Son of the Endless Night, page 38
The barn lay another two hundred yards from them. But between the truck and the barn there was something in the way, a barrier like a suspended tidal wave twelve to fifteen feet high, trembling with latent power. The wave was composed entirely of flesh— living human beings twisted and tumbled agonizingly together. In this press of humanity was everyone the three of them had known and loved in their lifetimes: Gina picked out the faces of her boys, Dean and Charley-chuck, her husband Conor. Buddy Buck saw his mother and father and a host of his kin; his second, fourth, and fifth wives. Zipporah recognized her sisters Moxie Ann and Zelda Fern, her brothers, the lovers whom she had cherished from the age of fifteen. All cried out tormentedly to them: Stop. Go back. Go away.
Tears streamed down the preacher's face. The sight was so ghastly, and so heartrending. "I can't drive through that," he told them huskily.
"Buddy Buck, you got to! Because it's a lie, a trick! Can't you see? There ain't nobody real in that heap of people."
But Buddy Buck had shifted into reverse.
"I tell you I can't do it!" he blubbered. "Mama's there. And little Tommy, rest his beautiful soul!"
"Now listen to me, darlin'. It's time to use Display Number 22. It's the only thing that's gonna work anymore."
"Number 22? That's for the big finale of our crusade up on top of Lookout Mountain! And we ain't even tested it one time. Sedalia says it could melt the back end right out of this cab, maybe touch off the fuel tanks. God knows what the heat would do to all of us."
"Just keep backin' her on up, and take a good run at that— that— whatever it is."
The pleading shrieks from the victims making up the human wave before them rose to a sickening crescendo.
"That's my daddy's voice! Hear him? How can I drive straight through my own daddy's flesh and bones?"
"You ain't gonna hit nothin'. That's the truth I'm tellin' you." When he didn't respond, Zipporah took over. "Sedalia, you copy me? I'm gonna count down now from ten to zero, and when you hear zero I want you to fire off Display 22." To the preacher she said, "Buddy Buck, if you ever hope for me to be lucky Wife Number Seven, you better stand on it and I mean right now! Bust that devil where it hurts!"
With a yowl of pain the preacher shifted gears, and the big truck rumbled forward over the frozen ground. He saw eyes and ears and tongues and frantically waggling fingers and shut his own eyes tightly.
"Seven . . . six . . . five," Zipporah counted, as they hurtled toward the human wave in their path. "Don't mess up now."
A hatch on top of the trailer toward the front slid back. A large cross appeared, rising like a periscope from the conning tower of a submarine.
"Three . . . two . . . one . . ."
"Mama!" Charley-chuck screamed at Gina, "make him stop! You'll kill us!"
He was so cunningly real, every detail of his face clearly rendered down to the precious little mole near his right eye, that Gina cringed in agony and bit her tongue. She threw her arms up around her head.
"ZERO!" Zipporah clapped her hands over her own eyes.
For an instant the sun seemed to shine upon the barnlot with a midsummer fierceness as the large cross atop the trailer was touched off. A total of sixty-four small bulbs outlined the cross. Each bulb cost six dollars and fifty cents and fired 25,000 lumens for one scant second before burning out. There had never been anything quite like the power of this cross seen on earth. A single bulb was enough to blind anyone exposed to it for several minutes. Sixty-four of them obliterated the barrier facing the truck, scoured the barnlot, reached into the barn itself with thousands of brilliant needles. A number of shadowy figures gathered there vanished instantly into perdition.
"Stop, Buddy Buck, we'll crash up 'longside the barn!"
The preacher opened his eyes and applied the brakes at the same time. The truck slid a hundred and fifty feet and came to an unsteady sideways stop near the stone front wall.
They looked all around them in blessed silence. Only the myriad windshield cracks remained as testimony to the trials they had suffered.
"I feel. . . I feel a sense of peace, y'all! I think they must be all gone from this place."
"We did it! We did it!" Buddy Buck crowed.
"But we don't have Hillary! She must be in the barn! Let me out!"
"Wait," Zipporah cautioned Gina, and frowned.
"What's wrong now?"
"I don't know. I can't be sure. Just sit tight, hear?"
"Zipporah, that barn door's opening up," Buddy Buck said.
"Can I get out of this trailer now?" Sedalia inquired a bit peevishly.
"Stay put," the preacher told him. "It may not be over yet."
They saw the front end of an old black Cadillac emerging, with unpleasant slowness, from the dark interior of the barn. The broad curved windshield was dirty and they couldn't see anyone behind the wheel. Gina put a hand on the butt of the Colt Python in her pocket, and held her breath.
The Cadillac, Stegosaurus of pleasure machines, turned creepingly toward them. As it rolled along Buddy Buck put the Peterbilt into reverse, and backed up slowly.
"You gonna run over it?"
"I ain't gonna let it run over me," he said, almost whimsically.
But then they saw that the Cadillac was creating its own junkyard as, piece by piece, it fell apart, the tires unspooling in ragged streamers of rubber, the body taking on a rusty hue until the metal was like see-through lace. The car ended up no more than fifty feet outside the barn in an untidy heap of rubber, glass, plastic, pitted chrome, cast iron, metal oxide, and little steaming puddles of vital fluids.
And in the midst of this wreckage, stretched out on a dilapidated seat cushion in her Blessed Sacrament School jumper, Hillary Devon lay in oblivious repose, face to the sky. Even from where she was sitting, Gina could see, as her throat clogged from gratitude, that the possessive handprint had vanished from her daughter's forehead. All was well, for now.
"Thank you, Lord," Zipporah Honeycutt said humbly beside her; and all three bowed their heads.
66
When Conor Devon drove up to his house, at four thirty in the afternoon, with Father James Merlo beside him in the Lincoln, there was a police car parked at the base of his driveway, blocking it. He pulled up in front of the cruiser and they got out, to be met by two cops. Conor, panicky, glanced at the house. Gina's station wagon wasn't in the driveway. There were no lights on in the house, although it was swiftly growing dark.
"What's up?" Conor said to the older of the two policemen, a man with short gray hair and worry wrinkles.
"Are you Mr. Devon?"
"Yes. Has something happened?"
"Sir, I'll ask the questions if you don't mind. Have you seen your wife this afternoon?"
"No, I haven't. I've been at Logan Airport waiting for Father Merlo's flight to land. Now will you please tell me— "
"Mr. Devon, it appears that your wife may be in some serious trouble." He glanced at a page of a notebook in one hand. "She's accused of taking a car belonging to Louise D. Briggens of 984 Judson Lane, Joshua, at gunpoint, from the parking lot of the Grand Union in the Watkins Mill Shopping Center at approximately twelve forty-five this afternoon. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts— "
"At gunpoint? Gina? What the hell is this all about? Where are my kids?"
"I wouldn't know anything about your children, Mr. Devon. There's also an unverified report of a shooting that took place in the same area at approximately the same time; a woman answering your wife's description allegedly fired a shot into a blue Toyota waiting for a light change at— "
"This is crazy. You're not talking about my wife."
"Yes, sir, Mrs. Briggens positively identified her, said she knows her from the school your children attend, they're on the PTA board together."
Conor just shook his head in frustration and denial. For several seconds there was an uneasy silence, punctuated by the low tones of the dispatcher on the police radio.
"Does your wife own a Colt Python .357 magnum revolver?"
Conor's attention was focused on something else: a hymn, distant against the wind.
"He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. ..."
Three voices, amplified, singing a capella. The sound of it growing stronger. Conor and Merlo looked around, puzzled, for the source of the singing. Far down the street they saw a big Peterbilt truck, lights blazing in the dusk like a traveling carnival.
"Glory, glory, hallelujah. . . ."
Conor turned to face the oncoming truck. Its air horn was hooting madly, disturbing the peace of Revere Park, bringing neighbors to their windows and front porches.
"Who is Buddy Buck Mayhew?" Merlo said wonderingly. "Another wrestler?"
"Never heard of him. But whatever he does, he's got a hell of a gimmick."
"Conor! Conor!"
Gina was leaning out the window, waving. Conor stared in disbelief for a couple of moments, then ran down the street toward God's Big Green Machine. Behind it came the Olds Cutlass which Gina had "borrowed" from Louise Briggens with Zipporah Honeycutt at the wheel.
As soon as the little procession had stopped in the middle of the block Gina scrambled down from the cab of the Peterbilt and jumped into Conor's arms, kissing him wildly. Conor had a glimpse of Buddy Buck, all smiles, and beside him, a wan-looking but happy Hillary Devon, wrapped in a blanket. Hillary waved to her father. The police car came lurching down the street, siren burping.
"Oh-oh, the cops," Gina said, vaguely contrite.
"What the hell have you been doing? They want you for attempted murder and car theft!"
"They can't hang anything on me," Gina said toughly; then, downcast, swallowing hard and blinking back tears: "I guess I do have some explaining to do. Conor, would you mind if we took everybody out to Pizza Hut tonight? There's company for dinner, and I'm just too tired to cook."
67
When Merlo heard a sketchy account of what had happened to Hillary over the past few weeks, he made immediate arrangements for her safekeeping in a convent twenty miles away in rural New Hampshire, where she could be protected day and night from future, possibly even stronger, attacks. Gina pointed out that she hadn't been very safe in the sanctuary of Blessed Sacrament, supposedly holy ground and invulnerable to penetration by an agent of the devil.
"Holy ground is not in itself a shield against evil; nor is the sign of the cross, as Conor found out. Mystic power has always been associated with the cross, and there is both virtue and good in that. But against a devil like Zaraeh', more concentrated power is needed. Constant, directed prayer will create a web of white light that will surround Hillary for as long as necessary. The Sisters of Mysala have had centuries of experience in neutralizing evil, I can tell you that. Hillary will be safe now."
"A convent?" Hillary said, thoroughly outraged.
"It's not much different from boarding school," Merlo explained.
"MOTHER!"
"Hillary," Gina said, gritting her teeth, "did you enjoy what almost happened to you today? Because I damn well didn't enjoy it. And we're all very fortunate to be alive."
Gina's problems with the law had lasted only a little longer than her argument with her daughter. Conor got on the phone immediately to Louise Briggens, who came, looked her car over, heard Gina's account of Hillary's ordeal, and decided not to press charges. Gina, Buddy
Buck Mayhew, and Zipporah were interrogated for an hour and a half at police headquarters. They had rehearsed a story carefully, leaving out any reference to the supernatural, which would only have confused and probably antagonized the investigating officers. Buddy Buck said that he had seen Gina in frantic pursuit of the Toyota and had joined in the chase, eventually forcing the blue car off the road. Confronted by superior numbers, "Richards" had fled on foot, leaving Hillary unharmed but groggy in the back seat. The appearance and subsequent disappearance of "Richards" from the church with Hillary was vouched for by Father Toomey. The cops couldn't find a trace of background for the supposed physician. Nor could they find the blue Toyota. Descriptions of suspect and vehicle went into the computers at the National Crime Information Center in Washington. Gina was relieved of her Colt Python revolver and her carry permit was suspended, subject to review. She was not charged with violating any statutes.
At two-thirty in the morning, with everyone fed and accommodated for the night (Dean and Charley-chuck, having found no one at home upon their arrival from school, had gone directly to a neighbor's home, a contingency Gina had worked out long ago, and they were rather amazed by all the excitement and the novelty of God's Big Green Machine), Gina rose from the side of her snoring husband, with whom she had made vigorous love, walked into the bathroom, sat on the john, one bare foot overlapping the other, pressed a folded bath towel against her face, and had hysterics for a quarter of an hour. Then, at long last, she, too, was able to sleep.
PART THREE
Sundial
68
The fishing in the rich seabeds of the Fuerteventura Channel had been good for many months; so good in fact that Francisco Aponte Olaya, captain and part owner of the seiner San Patricio with two of his brothers, had accumulated enough money to replace a no longer repairable pump that had caused considerable listing their last few trips out, and the portside dredger, also a recent source of problems. This rare opportunity coincided with the funeral of a cousin in Tenerife, where the new machinery was to be obtained and installed. On the Tuesday after santa semana Olaya took his entire family with him from Heraclio, northernmost of the far-flung Canary Islands that lay off the coast of Saharan Africa. It was the first time the two youngest of the six children had been away from their home, a week-long event of almost unbearable excitement for all of them. Once the obligation of the funeral was out of the way they were free to enjoy themselves at the post-Lenten festivities that enlivened the port city, which was blessed with a bumper crop of European tourists— and not a few Americans, among them one of the biggest men Olaya had ever seen.
His name, he said, was Conor Devon, which the captain had a lot of trouble pronouncing. The bearded man was sweating freely despite the cool harbor breezes. He had with him a pair of French students, slim girls in singlets and sandals who spoke some English and good Spanish and who acted as interpreters for him. He had arrived that morning after a very long flight from a place called Massachusetts. He was in a great hurry to get to Heraclio and could not think of waiting for the twice-weekly deHaviland that flew to the little landing strip outside Puerto Arroyo, the largest of Heraclio's few towns. He was willing to pay the equivalent of two hundred dollars if Olaya would be willing to shorten his family's holiday and return at once.
The captain considered the offer only briefly. The installations had been completed aboard the San Patricio, they had been already four days in Tenerife, sleeping in the cramped crew quarters of the fo'c'sle, and so much togetherness had him testy at times. It was nearly a full day's run by sea to Heraclio, and he thought it sensible to conclude their travels while the weather was stable. If they left within the hour they would raise Puerto Arroyo before midnight. The stranger, despite his size and red beard, seemed mild enough, a little dazed by his long transit from the United States. Already he was the ripe, boiled shade of a freckled deep-sea lobster from his limited exposure to the tropical sun. His passport seemed legitimate. And he willingly parted with half of the agreed-upon tariff in advance. Just that much money more than covered Olaya's expense of maintaining his family for most of the week in Tenerife. The appearance of el rojo sendr at such a propitious time seemed providential to Olaya. Why his passenger wanted to reach Heraclio so quickly was not his business. Perhaps he was just another tourist with limited time who had a fondness for out-of-the-way places and had heard of the strange splendors of Heraclio. Olaya invited the American aboard and sent his oldest son Socorro to round up the other family members in the quayside bazaars.
69
A worsening pitch and roll awakened Conor from his nap in the topmost bunk at the rear of the fo'c'sle when the San Patricio was two hours at sea, on a northeasterly course. He felt the thrumming of the diesel engine and smelled something cooking in the little galley. The fo'c'sle was starkly lit by a swinging light bulb which illuminated in turn the faces of children grouped around a bare knife-scarred table that had been fastened to the deck. Four of them were eating slices of melon that gave them big orange clownmouths, or gnawing on strips of dried shark. A towheaded boy almost as fair as a Swede but with enchantingly elliptical olive-colored eyes was playing a curious-looking musical instrument that produced winsome, burbling notes riot unlike the singing of a treeful of wild canaries. The music of the water flute was so delicately beautiful and plaintive it stirred the hairs on the back of Conor's neck.
Conor had to slip off the bunk sideways so as not to bang his forehead on the low ceiling. A woman in a brown dress backed out of the galley carrying baskets of crisp brown fish fillets and hot bread basted with a tomato sauce. She placed the food on the table and smiled at him.
"Como usted," she said. She pointed to a place on the portside bench for him. Two of the kids scooted closer together to give him ample room, and studied him dubiously, as if he were a poorly trained bear who had been set loose among them. The air was close below deck with the fo'c'sle hatch closed, and the bucking of the San Patricio through quickening seas didn't agree with him. He was no sailor. He rubbed his stomach to indicate a slight indisposition. One of the children pointed to the head, thinking he wanted to relieve himself. It didn't seem like a bad idea. Conor could barely fit himself inside and close the door. He heard giggles, and the mother spoke sharply to remind them all of their manners.
When he came out of the head Socorro was waiting for him, bolting a sandwich he had made from the bread and the fish. He was one of two children who were blond and tall, after their mother, a beauty except for snaggled teeth. He was also solemn and seemed a little cross, in the manner of children who are a puzzle to themselves. Already he had the hands and wrists of a fisherman, but his deep-set eyes thought and dreamed of more than salt and homely deeps.
