F. Paul Wilson - Reborn

"It wasn't your fault!"

"Next time we pay for a garage or a lot space near a main drag. No more penny-pinching where safety's concerned."

His arms around her seemed to absorb her fear. The sobs began to fade. She felt more herself by the time Bill returned to the backseat.

"Done," he said.

"You didn't mention names, did you?"

"I told you I wouldn't. But I don't like it."

"So you said. But just remember: If anyone asks why you look bruised, just say you slipped on the ice. I'll do the same."

They had argued about making a police report—Bill for, Jim against. Both were adamant, but Jim had finally put the problem into chilling focus.

"For all our sakes, Bill, you can't go to the police."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bill had said from the backseat.

"For all we know, they may be only a part of a bigger gang. If they are, what about their buddies?"

"What about them?"

"What if they blame us? What if they feel embarrassed and humiliated by half a dozen of their number being so easily laid to rest? What if they figure they've got to even the score to regain their honor? Our names and addresses will be on the police report. What if they retaliate against us?"

Bill had been silent as Carol shuddered at the thought.

Jim went on. "I don't know about you, but I don't want them breaking into my home to finish off what their friends started with Carol back there. You want them lobbing a Molotov cocktail into St. F.'s dorm some night?"

"Maybe you're right," Bill had said softly after a long pause. "But at least let me make an anonymous report. We can do that much, can't we?"

Jim had nodded. "Of course. As long as you don't mention any names."

Now the call had been made and they were moving again. Jim turned the car east on Fourteenth.

Bill said, "Somebody killed five people—"

"Five killers , you mean," Jim said. "Five guys who would have killed us and raped Carol if that somebody hadn't stepped in!"

"Probably six dead if he caught up with the last one."

"Be that as it may," Jim said, "I'm not sure I want to put him behind bars. I owe him."

"That was cold-blooded murder, Jim!" Bill said.

"Granted. But what could I add to an investigation? That he reminded me of my father?"

Carol gasped. That tall dark figure she had seen had resembled Jonah Stevens. But that was impossible.

"Oh, Jim," she said lightly, actually managing a smile. "Your dad's not exactly Mr. Warmth, but he's not a killer. And he certainly doesn't hang around the East Village!"

Bill said, "I don't remember your father too well, Jim, but you've got to be kidding. This guy was efficient— brutally efficient. I mean, he dispatched those guys one after the other. One swing apiece."

"Do you know what my father does for a living?"

"He's a butcher or something, isn't he?"

Carol heard Jim's voice drop into a monotone.

"He works at the slaughterhouse, but he's not a butcher. He does one thing all day long, and I guess he's pretty good at it. As each cow is led inside, it's his job to brain it with a sledgehammer before its throat is cut."

14

Emma heard Jonah's car pull into the driveway. She tried to suppress her excitement as she wondered what he'd be like this time. Sometimes he went out late at night and came back and just sat in the living room with the lights off, drinking beer. Other times…

She wondered where he went on these little jaunts. What did he do, what was he looking for? Like so many other things with Jonah, you learned not to ask. It got you nowhere.

At the moment she didn't particularly care what he had gone out for; she just hoped he'd found it. Because on certain nights he didn't sit up in the living room when he came home. Instead he came directly to the bedroom. And when that happened, he always wanted her. Wanted her badly.

And when that mood was upon him, he drove her to ecstasy beyond imagining.

Emma heard him enter through the kitchen from the garage.

"Is everything all right?"

"Fine, Emma. Just fine."

She felt her heart begin to race as she heard Jonah's footsteps bypass the living room and come down the hall, felt herself grow moist between her legs as he stepped into the room and began stripping off his clothes. She could hear his rapid breathing, sense his arousal like a throbbing heat in the room.

He slipped into bed and pressed himself against her back. He was stiff and hard, like oak, like iron. She turned toward him and felt his arms go around her, felt his hands slide down her flanks and lift her nightgown.

This was going to be one of those nights. Maybe the best ever.

Six

Ash Wednesday, February 28

1

"Remember, man, you are dust, and to dust you will return."

Grace dwelled on the priest's words as he dipped his thumb in the ashes of last year's palms and dabbed them on her forehead in the form of a tiny cross. She crossed herself and walked down the center aisle of St. John's toward the front entrance.

Outside, she jumped at the touch on her arm as she stood atop the stone steps.

"You're Grace Nevins, aren't you?"

She turned and saw a thin, intense-looking young man perhaps half her age. His face was very pale; his blond hair was so thin and wispy she could see his scalp right through it; his pallor was accentuated by the dark smudge of ash in the center of his forehead. His mouth seemed too large for his face, his nose seemed too small. Two of him could have fit inside the stadium coat he clutched around him. It was of good quality, but he was too thin for it.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Martin Spano. We've been looking for you."

Grace was immediately uneasy. Why should anyone be looking for her?

"You've found me."

"It wasn't easy. I waited outside every Mass at St. Pat's last Sunday. You weren't there. The Holy Spirit led me back downtown. This happens to be my parish."

"What do you want?"

"Brother Robert heard about what happened at choir practice at St. Patrick's last week."

Grace turned away and started down the steps.

"I don't want to talk about it!"

She had not been back to St. Patrick's since that awful night. She now attended Mass at St. John's instead. It was closer to her apartment. And besides, what was there to go back for? The choir director obviously could not trust her with the solo. She had pleaded with him that she didn't know what had come over her, that she hadn't meant to sing those horrid words, but that only seemed to bolster his decision: If she could not help it, how could she guarantee it wouldn't happen on Easter?

He was right, of course. She had rushed out of the cathedral in shame.

The young man followed her down the steps to Thirty-first Street.

"It wasn't easy to find you, Grace. You've got to listen to me. You're one of us!"

That stopped her.

"I don't even know who you are, Mr. Spano—"

"Martin, please."

"—so how can I be one of you?"

"Brother Robert says that what happened to you at choir practice is proof. You've felt the presence of the Evil One. You know that he is among us!"

Grace tensed. "Are you a Devil worshiper? I want nothing to do with—"

"No-no! I'm just the opposite! I'm one of the Chosen."

The Chosen ? Hadn't she seen that title in bookstores on the cover of a best-seller?

"Chosen by whom?"

"By the Lord, of course. By the Holy Spirit. We have received the knowledge that the Antichrist is coming. We are to spread the warning among the nations of the earth. We are to expose the Evil One when he appears!"

This was crazy!

"I'm not interested."

Martin gently took her hand. "You're afraid. I myself was afraid when I first realized the responsibility God was placing on my shoulders. But it's a responsibility neither of us can shirk. Brother Robert will explain it to you."