The Servants of Twilight (22 page)
“—what—”
“—how—”
“—why—”
“—terrorists or whatever they were?”
Cold rain trickled under the collar of her coat.
Joey was squeezing her hand very hard. The newsmen were scaring him.
She wanted to scream at them to get away, stay away, shut up.
They crowded closer.
Jabbered at her.
She felt as if she were making her way through a pack of hungry animals.
Then, in the crush and babble, an unfamiliar and unfriendly face loomed: a man in his fifties, with gray hair and bushy gray eyebrows. He had a gun.
No!
Christine couldn’t get her breath. She felt a terrible weight on her chest.
It couldn’t be happening again. Not so soon. Surely, they wouldn’t attempt murder in front of all these witnesses. This was madness.
Charlie saw the weapon and pushed Christine and Joey out of the way.
At that same instant, a newswoman also saw the threat and tried to chop the gun out of the assailant’s hand, but took a bullet in the thigh for her trouble.
Madness.
People screamed, and cops yelled, and everyone dropped to the rain-soaked ground, everyone but Christine and Joey, who ran toward the green Chevy, flanked by Vince Fields and George Swarthout. She was twenty feet from the car when something tugged at her, and pain flashed along her right side, just above the hip, and she knew she had been shot, but she didn’t go down, didn’t even stumble on the rain-slick sidewalk, just plunged ahead, gasping for breath, heart pounding so hard that each beat hurt her, and she held on to Joey, didn’t look back, didn’t know if the gunman was pursuing them, but heard a tremendous volley of shots, and then someone shouting, “Get me an ambulance!”
She wondered if Charlie had shot the assailant.
Or had Charlie been shot instead?
That thought almost brought her to a stop, but they were already at the Chevy.
George Swarthout yanked open the rear door of the car and shoved them inside, where Chewbacca was barking excitedly.
Vince Fields ran around to the driver’s door.
“On the floor!” Swarthout shouted. “Stay down!”
And then Charlie was there, piling in after them, half on top of them, shielding them.
The Chevy’s engine roared, and they pulled away from the curb with a shrill screeching of tires, rocketed down the street, away from the house, into the night and the rain, into a world that couldn’t have been more completely hostile if it had been an alien planet in another galaxy.
27
Kyle Barlowe dreaded
taking the news to Mother Grace, although he supposed she had already learned about it through a vision.
taking the news to Mother Grace, although he supposed she had already learned about it through a vision.
He entered the back of the church and stood there for a while, filling the doorway between the narthex and the nave, his broad shoulders almost touching both jambs. He was gathering strength from the giant brass cross above the altar, from the Biblical scenes depicted in the stained-glass windows, from the reverent quietude, from the sweet smell of incense.
Grace sat alone, on the left side of the church, in the second pew from the front. If she heard Barlowe enter, she gave no indication that she knew he was with her. She stared straight ahead at the cross.
At last Barlowe walked down the aisle and sat beside her. She was praying. He waited for her to finish. Then he said, “The second attempt failed, too.”
“I know,” she said.
“What now?”
“We follow them.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.” She spoke softly at first, in a whisper he could barely hear, but gradually her voice rose and gained power and conviction, until it echoed eerily off the shadowhung walls of the nave. “We give them no peace, no rest, no haven, no quarter. We must be pitiless, relentless, unsleeping, unshakable. We will be hounds. The hounds of Heaven. We will bay at their heels, lunge for their throats, and bring them to ground, sooner or later, here or there, when God wills it. We shall win. I am sure of it.”
She had been staring intently at the cross as she spoke, but now she turned her colorless gray eyes on him, and as always he felt her gaze penetrating to the core of him, to his very soul.
He said, “What do you want me to do?”
“For now, go home. Sleep. Prepare yourself for the morning.”
“Aren’t we going after them again tonight?”
“First, we must find them.”
“How?”
“God will lead. Now go. Sleep.”
He stood, stepped into the aisle. “Will you sleep, too? You need your rest,” he said worriedly.
Her voice had faded to a reedy whisper once more, and there was exhaustion in it. “I can’t sleep, dear boy. An hour a night. Then I wake, and my mind is filled with visions, with messages from the angels, contacts from the spirit world, with worries and fears and hopes, with glimpses of the promised land, scenes of glory, with the awful weight of the responsibilities God has settled upon me.” She wiped at her mouth with the back of one hand. “How I wish I
could
sleep, how I
long
for sleep, for surcease from all these demands and anxieties! But He has transformed me so that I can function without sleep during this crisis. I will not sleep well again until the Lord wills it. For reasons I don’t understand, He needs me awake,
insists
upon it, gives me the strength to endure without sleep, keeps me alert, almost
too
alert.” Her voice was shaking, and Barlowe imagined it was both awe and fear that put the tremor in it. “I tell you, dear Kyle, it’s both glorious and terrible, wonderful and frightful, exhilarating and exhausting to be the instrument of God’s will.”
could
sleep, how I
long
for sleep, for surcease from all these demands and anxieties! But He has transformed me so that I can function without sleep during this crisis. I will not sleep well again until the Lord wills it. For reasons I don’t understand, He needs me awake,
insists
upon it, gives me the strength to endure without sleep, keeps me alert, almost
too
alert.” Her voice was shaking, and Barlowe imagined it was both awe and fear that put the tremor in it. “I tell you, dear Kyle, it’s both glorious and terrible, wonderful and frightful, exhilarating and exhausting to be the instrument of God’s will.”
She opened her purse, withdrew a handkerchief, and blew her nose. Suddenly she noticed that the hankie was stained brown and yellow, disgustingly knotted and crusted with dried snot.
“Look at this,” she said, indicating the handkerchief.
“It’s horrible. I used to be so neat. So clean. My husband, bless his soul, always said my house was cleaner than a hospital operating room. And I was always very conscious of grooming; I dressed well. And I
never
would have carried a revolting handkerchief like this, never, not before the Gift was given to me and crowded out so many ordinary thoughts.” Tears glimmered in her gray eyes. “Sometimes . . . I’m frightened . . . grateful to God for the Gift, yes . . . grateful for what I’ve gained . . . but frightened about what I’ve lost . . .”
never
would have carried a revolting handkerchief like this, never, not before the Gift was given to me and crowded out so many ordinary thoughts.” Tears glimmered in her gray eyes. “Sometimes . . . I’m frightened . . . grateful to God for the Gift, yes . . . grateful for what I’ve gained . . . but frightened about what I’ve lost . . .”
He wanted to understand what it must be like for her, to be the instrument of God’s will, but he couldn’t comprehend her state of mind or the mighty forces working within her. He did not know what to say to her, and he was depressed that he couldn’t comfort her.
She said, “Go home, sleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, we’ll kill the boy.”
28
In the car,
speeding through the storm-sodden streets, Charlie insisted on having a look at Christine’s wound, although she said it wasn’t serious. He was relieved to discover that she was right; she had only been grazed; the bullet had left a shallow furrow, two inches long, just above her hip. It was more of an abrasion than a wound, mostly cauterized by the heat of the bullet; the slug wasn’t in her, and there was only minor bleeding. Nevertheless, they stopped at an all-night market, where they picked up alcohol and iodine and bandages, and Charlie dressed the wound while Vince, behind the wheel, got them on the road again. They switched from street to street, doubled back, circled through the rain-lashed darkness, like a flying insect reluctant to light anywhere for fear of being swatted, crushed.
speeding through the storm-sodden streets, Charlie insisted on having a look at Christine’s wound, although she said it wasn’t serious. He was relieved to discover that she was right; she had only been grazed; the bullet had left a shallow furrow, two inches long, just above her hip. It was more of an abrasion than a wound, mostly cauterized by the heat of the bullet; the slug wasn’t in her, and there was only minor bleeding. Nevertheless, they stopped at an all-night market, where they picked up alcohol and iodine and bandages, and Charlie dressed the wound while Vince, behind the wheel, got them on the road again. They switched from street to street, doubled back, circled through the rain-lashed darkness, like a flying insect reluctant to light anywhere for fear of being swatted, crushed.
They took every possible precaution to insure that they weren’t followed, and they didn’t arrive at the safe house in Laguna Beach until almost one o’clock in the morning. It was halfway up a long street, with (in daylight) a view of the ocean; a small place, almost a bungalow, two bedrooms and one bath; quaint, about forty years old but beautifully maintained, with a trellised front porch, gingerbread shutters; shrouded in bougainvillaea that grew up one wall and most of the way across the roof. The house belonged to Henry Rankin’s aunt, who was vacationing in Mexico, and there was no way Grace Spivey or anyone from the Church of the Twilight could know about it.
Charlie wished they had come here earlier, that he had never allowed Christine and Joey to return to their own house. Of course, he’d had no way of knowing that Grace Spivey would take such drastic and violent action so soon. Killing a dog was one thing, but dispatching assassins armed with shotguns, sending them boldly into a quiet residential neighborhood . . . well, he hadn’t imagined she was
that
crazy. Now he had lost two of his men, two of his
friends
. An emotional acid, part grief and part self-reproach, ate at him. He had known Pete Lockburn for nine years, Frank Reuther for six, and liked both of them a great deal. Although he knew he wasn’t at fault for what had happened, he couldn’t help blaming himself; he felt as bleak as a man could feel without contemplating suicide.
that
crazy. Now he had lost two of his men, two of his
friends
. An emotional acid, part grief and part self-reproach, ate at him. He had known Pete Lockburn for nine years, Frank Reuther for six, and liked both of them a great deal. Although he knew he wasn’t at fault for what had happened, he couldn’t help blaming himself; he felt as bleak as a man could feel without contemplating suicide.
He tried to conceal the depth of his grief and rage because he didn’t want to upset Christine further. She was distraught about the murders and seemed determined to hold herself, in part, accountable. He tried to reason with her: Frank and Pete knew the risk when they took the job; if she hadn’t hired Klemet-Harrison, the bodies now on the way to the morgue would be hers and Joey’s, so she’d done the right thing by seeking help. Regardless of the arguments he presented, she couldn’t shake off her dark sense of responsibility.
Joey had fallen asleep in the car, so Charlie carried him through the slanting rain, through the drizzling night quiet of the Laguna hills, into the house. He put him down on the bed in the master bedroom, and the boy didn’t even stir, only murmured softly and sighed. Together, Charlie and Christine undressed him and put him under the covers.
“I guess it won’t hurt if he misses brushing his teeth just one night,” she said worriedly.
Charlie couldn’t suppress a smile, and she saw him smiling, and she seemed to realize how ironic it was to be fretting about cavities only hours after the boy had escaped three killers.
She blushed and said, “I guess, if God spared him from the bullets, He’ll spare him from tooth decay, huh?”
“It’s a good bet.”
Chewbacca curled up at the side of the bed and yawned heartily. He’d had a rough day, too.
Vince Fields came to the doorway and said, “Where do you want me, boss?”
Charlie hesitated, remembering Pete and Frank. He had put them in the line of fire. He didn’t want to put Vince in the line of fire, too. But, of course, it was ridiculous of him to think that way. He couldn’t tell Vince to hide in the back of the closet where it was safe. It was Vince’s job to
be
in the line of fire if necessary; Vince knew that, and Charlie knew that, and they both knew it was Charlie’s job to give the orders, regardless of the consequences. So what was he waiting for? Either you had the guts to accept the risks in this job, or you didn’t.
be
in the line of fire if necessary; Vince knew that, and Charlie knew that, and they both knew it was Charlie’s job to give the orders, regardless of the consequences. So what was he waiting for? Either you had the guts to accept the risks in this job, or you didn’t.
He cleared his throat and said, “Uh . . . I want you right here, Vince. Sitting on a chair. Beside the bed.”
Vince sat down.
Charlie took Christine to the small tidy kitchen, where George Swarthout had made a large pot of coffee and had poured cups for himself and Vince. Charlie sent George to the living room windows, to keep watch on the street, poured some of the coffee for himself and Christine.
“Miriam—Henry’s aunt—is a brandy drinker. Would you like a slug in that coffee?”
“Might be a good idea,” Christine said.
He found the brandy in the cabinet by the refrigerator and laced both cups of coffee.
They sat across from each other at a small table by a window that looked out on a rain-hammered garden where, at the moment, only shadows bloomed.
He said, “How’s your hip?”
“Just a twinge.”
“Sure?”
“Positive. Listen, what happens now? Will the police make arrests?”
“They can’t. The assailants are all dead.”
“But the woman who sent them isn’t dead. She’s a party to attempted murder. A conspirator. She’s as guilty as they were.”
“We’ve no proof Grace Spivey sent them.”
“If all three of them are members of her church—”
“That would be an important lead. The problem is, how do we prove they were church members?”
“The police could question their friends, their families.”
“Which they would definitely do . . . if they could
find
their friends and families.”
find
their friends and families.”
“What do you mean?”
“None of those three gunmen was carrying identification. No wallets, no credit cards, no driver’s licenses, no nothing.”
“Fingerprints. Couldn’t they be identified by their fingerprints?”
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