the stairs. He tried to imagine Katherine there, contemplating the jump. Why, if she were serious about ending her life, had she not chosen the roof? There were pills in the house, there were razor blades, a dozen other likely implements or ways to end it. Why this? And why in front of Damien and Mrs. Baylock?

He thought again of the priest and his warning. "He will kill the unborn child while it slumbers in the womb. Then he will kill your wife. Then when he is certain to inherit all that is yours . . ." He closed his eyes, trying to force it out of his mind. He thought of Tassone, dead on the pole, of the phone call from Jennings, of his unreasoning panic as the hearse overtook him on the highway. The psychiatrist was right. He was under a strain and his behavior proved it. Kather-ine's fears had spread to him; her fantasies were somehow contagious. He could no longer allow it to happen. Now more than ever, he must be clear and rational.

Feeling physically weak, he moved to the stairs, climbing upward in darkness. He would sleep and in the morning awake refreshed, with renewed energy, able to deal with things.

Reaching the door to his own room, he paused, gazing down the darkened hall toward Damien's. The soft glow of the nightlight spilled outward from beneath the door. Thorn imagined the child's face in the peaceful innocence of slumber. Longing to see him he moved slowly toward Damien's room, seeking reassurance that there was nothing to fear. But as he cracked open the child's door, he came upon a scene that made him shudder. The child was asleep, but he was not alone. One one side sat Mrs. Baylock, her arms folded as she gazed resolutely into space, and on the other side was the massive form of a dog. It was the dog he had told her to get rid of, but it was back now, sitting at attention, as though standing guard over the sleeping form of his son. With his breath coming shallow, Thorn silently closed the door and backed down the hall until he made it to his room. He stood there, trying to quiet his breath, aware he was shaking. Suddenly the silence was shattered. A phone was ringing, and he raced to his bedside to pick it up.

"Hello..."

"It's Jennings," a voice said. "You know, the one whose camera you busted?"

"Yes."

"I'm at the comer of Grosvernor and Fifth in Chelsea, and I think you better meet me here right away."

"What do you want?"

"Something's happening, Mr. Thorn. Something's happening that you ought to know."

Jennings' apartment was in a slum district and Thorn had trouble finding it. It was raining, the visibility poor, and he was about to give up when he spotted the infrared glow high in a turret above the street. Jennings was in the window and waved to him, then turned, realizing he should have cleaned up before being visited by such a distinguished guest. He kicked some clothes into a closet and smoothed the blanket on his bed, then opened the door and waited for Thorn. The Ambassador appeared out of breath, from the walk up five flights of stairs.

"I've got some brandy if you like."

"Please."

"Not the kind you're accustomed to, I'm sure."

Jennings closed the door and disappeared into an alcove, as Thorn's eyes scanned the darkened room. It was bathed in a reddish glow that came from the opened door of a closet-sized darkroom, the walls adorned with blown-up photos.

"Here we go," Jennings said, returning with a bottle and glasses. "Little of this and you'll be ready for the Turks."

Thorn accepted his glass and Jennings poured; Jennings then sat on the bed, gesturing toward a pile of pillows on the floor, but Thorn remained standing.

"Cheers," said Jennings. "Care for a smoke?"

Thorn shook his head, unnerved by the man's casual mood.

"You said something was happening."

"That it is."

"I'd like to know what you meant."

Jennings studied him carefully.

"Don't you know already?"

"No, I don't."

"Then why are you here?"

"You wouldn't explain yourself on the phone."

Jennings nodded and put down his glass.

"I couldn't explain it because it's something you've got to see."

"What is it?"

"It's photos." He rose and entered the darkroom, gesturing Thorn to follow. "I thought you might want to be sociable first."

"I'm very tired."

"Well, this will get your heart beating."

He turned on a small lamp, spotlighting a group of photos; Thorn entered and sat on a stool beside Jennings.

"Recognize these?"

They were pictures of the party. Damien's fourth birthday party; shots of children riding the carousel, shots of Katherine gazing into the crowd.

"Yes," replied Thorn.

"Take a look at this one."

Jennings removed the top photos, revealing one of Chessa, Damien's first nanny. She was standing alone in her clown costume, framed against the background of the house.

"See anything unusual?" asked Jennings.

"No."

Jennings touched the photo, tracing with his finger the vague haze that hung about her neck and head.

"Thought it was a blemish at first," said Jennings. "But look how it works with the next one."

He pulled out a photo of Chessa, hanging from the roof.

"I don't understand," said Thorn.

"Bear with me."

Jennings moved aside the stack of photos, replacing it with another. On top was a shot of the small priest, Tassone, walking away from the Embassy.

"How 'bout that one?"

Thorn turned to him with dismay.

"Where did you get this?"

"Took it."

"I thought you were looking for this man. You said you were related to him."

"I lied. Just look at the picture."

Jennings touched the photo, pointing out the hazy appendage that seemed to hang over the priest's head.

"That 'shadow' over his head?" asked Thorn.

"Yes. Then look at this one. Taken about ten days later."

He shuffled to another photo and put it under the light. It was a blow-up of a group of people standing at the back of an auditorium. Tassone's face could not be seen, only priestly robes, but just above where the head should have been was the same oblong shape hanging in the air.

"I figure it's the same man. You can't see his face, but you can see what's hanging above him."

Thorn studied the picture, his eyes filled with confusion.

"It's a little more pronounced this time," continued Jennings. "If you envision the size of his face, you can see it's just about making contact with his head. In the ten days between the first picture and this one, it moved down. Whatever it is, it came closer."

Thorn stared, dumfounded; Jennings removed the photo and replaced it with the one carried on the front page of the newspapers; the priest impaled on the spearlike pole.

"Begin to see the connection?" asked Jennings.

Thorn sat stunned. Behind them an automatic timer went off and Jennings flicked on another light, turning to meet Thorn's troubled gaze.

"I can't explain it either," said Jennings. "That's why I started digging."

Taking a pair of tongs, he turned to a vat, lifting out an enlargement, waving and letting it drip before moving it to the light.

"I've got some friends at the police. They gave me some negatives that I made enlargements from. The coroner's report showed he was riddled with cancer. High on morphine most of the time, injected himself two, three times a day."

As Thorn's eyes fell on the enlargements, he winced. It was in three separate panels, each a different death pose of the priest's naked body.

"Externally, his body was completely normal," continued Jennings. "Except for one small item on the inside of his left thigh."

He handed Thorn a magnifying glass, guiding his hand to the last panel. It was of the priest grotesquely spread-eagled, his genitals and thighs exposed to view. Thorn looked closely, seeing the mark. It looked somewhat like a tattoo.

"What is it?" asked Thorn.

"Three sixes. Six hundred sixty-six."

". . . Concentration camp?"

"That was my thought, but a biopsy showed it was literally carved into him. They didn't do that in the concentration camps. This was self-inflicted, I'd suppose."

Thorn and Jennings exchanged a glance, Thorn completely at a loss.

"Bear with me," said Jennings, and he lifted another photo to the light. "This is the room where he lived. Cold-water flat in Soho. Filled with rats when we entered. He'd left a salt-beef half-eaten on the table."

Thorn examined the photo. It showed a small cubicle with only a table, a bureau, and a bed. The walls were covered with a strange texture, like crumpled scraps of paper; large crosses were hanging everywhere.

"The whole place looked like this. The papers all over the walls are pages from the Bible. Thousands of them. Every inch of wall space was covered with them, even the windows. As though he was trying to keep something out."

Thorn sat stunned, gazing at the bizarre photograph.

"Crosses, too. There were forty-seven of them nailed to the front door alone."

"He was . . . crazy.. .? Thorn whispered.

Jennings looked him directly in the eye.

"You know better than that."

Jennings swiveled in his chair and opened a drawer, producing a tattered folder.

"The police dismissed him as a kook," he said. "Let me rummage through and take what I wanted. That's how I got this."

Jennings rose and moved into the living room, Thorn following. There the photographer upended the folder, spilling its contents onto the table.

"The first item is a diary," he said, lifting a small tattered book from the pile. "It doesn't tell about him, it tells about you. Your movements. When you left your office, where you went, what restaurants you had lunch in, where your speaking engagements were . . ."

"May I see it?"

"Be my guest."

Thorn took it with trembling hands and slowly leafed through the pages.

"The last notation says you were scheduled to meet with him"' continued Jennings. "In Kew Gardens. That's dated the same day he died. Seems to me the police might have taken a little more interest if they had known that."

Thorn raised his eyes, and they locked with Jennings'.

"He was insane," said Thorn.

"Was he?"

Jennings' tone was threatening, and Thorn stiffened under his gaze.

"What do you want?"

"Did you meet with him?"

"No."

"I've got more information yet to come, Mr. Ambassador, but it won't come unless you tell me the truth."

"What's your interest in this?" Thorn hissed under his breath.

"I want to be of service," answered Jennings. "I'm your friend."

Thorn remained rigid, his eyes fixed on Jennings.

"The really important items are here," said Jennings, pointing to the table. "You want to talk, or do you want to walk out?"

Thorn gritted his teeth.

"What do you want to know?"

"Did you see him in the park?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He warned me."

"About what?"

"He said my life was in danger."

"What kind of danger?"

"He wasn't clear."

"Don't bullshit me."

"I'm not. He wasn't making sense."

Jennings stepped back, eyeing Thorn with doubt.

"It was about the Bible," Thorn added. "It was a poem. I don't remember it. I thought he was insane. I couldn't understand it, I'm telling you the truth. I don't remember it, and I couldn't understand it!"

Jennings seemed skeptical as Thorn fidgeted under his gaze.

"I think you should confide in me," said Jennings.

"You said you had more information."

"Not until I hear more."

"I have nothing more to say."

Jennings nodded in surrender and sifted through the items on the table. Flicking on a bare bulb suspended overhead, he found a newspaper clipping and handed it to Thorn.

"It's from a magazine called Astrologer's Monthly. A report by an astologer of what he calls an 'unusual phenomenon.' A comet that took the shape of a glowing star. Like the star of Bethlehem, two thousand years ago."

Thorn studied the article, wiping the perspiration that formed on his upper lip.

"Only this one happened on the other side of the world," Jennings continued. "The European continent. Just four years ago. June sixth to be exact. Does that date ring a bell?"

"Yes," answered Thorn hoarsely.

"Then you'll recognize this second clipping," replied Jennings, lifting another scrap from the pile. "It's from the back page of a newspaper in Rome."

Thorn took it from him, recognizing it immediately. Katherine had it in a scrapbook at home.

"It's the birth announcement of your son. That was also June sixth, four years ago. I'd call that a coincidence, wouldn't you?"

Thorn's hands were trembling now; the papers fluttering so he could barely read.

"Was your son born at six a.m.?"

Thorn turned to him, his eyes filled with anguish.

"I'm trying to figure out the mark on the priest's thigh. The three sixes. I think it relates to your son. The sixth month, the sixth day . . ."

"My son is dead" blurted Thorn. "My son is dead. I don't know whose son I'm raising!"

He raised his hands to his head and turned toward

the darkness, his breath coming heavily as Jennings watched him.

"If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Thorn," said Jennings quietly, "I'd like to help you find out."

"No," Thorn groaned. "This is my problem."

"You're wrong, sir," replied Jennings sadly. "It's my problem, too."

Thorn turned to him and their eyes held. Jennings slowly moved into the darkroom and reappeared with a final photograph in his hand. He handed it over to Thorn.