The Omen (19 page)

Lurching into the pantry, Thorn grabbed the still-unconscious child and reeled toward the garage door, bursting through it and stumbling toward the opened door of the car. He was about to make it when a sudden snarl rose beside him, a blur of black fur flying through the air and connecting with his shoulder as he fell sideways into the car. It was the dog, ripping at his arm, straining to pull him back out. The child had landed in the seat beside him, and Thorn reached for the door with his good hand, banging it hard into the dog's muzzle until blood flowed and the animal, howling in pain, let go, the door slamming shut in front of him.

Inside the car Thorn fumbled for the keys, while outside the dog went wild, leaping upon the hood and flinging himself against the windshield with tremendous force; the glass shuddered with each impact. Thorn's trembling hands found the keys but they fell from his grip and he groped desperately to find them while beside him the child began to moan and the dog continued to hurl itself at the now-cracking windshield. Finding the keys, Thorn reinserted them, but as he glanced through the windshield he froze with horror at what he saw. It was the woman, still alive, lumbering forward from the kitchen with Jier last ounce of strength, painfully raising a sledgehammer as she neared the car. Thorn turned the ignition, but the moment the car started, the sledgehammer came down, breaking a large hole in the windshield; the dog's head immediately came forcing through. Its teeth snapped and saliva spewed; Thorn strained back as the animal's face pushed ever closer. He was pinned in his seat, the teeth snapping within inches as his hand edged inside his coat and seized one of the stilettos. Pulling it out, he raised it high overhead, smacking it down firmly and directly between the animal's close-set eyes. It went in to the hilt. The dog's mouth flew open, emitting a roar of pain more like a leopard's than a dog's, as it writhed backward and slid off the hood, dancing on two feet as it tried with its paws to pull at the knife in its forehead. Its scream of agony seemed to shake the garage, and Thorn hit the gearshift, gunning the car backward. Mrs. Baylock staggered alongside the window, banging on it and pleading, her face a mass of pink pulp.

"My baby..." she sobbed, "my baby .. ."

The car sped in reverse beyond her, and she ran into the driveway and held up her hands in a last attempt to block its escape. It halted, then lurched forward; throwing gravel as it bore directly down. Thorn could have swerved to avoid her, but he did not. Gritting his teeth, he floored the accelerator; her desperate face was caught in the glare of headlights as the car smashed into her, its front end crumpling as she flew high into the air. As he neared the end of the driveway, Thorn stopped, glancing just once into his rear-view mirror. There he saw the woman's body, a lifeless mound of flesh grotesquely twisted in the driveway, and on the lawn the body of the dog, silently convulsing beneath the light of the moon.

He gunned the accelerator again and swerved onto the road, rebounding off a rock wall as he sped toward the highway. Beside him the boy was still unconscious. Thorn jammed the gas pedal to the floor as he found the highway and headed toward London. Dawn was coming, the fog was beginning to lift. Thorn's car took the empty road like a jet plane on a runway. It fairly flew; the dividing line blurred directly beneath it as it whined in ever-growing acceleration.

Beside Thorn, the boy was coming around, beginning to move now and whimper with pain. Thorn riveted his attention to the road, trying to shut out any awareness of his presence.

"He is not a human child!" shouted Thorn through clenched teeth. "He is not a human child!"

And he sped forward, the boy groaning beside him, but unable to regain his senses.

The turn-off at West-10 came too fast. Thorn skidded out of control, careening sideways onto the off-ramp, the movement throwing Damien to the floor.

They were heading toward All Saints Church. Thorn could make out its towering spires ahead, but the boy had been jostled into wakefulness and stared up at him with innocence in his eyes.

"Don't look at me . . ." groaned Thorn.

"I hurt. . ." the child whimpered.

"Don't look at me!"

And the child obeyed, casting his eyes to the floor. The car tires squealed as they rounded a corner heading fast toward the church, but as Thorn glanced up, he saw a sudden darkening in the sky above. It was as though it had turned night again, a canopy of darkness moving in with sudden force, sparked with lightning that began to strike viciously toward the ground.

"Daddy . . ." Damien whimpered.

"Don't!"

"I'm sick."

And he began to vomit. Thorn cried out to drown the sound of the boy's pain. Rain came in a violent downpour; wind whipped up and blew debris into the windshield as the car lurched to a stop in front of the church and Thorn threw open the door. Grabbing Damien by the collar of his pajamas, he pulled him across the seat, but the boy began to kick and scream, his legs making contact with Thorn's stomach, propelling him backward onto the street. Thorn lunged in, grabbing a foot, and dragged the child outward, but Damien slipped from his grip and began to run. Thorn raced after him, catching him by the pajama top and bringing him down hard to the pavement. Overhead, the sky exploded with thunder, a finger of lightning hitting close to the car, and Damien spun on the wet pavement, once again eluding Thorn's hands. He leapt upon the boy, trapping him beneath him, then grabbed him around the chest; the child kicked and screamed as they staggered toward the church.

Across the street a window opened and a man cried out, but Thorn continued on through the driving rain, his face a mask of terror as he struggled to make it to the massive front steps of the church. A howling wind rose up around them, hitting Thorn square in the face, holding him in place as he leaned in, struggling inch by inch to move forward. The child spun in his arms and bit into his neck; Thorn screamed in pain as he fought to continue. Over the thunder came the sound of a police siren, and from the window across the street a man's voice shouted desperately for Thorn to let the child go. But he was unhearing, moving ever closer to the stairs as the wind howled around him and the boy tore at the flesh of his face. A finger plunged into his eye socket and Thorn fell to his knees, clinging hard as he dragged the struggling child to the threshold of the stairs. Lightning seared down, ripping a path of asphalt as it shot toward them, but it stopped. Thorn was on the stairs now, pulling with every ounce of strength to drag the screaming child upward. But he could not. His strength was ebbing and the child's was growing; fingernails raked across Thorn's eyes, knees pummeled into his stomach as he gasped and fought to hold on. With superhuman strength he forced the child to the ground and reached into his coat, fumbling with the package of knives. With a blood-curdling cry Damien kicked it from his hand and the stilettos scattered onto the stairs around them. Thorn grabbed one while trying to hold the child in place. The police siren reached its apex and stopped, the child screaming as Thorn raised the stiletto high above him.

"Stop!" shouted a voice from the street, and two policemen emerged from the rain, one drawing a revolver as they ran from their car. Thorn glanced up at them, then down at the child, and with a sudden cry of rage plunged the knife downward, the child's scream coming simultaneously with the sound of a gunshot.

For a moment, everything was frozen: the policemen immobile, Thorn sitting stiffly on the steps of the church with the body of the child stretched before him. Then the church doors swung open and a priest stared out at the scene: a tableau behind the veil of down-pouring rain.

The news of the tragedy spread quickly through London, then onto wire services across the world. The story was confused, the details conflicting, and for forty-eight hours reporters crowded the waiting room at City Hospital, questioning doctors in an attempt to find out what had happened, and how. On the morning of the second day a group of hospital spokesmen filed into the room, waiting for television cameras to start grinding before issuing their statement. It was a South African doctor who had been flown in for specialized surgery from Groote Schuur Hospital in Capetown who made the final announcement.

"I would like to announce ... that death came at eight-thirty a.m. this morning. Every effort was made to salvage life, but the wound was such that its damage was irreparable."

A moan of sorrow went up from the assembled reporters, and the doctor waited until all was quiet.

"There will be no futher announcements at this time. Memorial services will be conducted at All Saints Church where the tragic incident occurred ... the body will then be returned to the United States for interment."

In New York City the line of limousines was waiting at JFK, the two caskets lowered into a single hearse that bore them to the cemetery on a crowded highway; motorcycle policemen forged the way. The cemetery was mobbed by the time they arrived; the curious and the mournful were held back^by security guards as the official burial party was led to the open graves. A priest in flowing white robes officiated beneath the stanchion of an American flag, and taps was played as the coffins were placed upon the straps, a maintenance man testing the machinery and lowering them slightly just before the eulogy began.

"We grieve together today," the priest intoned, "for the untimely deaths of our brethren, two among us, who take a part of us with them as they travel onward into eternity. Let us grieve not for them who now go to their rest, but for ourselves who will miss them. No matter how short a life, it is a life complete, and we must be grateful for the brief time they spent among us."

The crowd was silent, some of them weeping, others shading their eyes from the sun.

"We say good-bye to the son of a great man ... born into wealth and security . . . into every earthly benefit a human being could possibly have. But in this example we see that earthly benefits are not enough."

Outside the cemetery gates, reporters watched and photographed through telephoto lenses. Among them, a small group stood apart, pondering the confusion of the reported events that had led them here.

"Weird one, huh?"

"What's so weird. Not the first time people were murdered in the streets."

"What about the guy who saw them fighting on the stairs? The guy who called the police?"

"He was a drunk. They tested him for blood alcohol and it was loaded."

"I don't know," said the third. "Sounds funny to me. What were they doing at the church at that hour?"

"His wife died, maybe they were going to pray."

"What kind of sickies would commit murder on the steps of a church?"

"The world's full of 'em. Believe me."

"I don't know," reiterated the first. "Sounds like something's been hushed up."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Or the last."

At the gravesite the two caskets were being slowly lowered, the priest raising his arms to the sky. Among the assembled mourners were the figures of a couple who stood apart from the rest, surrounded by men in plainclothes, whose eyes furtively roamed the crowd. It was a man, dignified and stately, a woman in a black veil at his side, holding the hand of a four-year-old boy whose arm was cradled in a sling.

"And as we commit Jeremy and Katherine Thorn to their eternal rest," intoned the priest, "we turn our eyes to their child Damien, the sole survivor of this once great family, now moving into the household of another. May he prosper in the love they have to give, may he assume the legacy of his father and become a leader of mankind."

From his position near the graves Damien watched the two caskets descend, holding tight to the hand of the woman at his side.

"And lastly, to you, Damien Thorn," spoke the priest with his arms raised skyward, "may God bestow his blessings and graces ... may Christ bestow his eternal love."

From a cloudless sky came a distant rumble of thunder, and the crowd slowly began to disperse. The couple surrounded by plainclothesmen waited until everyone had left, then approached the graves, the child kneeling before them in prayer. The crowds turned and watched, many weeping openly; the child finally rose and, with his new parents, moved slowly away. The plainclothesmen formed a circle around them, escorting them from the gravesite into the Presidential limousine.

Four motorcycle policemen escorted the limousine out past the line of reporters and they snapped photographs of the child's face as it stared back at them through the rear window of the departing automobile. For all, the photographs would be marred by a blemish, a flaw in the film emulsion creating a haze that hung over the car.