The Rising: Antichrist Is Born (25 page)

Before she could dial he tore the phone from her hand and threw a forearm into her that knocked her onto the couch. She slammed against the back and tumbled to the floor. Marilena wasn’t sure how much more she could take, but she knew all this was only making her injuries worse.

“Listen,” he said, “I am a doctor, and I can make you feel better if you’d just let me.”

“Oh, certainly, Doctor,” she said, panting. “What reason would I have not to trust you?”

He pulled a syringe from his pocket.

“No way in iad,” she said. “Get anywhere near me with that and you’ll regret it.”

He shook his head and sighed, sitting across from her. “You’re going to wish you’d accepted this the easy way.”

“I don’t think so. What kind of woman would I be? What kind of mother?”

“You’re no kind of mother,” he said. “We’ve already established that.”

That made her want to attack, but she felt herself fading. The longer she sat, the stiffer she grew. Her bad hand was swollen to where she couldn’t bend her fingers.

“You’re full of poison, you know,” he said. “Your emergency-room treatment was lethal. I’m surprised it hasn’t felled you already. You’re on borrowed time.”

“I suspected as much.”

He waved the syringe. “This will put you out of your misery. No pain. You’ll just drift off.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said.

“I would indeed. This has already been too much work. I have a mess to clean up in Ms. Ivinisova’s room, not to mention the rest of this place. Don’t make me shoot you.” He pulled back his suit jacket to reveal a snub-nosed revolver on his belt. “Blood takes so long to bleach and cover.”

Strangely, that gave Marilena hope. She wasn’t going to survive this, but if she could somehow stave off the injection, he would be forced to shoot her and make a mess. The satisfaction of making his task so much more complicated was a small consolation, but she had not yet surrendered her will to live. That instinct burned brightly deep inside her, and she wondered if there was a chance she could in any way turn the tide.

“I’m done,” she said. “Just shoot me.”

“I don’t want to do that,” he said. “Believe it or not, I respect your hotardre.”

Determination? She had that all right.

“Just resign yourself to the inevitable, ma’am, and take the injection. It will be so much easier for both of us.”

  She nodded. “I don’t want an ugly death.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said. He pulled a small vial from his pocket and from it filled the syringe.

“Will you do me a favor?” she said. “Would you give it to me in the bad arm? It’s numb and I won’t feel it. And I so hate needles.”

“I can do that,” he said, sounding as relieved as she hoped. He slid forward on his chair.

She lowered her head and extended her bad arm.

He left his chair and knelt before her, taking her wrist in his hand. “I hope you know this is anything but personal.”

“This is,” she said, swiping the gun from his belt with her good hand and firing it point-blank into his face. It blew a hole in his cheek, and a spray of blood and gore splashed the wall behind him. His face went ashen, his eyes wide as he dropped to his seat, the syringe rolling away.

She dropped the weapon and reached for the empty syringe, slowly pulling it from her body, knowing all the while that she was too late. Too late.

As she dropped back onto the couch, the phone rang. Was there still hope? Could she get to it and talk whoever it was into getting to her in time to counteract the deadly dose? Marilena tried to rock forward but she could move only an inch. Both

arms were paralyzed now and her vision was going black.

Her throat constricted and she fought for air, feeling her body go rigid. Her feet shot out, as if to catch her as her brain told

her she was falling. But she had not moved, could not move, desperate as she was.

The machine finally picked up, and Marilena fought to remain conscious through the cheery greeting and tone. Finally… finally, “Yes, this is the vicar again, eager to chat with you. I’ll be at the church as promised.”

“Help!” she rasped, as if some miracle could make him hear her without the phone. “Help me!”

“Very good then; I’ll look for you soon, ma’am.”

“God,” Marilena said silently, feeling her soul spiraling. “God. God. Receive me. Please. God.”

Nicky Carpathia awoke in a private room, part of a palatial suite on the top floor of the Intercontinental Hotel in Bucharest. The sun streamed through the window. 

He heard a faint knock. “Aunt Viv?” he called out.

“Yes. Are you awake?”

He hurried to the door. “Can we order breakfast like you promised?”

“I need to talk to you first.”

“I am hungry.”

“You need to hear this, Nicky.”

“What?”

“It’s about your mom. You’d better sit down.”

He sighed. “First, I do not need to sit down. Second, I want you to call me Nick from now on. I am not a baby.”

“Of course you’re not. I—”

“And third, you said 1 would not be seeing my mother again. Is that still true or not?”

“It’s true.”

“Good. Then I do not care what else. Let us eat.”

“No, now you must hear this.”

“All right! What?”

“She died yesterday.”

“Died? How? You said that doctor guy was going to take her somewhere, and I would never have to worry about her again. Did he kill her?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Guess we do not have to hide from her or worry about her anymore then, right?”

Aunt Viv nodded. “How does it make you feel?”

“Hungry. I told you.”

“But she was your mother.”

“And now she is dead. What is the difference if I was not going to see her again anyway?”

“Well, just because someone has been a problem doesn’t mean we won’t miss them.”

He began dressing. “You are going to miss her?”

“Of course.”

“Good. At least someone will.”

“You won’t miss her, Nicky? Nick.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “What is to miss?”

“She loved you.”

He shrugged. “Everybody does.”

He was having none of it. “What about Star Diamond?”

“You can get another horse someday.”

“No, I want him.”

“There’s nowhere for him here in the city.”

“Then let us move back to Cluj.”

“The association doesn’t want us to return to the cottage. Your mother died there.”

He stared at her. “It is what I want, Aunt Viv.”

She sighed and went to make a phone call. When she returned she told him his teacher would not still be at the school either. “You might as well get a fresh start here.”

But he knew better. Not everything was clear in his mind, but of some things he was certain. He was special. He was somebody. For some reason, people did what he wanted. When he locked eyes with Viv and spoke in his serious tone, she didn’t argue.

“I want to live in the cottage, and I want to go to my school. I do not care who the teacher is.”

“That’s final then?” she said.

He nodded, and she returned to the phone. He tiptoed behind her and waited by the door. She was arguing. “Then you tell him, Reiche…. No, of course I didn’t say that. He wouldn’t understand. Crime scene would be just words to him…. The place doesn’t have to be destroyed. Why can’t it just be cleaned up?... I’ll be here by the phone.”

Nick moved away from the door, and when she returned, Viv said, “We’re seeing what can be done.”

He smiled. He knew what would happen. What always happened. Things were taken care of. Anything to keep him from becoming upset. “I have been reading about humanism,” he said.

“You have?”

He nodded. “It would be a great cover.”

“How so?” she said.

“We do not want people to know what we are really all about, right?”

“Right, Nick. Because they wouldn’t understand.”

“And would not agree and would worry about us.”

“Right.”

“But they understand humanism, even if most people do not like it. There is a Young Humanists group in Luxembourg. I want to join.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged. You know what they believe?”

“I told you, Aunt Viv. I have been reading about it.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know how much you were able to glean from—”

“When I say I have read about something, that means I understand it. You should know that by now. I read it in two languages.”

“That does not surprise me.”

“Then stop asking such stupid questions.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He liked when she was sorry. And when people said that, or when they asked forgiveness, he knew it was customary to say, “It is okay.” But he never did. There was power in not giving people everything they wanted.

When Mr. Planchette called back, Nick didn’t eavesdrop. He knew what was coming, and he was right. Viv reported: “It may take a couple of weeks, but we think the cottage will be ready for us. And you can return to your school.”

Nick just looked out the window and nodded.

Two weeks later, when Viv unlocked the cottage, Nick walked in and held up a hand. The place was different. It smelled of bleach and disinfectant and fresh wood.

“My mother was not the only person to die in here,” he said.

Viv seemed to freeze.

Nick shut his eyes. “The doctor is dead too, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“They killed each other.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent,” he said.

Ray Steele might as well have been on one of the coasts, as far as he felt from Illinois. But he was only one state away. The sprawling Purdue campus had opened his eyes and his mind to all sorts of possibilities and potential. The best part was that when he looked in the mirror, he saw a man. Not a work in progress, not an overgrown kid on his way to maturity. A man. Six foot four and two hundred and twenty pounds of muscled, in-shape, square-jawed man.

It used to be, when he imagined how he might look someday, that he sucked in his gut and thrust out his chin as he tried to affect a look. Now it came naturally. Ray had always thought it was guys who ogled girls. Now that his face and body had matured, he realized the looking went both ways. He drew stares and glances, double takes. And he worked hard at exuding a quiet confidence, a diffident air. He wasn’t always sure he was pulling it off, because he was too aware of the effort, but he was clearly the most attractive and popular guy outside the scholarship athletes and frat brothers.

He wasn’t a fraternity type of guy, much as he wanted to be. Frat boys came from money, and they sure weren’t part of
ROTC
. Ray had been stunned to find that the military component of his education— for as wise as it seemed and as strategic to his future— was met with scorn by people who seemed to matter.

Within a month of arriving on campus, he had learned to fulfill his
ROTC
obligations—excel at them actually— but not talk about them. That had taken some adjustment. He worked at being friendly, getting to know the men and women—as the administration referred to all students—of his dorm and in his classes. That traditionally entailed trading family stories, backgrounds, where you grew up, your major, your plans, your emphases.

Ray’s, of course, were Belvidere, Illinois; only child; son of self-made, hardworking parents; high school sports star (resigned to intramurals now); studying liberal arts with some mechanical subjects thrown in; aiming to be a commercial pilot; and active in
ROTC
.

That last had an unusual effect on people. Even if they expressed intrigue or interest, Ray was astute enough to recognize that it was not because they were impressed. It was because they couldn’t believe it. Anything connected with the military, with discipline and uniformity and the establishment, was viewed with suspicion by the modern collegian. Some couldn’t hide their views. Their expressions and tone said it all, and for others, their comments boldly drove the point home.

“Why in the world would you want to be in ROTC?” some said. “Thought that was for nerds, AV techies, Boy Scouts.”

Ray defended his choice at first, trying to sell doubters on the advantages. There was the scholarship, the discipline, the future. But no one was buying. No one but other ROTCs, as they were known. Soon
ROTC
was Rayford Steele’s dirty little secret. Inside he didn’t feel ashamed. He was surprised more people didn’t take advantage of it. It was the perfect vehicle to help secure his future. But he learned quickly to quit talking about it.

Ray had also developed a riff to explain why he was not in a fraternity. While he wasn’t a rich kid, he wanted to be. In fact, besides the freedom and sense of power flying gave him, that was the reason he wanted to be a commercial pilot. Bad-mouthing frat brothers for being materialistic only spotlighted his own socioeconomic shortcomings, so he instead became dismissive. “I was rushed by all the houses,” he’d say. “Couldn’t decide. Anyway, I’m the type of person who gives his all once he’s committed, and I don’t have the time to be the kind of fraternity brother I would want to be.”

“Well, aren’t we impressed with ourself?” Katherine-call-me-Kitty Wyley had responded with a smile. She had giggled at his name. “You’ll forgive me if I just call you Ray.”

He shrugged. He thought Rayford—which he had kept a secret until college—made him sound older, but whatever.

Kitty, a freshman, had been a cheerleader—blonde and perky—in a northern Indiana high school and was majoring in business. They met at a mixer the third week of his junior year. Ray had been unimpressed at first. She had that stereotypical cheerleader look, accessorized by impeccable style. From her shoes to her socks to her jeans to her tops, hair, nose, makeup, everything—here was a girl who apparently invested in me-time. She reminded him too much of the high school girls who had ignored him as an underclassman and angled for dates when he was a senior and big man on campus. How long must it take for someone to be so put-together? Well, he supposed it was better than the alternative. The New York wannabes wore severe shoes and all-black outfits, cut their hair blunt and short, and disdained makeup. Katherine-call-me-Kitty was at least easier to abide than those.