The Servants of Twilight (63 page)
Luke. For years she had tried to forget him; now she tried to remember. He’d been about thirty, lean, well muscled. Blond hair streak-bleached by the sun. Clear blue eyes. A bronze tan. White, perfectly even teeth. An ingratiating smile, an easy manner. He had been a charming but not particularly original mix of sophistication and simplicity, worldliness and innocence, a smooth talker who knew how to get what he wanted from women. She’d thought of him as a surfer, for God’s sake; that’s what he had seemed like, the epitome of the young California surfer.
Even with her strength draining away through her wound and leaving her increasingly light-headed, even though her exhaustion and loss of blood had put her in a feeble state of mind that left her highly susceptible to Spivey’s insane accusations, she could not believe that Luke had been Satan. The devil in the guise of a surfer boy? It was too banal to be believable. If Satan were real, if he wanted a son, if he wanted her to bear that son, why wouldn’t he simply have come to her in the night in his real form? She could not have resisted him. Why wouldn’t he have taken her forthrightly, with much flapping of his wings and lashing of his tail?
Luke had drunk beer, and he’d had a passion for potato chips. He had urinated and showered and brushed his teeth like any other human being. Sometimes his conversation had been downright tedious, dumb. Wouldn’t the devil at least have been unfailingly witty?
Surely, Luke had been Luke, nothing more, nothing less.
She opened her eyes.
Joey was giggling and hugging Chewbacca, so happy. So ordinary.
Of course, she thought, the devil might take a perverse pleasure in using me,
particularly
me, to carry his child.
particularly
me, to carry his child.
After all, she was a former nun. Her brother had been a priest—and a martyr. She had fallen away from her faith. She had been a virgin when she’d given herself to the man on the cruise ship. Wasn’t she a perfect means by which the devil could make a mockery of the
first
virgin birth?
first
virgin birth?
Madness. She hated herself for doubting her child, for giving any credence whatsoever to Spivey’s babbling.
And yet . . . hadn’t her whole life changed for the better as soon as she had become pregnant with the boy? She had been uncommonly healthy—no colds, no headaches—and happy and successful in business. As if she were . . .
blessed
.
blessed
.
Finally satisfied that his dog was all right, Joey disentangled himself from Chewbacca and came to Christine. Rubbing at his red eyes, sniffling, he said, “Mom, is it over? Are we going to be okay? I’m still scared.”
She didn’t want to look into his eyes, but to her surprise she found nothing frightening in them, nothing to make her blood run cold.
Brandy . . . no,
Chewbacca
came to her and nuzzled her hand.
Chewbacca
came to her and nuzzled her hand.
“Mommy,” Joey said, kneeling beside her, “I’m scared. What’d they do to you? What’d they do? Are you going to die? Don’t die, please, don’t die, Mommy, please.”
She put a hand to his face.
He was afraid, trembling. But that was better than an autistic trance.
He slid against her, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she held him with her good arm. Her Joey. Her son. Her
child
. The feel of him, snuggling against her, was marvelous, indescribably wonderful. The contact was better than any medicine could have been, for it revitalized her, cleared her head, and dissipated the sick images and insane fears that were Grace Spivey’s perverse legacy. Hugging her child, feeling him cling to her in need of love and reassurance, she was cured of Spivey’s mad contagion. This boy was the fruit of her womb, a life she had given to the world, and nothing was more precious to her than he was—and always would be.
child
. The feel of him, snuggling against her, was marvelous, indescribably wonderful. The contact was better than any medicine could have been, for it revitalized her, cleared her head, and dissipated the sick images and insane fears that were Grace Spivey’s perverse legacy. Hugging her child, feeling him cling to her in need of love and reassurance, she was cured of Spivey’s mad contagion. This boy was the fruit of her womb, a life she had given to the world, and nothing was more precious to her than he was—and always would be.
Kyle Barlowe had
slid down to the floor, his back against the wall, and had buried his face in his hands to avoid staring at Mother Grace’s hideous remains. But the dog came to Kyle, nuzzled him, and Kyle looked up. The mutt licked his face; its tongue was warm, its nose cold, like the tongue and nose of any dog. It had a clownish face. How could he ever have imagined that such a dog was a hound from Hell?
slid down to the floor, his back against the wall, and had buried his face in his hands to avoid staring at Mother Grace’s hideous remains. But the dog came to Kyle, nuzzled him, and Kyle looked up. The mutt licked his face; its tongue was warm, its nose cold, like the tongue and nose of any dog. It had a clownish face. How could he ever have imagined that such a dog was a hound from Hell?
“I loved her like a mother, and she changed my life, so I stayed with her even when she went wrong, went bad, even when she started . . . to do really crazy things,” Kyle said, startled by the sound of his own voice, surprised to hear himself explaining his actions to Christine Scavello and Charlie Harrison. “She had . . . this power. No denying that. She was . . . like in the movies . . . clairvoyant. You know? Psychic. That’s how she could follow you and the boy . . . not because God was guiding her . . . and not because the boy was the son of Satan . . . but because she was just . . . clairvoyant.” This was not something he had known until he heard himself speaking it. In fact, even now, he did not seem to know what he was going to say until the words came from him. “She had visions. I guess they weren’t religious like I thought. Not from God. Not really. Maybe she knew that all along. Or maybe she misunderstood. Maybe she actually believed she
was
talking with God. I don’t think she meant to do bad, you know. She could’ve misinterpreted her visions, couldn’t she? But there’s a big difference between being psychic and being Joan of Arc, huh? A big difference.”
was
talking with God. I don’t think she meant to do bad, you know. She could’ve misinterpreted her visions, couldn’t she? But there’s a big difference between being psychic and being Joan of Arc, huh? A big difference.”
Charlie listened to
Kyle Barlowe wrestle with his conscience, and he was curiously soothed by the ugly giant’s deep, remorseful voice. The soothing effect was partly due to the fact that Barlowe was helping them understand these recent events in a light less fantastic than that shed by Armageddon; he was showing them how it might be paranormal without being supernatural or cataclysmic. But Charlie was also affected and relaxed by the odd, soft, rumbling tones and cadences of the big man’s voice, by a slight smokiness in the air, and by some indefinable quality of light or heat that made him receptive to this message, as a hypnotist’s subject is receptive to suggestions of all kinds.
Kyle Barlowe wrestle with his conscience, and he was curiously soothed by the ugly giant’s deep, remorseful voice. The soothing effect was partly due to the fact that Barlowe was helping them understand these recent events in a light less fantastic than that shed by Armageddon; he was showing them how it might be paranormal without being supernatural or cataclysmic. But Charlie was also affected and relaxed by the odd, soft, rumbling tones and cadences of the big man’s voice, by a slight smokiness in the air, and by some indefinable quality of light or heat that made him receptive to this message, as a hypnotist’s subject is receptive to suggestions of all kinds.
Kyle said, “Mother Grace meant well. She just got confused there toward the end. Confused. And, God help me, I went along with her even though I had my doubts. Almost went too far. Almost . . . God help me . . . almost used the knife on that little boy. See, what it is . . . I think maybe your Joey . . . maybe he has a little psychic ability of his own. You know? Have you ever noticed it? Any indications? I think he must be a little like Mother Grace herself, a little bit clairvoyant or something, even if he doesn’t know it, even if the power hasn’t become obvious yet . . . and
that
was what she sensed in him . . . but she misunderstood it. That must be it. That must explain it. Poor Grace. Poor, sweet Grace. She meant well. Can you believe that? She meant well, and so did I, and so did everyone in the church. She meant well.”
that
was what she sensed in him . . . but she misunderstood it. That must be it. That must explain it. Poor Grace. Poor, sweet Grace. She meant well. Can you believe that? She meant well, and so did I, and so did everyone in the church. She meant well.”
Chewbacca left Kyle and came to Charlie, and he let the dog nuzzle him affectionately. He noticed blood in its ears, and blood matting the fur
on
its ears, which meant Barlowe had hit it very hard with the butt of the rifle, terribly hard indeed, and yet it seemed completely recovered. Surely it had suffered a severe concussion. Yet it was not dizzy or disoriented.
on
its ears, which meant Barlowe had hit it very hard with the butt of the rifle, terribly hard indeed, and yet it seemed completely recovered. Surely it had suffered a severe concussion. Yet it was not dizzy or disoriented.
The dog looked into his eyes.
Charlie frowned.
“She meant well. She meant well,” Kyle said, and he put his face in his hands and began to cry.
Cuddling with his mother, Joey said, “Mommy, he scares me. What’s he talkin’ about? He scares me.”
“It’s all right,” Christine said.
“He scares me.”
“It’s okay, Skipper.”
To Charlie’s surprise, Christine found the strength to sit up and hitch backward a couple of feet, until she was leaning against the wall. She had seemed too exhausted to move, even to speak. Her face looked better, too, not quite so pale.
Still sniffling, wiping at his nose with his sleeve, wiping his eyes with one small fist, Joey said, “Charlie? You okay?”
Although Spivey and her people no longer posed any threat, Charlie was still quite certain that he would die in this cave. He was in bad shape, and it would be hours yet before help could be summoned and could reach them. He would not last that long. Yet he tried to smile at Joey, and in a voice so weak it frightened him, he said, “I’m okay.”
The boy left his mother and came to Charlie. He said, “Magnum couldn’t’ve done better than you did.”
Joey sat down beside Charlie and put a hand on him. Charlie flinched, but it was all right, perfectly all right, and then for a couple of minutes he lost consciousness, or perhaps he merely dropped off to sleep. When Charlie came to, Joey was with his mother again, and Kyle Barlowe seemed to be getting ready to leave. “What’s wrong?” Charlie asked. “What’s happening now?”
Christine was obviously relieved to see him conscious once more. She said, “There’s no way you and I can make it out of here on our feet. We’ll have to be carried in litters. Mr. Barlowe is going for help.”
Barlowe smiled reassuringly. It was a ghastly expression on his cruelly formed face. “The snow’s stopped falling, and there’s no wind. If I stay to the forest trails, I should be able to make it down to civilization in a few hours. Maybe I can get a mountain rescue team back here before nightfall. I’m sure I can.”
“Are you taking Joey with you?” Charlie asked. He noticed that his voice was stronger than before; speaking did not require as much effort as it had done a few minutes ago. “Are you getting him out?”
“No,” Christine said. “Joey’s staying with us.”
“I’ll move faster without him,” Barlowe said. “Besides, the two of you need him to put wood on the fire every now and then.”
Joey said, “I’ll take care of them, Mr. Barlowe. You can count on me. Chewbacca and me.”
The dog barked softly, once, as if in affirmation of the boy’s pledge.
Barlowe favored the boy with another malformed smile, and Joey grinned at him in return. Joey had accepted the giant’s conversion with considerably greater alacrity than Charlie had, and his trust seemed to be reciprocated and well placed.
Barlowe left them.
They sat in silence for a moment.
They did not even glance at Grace Spivey’s corpse, as if it were only another formation of stone.
Clenching his teeth, preparing for an agonizing and most likely fruitless ordeal, Charlie tried pulling himself up into a sitting position. Although he had possessed insufficient strength to do it before, he now found the task remarkably easy. The pain from the bullet wound in his shoulder had dramatically subsided, much to his surprise, and was now only a dull ache which he could endure with little trouble. His other injuries provided a measure of discomfort, but they were not as bothersome or as sapping of his energy as they had been. He felt somewhat . . . revitalized . . . and he knew that he would be able to hold onto life until the rescue team had arrived and had gotten them off the mountain, to a hospital.
He wondered if he felt better because of Joey. The boy had come to him, had laid a hand on him, and he had slept for a couple of minutes, and when he had regained consciousness he was . . . partially healed. Was that one of the child’s powers? If so, it was an imperfect power, for Charlie had not been entirely or even mostly healed; the bullet wound had not knitted up; his bruises and lacerations had not faded; he felt only a little bit better. The very imperfection of the healing power—
if
it existed at all—seemed to argue for the psychic explanation that Barlowe had offered them. The inadequacy of it indicated that it was a power of which Joey was unaware, a paranormal ability expressed in an entirely unconscious manner. Which meant he was just a little boy with a special gift. Because if he was the Antichrist, he would possess unlimited and miraculous power, and he would quickly and entirely heal both his mother and Charlie. Wouldn’t he? Sure. Sure he would.
if
it existed at all—seemed to argue for the psychic explanation that Barlowe had offered them. The inadequacy of it indicated that it was a power of which Joey was unaware, a paranormal ability expressed in an entirely unconscious manner. Which meant he was just a little boy with a special gift. Because if he was the Antichrist, he would possess unlimited and miraculous power, and he would quickly and entirely heal both his mother and Charlie. Wouldn’t he? Sure. Sure he would.
Chewbacca returned to Charlie.
There was still blood crusted in the dog’s ears.
Charlie stared into its eyes.
He petted it.
The bullet wound
in Christine’s leg had stopped bleeding, and the pain had drained out of it. She felt clearheaded. With each passing minute she developed a greater appreciation of their survival, which was (she now saw) a tribute—
not
to the intervention of supernatural forces, but—to their incredible determination and endurance. Confidence returned to her, and she began to believe, once more, in the future.
in Christine’s leg had stopped bleeding, and the pain had drained out of it. She felt clearheaded. With each passing minute she developed a greater appreciation of their survival, which was (she now saw) a tribute—
not
to the intervention of supernatural forces, but—to their incredible determination and endurance. Confidence returned to her, and she began to believe, once more, in the future.
For a few minutes, when she had been bleeding and helpless, when Spivey had been looming over Joey, Christine had surrendered to an uncharacteristic despair. She had been in such a bleak mood that, when the angry bats had responded to the gunfire and had attacked Spivey, Christine had even briefly wondered if Joey was, after all, what Spivey had accused him of being. Good heavens! Now, with Barlowe on his way for help, with the worst of her pain gone, with a growing belief in the likelihood of her and Charlie’s survival, watching Joey as he fumblingly added a few branches to the fire, she could not imagine how such dark and foolish fears could have seized her. She had been so exhausted and so weak and so despondent that she had been susceptible to Spivey’s insane message. Though that moment of hysteria was past and equilibrium restored, she was chilled by the realization that even
she
had been, however briefly, fertile ground for Spivey’s lunacy.
she
had been, however briefly, fertile ground for Spivey’s lunacy.
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