F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (38 page)

 
          
She
spotted a clock on the wall. It read
3:12
. It couldn't be that late. Then she noticed
the second hand was frozen at the half-minute mark. An electric clock, and the
power had been off for a long, long time.

 
          
Lacey
pushed through the doors and the cool night air hit her, sending a cold tremor
through her body. She kept moving, padding across the moonlit concrete to the
surrounding shadows. She needed some clothes, and not just for warmth; couldn't
turn up in front of the people in the church, especially her Uncle Joe, looking
like this. She had to find a house, go through one of the closets—

 
          
"It's
you!" cried a voice behind her. "How did you get away?"

 
          
Lacey
turned and stared at the figure advancing toward her from the other side of the
street. The bottle blonde from the boardwalk, dressed in lowrider jeans and a
cutaway denim jacket. Her boots thudded on the pavement. Lacey saw a flash in
her right hand, heard a clink, and realized she'd just flipped open a knife.
The stainless steel blade gleamed in the moonlight.

 
          
Lacey
said nothing. Her brain seemed sluggish. All she could think was, Not now ... I
can't handle this now.

 
          
"Guess
it doesn't matter how," the
Vichy
woman said with a throaty laugh as she
reached the grass and kept coming. "I'm just glad you did. Because we got
a score to settle, you and me."

 
          
Lacey
tried to remember some of the defense moves she'd learned in her martial arts
classes and couldn't come up with one. So she started backing away.

 
          
"You
can run but you can't hide," the blonde sing-songed. "I don't care
how much they want you alive, you ain't walkin away this time."

 
          
She
was closing in. Lacey held up her hands. "No, wait..."

 
          
"No
waiting. Looks like a few of my friends had a party with you, now it's my turn.
I'm gonna cut you, girl... cut you good!"

 
          
With
that the blonde lunged forward with a vicious, face-high slash, and Lacey found
her limbs responding on their own. She didn't need to remember the moves. Hour
upon hour of practice had programmed them into her nervous system. Her right
leg shot back and stiffened, her left knee bent, her hands darted forward,
grabbing the blonde's knife arm at the wrist and elbow, pushing it aside,
twisting it, using the woman's own weight and momentum against her to bring her
down.

 
          
Her
Vichy
earring flashed near Lacey's face and
sudden visions of similar earrings dangling over her while her three captors—

 
          
Rage
detonated in Lacey. Gritting her teeth she gave an extra twist to the falling
woman's arm and was rewarded by a scream of pain as bones ground together,
ligaments and tendons stretched, snapped. The woman screamed again, louder.
She'd be drawing a crowd soon. Lacey's hand flashed forward, landing a
two-knuckle punch on her larynx. With a crunch of cartilage the screaming cut
off, replaced by strangled noises as the blonde began to kick and writhe,
clutching at her throat with her still-functioning left hand.

 
          
Lacey
picked up the knife from the grass and stepped back, looking around. Was anyone
else coming after her? She and the blonde were alone in the shadows. She
watched her struggles, waiting for them to run their course.

 
          
"So,"
Lacey said. "You were gonna cut me, huh? Cut me good. I don't think
so."

 
          
She
checked the knife blade: tanto shaped with the front half of the cutting edge
beveled and the rear half saw-toothed. Wicked. If Ms. Vichy had had her way,
this blade would be jutting from Lacey's chest about now.

 
          
The
choking sounds faded, the kicking and writhing ebbed to twisting and twitching.
With a final spasm the hand clutching at her throat fell away and she lay limp
and still.

 
          
Lacey
waited another minute, then dropped to her knees beside the dead woman.
Mastering her revulsion, she began unbuttoning her cutaway top . . .

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
Sister
Carole trudged through the inky blackness along the street, hugging the curb,
hurrying through the moonlit sections between the shadows of the trees, towing
her red wagon behind her. She'd loaded it with her Bible, her rosary, her holy
water, the blasting caps, her few remaining bombs, and other essentials.

 
          
looking for ANOTHER place? And I suppose you'll be starting up this same awful
sinfulness again, won't you?>

 
          
"I
suppose I will," Sister Carole said aloud to the night.

 
          
"Hello?"
said a woman's voice from the darkness ahead. "Is someone there?"

 
          
Carole
froze, her hand darting into the pants pocket of her warm-up, finding the
electric switch, flipping the cover, placing her thumb on the button. Wires ran
from the button through a hole in the pocket to the battery and the cylindrical
charge taped to her upper abdomen.

 
          
God
forgive her, but she would not be taken alive.

 
          
She
held her silence, barely breathing, waiting. She sensed movement in the shadows
ahead, and then a young woman stepped into a moonlight-dappled section of the
sidewalk. She held an automatic pistol in each hand.

 
          
"I
don't want trouble," the woman said. "I just want to know how to get
back to St. Anthony's Church."

 
          
Carole
looked around, wary. Were others lurking in the shadows?

 
          
"I
think you already know the way," Carole said.

 
          
"No,
really, I don't."

 
          
Carole
eyed her spiky hair. "Don't try to fool me. You work for them."

 
          
"I
don't, I swear."

 
          
A
plaintive note in the woman's voice struck Carole.

 
          
"You
dress like one"—although this one's clothes did not fit her well—
"and you're armed."

 
          
"The
clothes are stolen. So are the guns. I've already been attacked twice today.
It's not going to happen again."

 
          
Again,
the ring of truth. Carole squinted through the shadows. This woman did look
battered.

 
          
"Look,"
the woman said. "I don't want to hurt you and you don't seem to want to
hurt me, so can you just point me toward the church and we'll go our separate
ways."

 
          
Carole
decided to trust her instincts. "I'm headed that way. You can come with
me."

 
          
"Really?
I don't remember seeing you there last night."

 
          
"I
wasn't." Carole noticed that the woman was barefoot and limping. "You
said you were attacked. Did they . .. hurt you?"

 
          
The
young woman nodded, then sobbed. "They hurt me bad. Real bad."

 
          
And
then she was leaning against Carole and crying softly on her shoulder. Carole
put her free arm around her and tried to soothe her, but kept her thumb on the
button in her pocket. You never knew ... never knew ...

 
          
After
a few minutes the sobs stopped and the young woman stepped back. She wiped her
eyes with her bare arms.

 
          
"Sorry.
It's just... it's been a long night." She pushedof the pistols into her
waistband and stuck out a hand. "Lacey. With an 'e.'"

 
          
"Carole,"
she said, shaking the hand and smiling, just a little. Something likable about
her. "With an 'e.' "

 
          
"Were
you a member of St. Anthony's parish?" Lacey said as they started walking
again.

 
          
"I
was a nun in the convent."

 
          
"Get
out! Then you must know my Uncle Joe. He's been a priest there for years."

 
          
Carole
stopped walking and stared. Could this tough-looking tattooed young woman be
related to Father Joe?

 
          
"You're
Father Cahill's niece?" She couldn't hide her disbelief.

 
          
"It's
true, and I need to get back to him. He's got to have noticed I'm missing by
now and he'll be worried sick."

 
          
The
genuine concern in Lacey's voice made Carole a believer, but sudden fear
stabbed her.

 
          
"Hurry,"
Carole said. She flipped the safety cover closed on the button in her pocket
and broke into a fast walk. "We've got to get you back before he goes out
searching for you. Once he's away from the church he's in danger."

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
They'd
started the search with the church grounds—the convent, the rectory, the
graveyard—and then crossed the street to the office building. Finding that
empty, Joe and the five other men in the search party, all armed to the teeth,
had moved through the surrounding houses and buildings. The discovery of a man
named Enrico stabbed to death in a neighboring Victorian had shaken them all,
especially Joe. He'd opened every door to every room in the old house with the
expectation that he'd find Lacey in the same condition.

 
          
But
no. No sign that she'd ever been in the house. Lacey seemed to have vanished
without a trace.

 
          
Finally,
at Joe's insistence, they'd returned to the office building because that was
the last place Lacey had been seen.

 
          
Joe
stood now at the head of the stairs in the dark third-floor hallway. He turned
off his flashlight—to heighten his hearing as much as to save the batteries—and
called her name.

 
          
"Lacey!
Lacey, can you hear me?"

 
          
He
stood statue still and listened, but all he heard were the voices of the other
members of the search party on the floors below.

 
          
He
felt numb, heartsick. Lacey... how had he let this happen? She'd made it all
the way down here from
Manhattan
on her own, and now she was gone, snatched from under his protective
wing. He could see how it had happened. She'd felt safe here with other living
around, armed with crosses and guns, ready for anything. She'd let her guard
down, got careless . . .

 
          
"Lacey!
Please!"

 
          
And
then he heard it. A sound . . . scratching ... so soft it was barely audible.
He opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again, trying to locate the sound.
It seemed to come from everywhere at first, echoing off the walls of the
hallway, but as he concentrated he felt sure it was coming from somewhere ahead
and to his left. He opened his eyes and flicked on his flashlight.