Chapter Eight.
TERRY QUIST KNEW he was in trouble when he woke up in the middle of the night and smelled perfume around him. As always, he was alone in bed. Women were a thing of the past for him . . . and it hadn't been much of a past. He was ugly, poor, and full of bad personal habits. He had not done well with the ladies.
He lay staring into the shadows around him, inhaling and listening.
There came from the living room of his tiny garage apart-ment a steady rustling.
Woman or not, the idea of somebody out there going through the papers on his desk scared the hell out of him.
Rustle, rustle, rustle. She was turning over page after page. All his story ideas, such as they were, lay on that desk. Under pseudonyms he moonlighted for a number of raunchy weeklies: The National Tattler, The National Tattler, The Midnight Express, The Midnight Express, a few others. Naturally his notes were here. They couldn't be kept at the office. If the a few others. Naturally his notes were here. They couldn't be kept at the office. If the Times Times ever discovered his sin he'd be instantly fired, or so he assumed. ever discovered his sin he'd be instantly fired, or so he assumed.
But his notes weren't of interest to anybody-just a bunch of jerkoff ideas. "The Sexual Power of Celery" was one. "Telepathic Cancer Cure" was another.
Oh, God, the notes on the Night Church were there, two pages neatly typed up just this morning!
He became aware that the. rustling had stopped.
By the time he realized she had come into his room she was right beside his bed.
She stood looking down at him. As she bent close he saw her glaring eyes. She was beautiful like a snake might be beautiful. You can't look, and yet you can't look away.
She was also familiar.
Although his own eyes were closed to slits, he recognized the face swimming in the dark above him. It was Mike Banion's wife, Mary.
Seemingly satisfied he was asleep, she withdrew from the room, pulling the door almost shut.
A blinding flash filled the crack between door and jamb. Then a rustle of paper. Then another flash.
A moment later he heard his front door click shut.
He lay motionless, waiting for his heart to stop banging. A confusion of thoughts tumbled through his mind. Mary Banion? Two flashes. Pictures of the two pages.
But Mary Banion? Mary Banion?
Oh, Christ. If they were in it together, when he went to Mike he would have been talking to the Night Church.
The image of Alex's charred body came to mind. Death was bad enough, but a death as hard as that, God help you.
He was in deep, deep trouble. He had to act on his own behalf or he was a dead man.
Throw himself on the mercy of the Night Church? Maybe the Banions would vouch for him. Sure they would. God, they had to or he was going to end up just like Alex.
What the hell was was the Night Church, that it could com-mand the loyalty of a lady as fine as Mary Banion? Or Mike, if he was part of it. the Night Church, that it could com-mand the loyalty of a lady as fine as Mary Banion? Or Mike, if he was part of it.
He was damn well going to find out. He showered and shaved and put on his best doubleknit suit.
Now he looked like an underpaid salesman instead of an even more underpaid newshog. Maybe a machine-tool sales-man or a shoe salesman, or the type of guy with a chain of two or three newsstands.
Barely okay, in other words. But it was his best suit, so it would have to do.
The streets were empty and quiet, the big trees breaking up the glare of the streetlights. Flower smells came from the yards of the enormous old Richmond Hill houses. People sneered at Queens, but it was a magical place at night, on the side streets where the secrets hid.
He would walk right into the Spirit. He would become a member in good standing. Hell, he wasn't going to go the way of Alex Parker; he was smarter than that.
The Spirit lay at the far end of Morris Street, a huge black bulk rising past the crowns of maples and chestnuts. Morris was a short block, worth only one streetlight, which fitfully illuminated the front of the age-blackened church. Terry's footsteps sounded loud on the sidewalk.
He reached the church. Absolute silence.
He mounted the steps, put his hand on the big brass handle.
The door opened noiselessly. Somebody had been very careful to keep it thoroughly oiled. Inside, total blackness. For a few moments Terry thought he must be early, or late, or even that they hadn't come on this particular night.
Then he sensed that the dark was full of people.
From deep within there came a low, strange musical note. In response some of the people in the pews lit tiny candles, cradling them in paper cones. Now Terry could see faces, and they were the faces of everyday life, old and young, plain and beautiful. There were whole families, mothers and fathers and children, single men and women too, all sorts of people.
Terry thought he'd better make himself known instantly. They mustn't be given the idea he was spying on them. "Excuse me," he said in a whisper that managed to echo through the whole damn church. "I'd like to join up ... if that's okay."
They responded as one voice with a sound that at first Terry could not quite understand. Then he realized that it was a buzz of amused surprise.
He felt horribly alone. But when he turned to leave he found that somebody was standing right behind him. He was of middle age, dressed in a black pinstriped suit and a club tie, with the sensitive face of a decent and educated man. Obviously an usher. And why not? Night or day, churches needed ushers. He drew a long, gleaming stiletto from beneath his jacket, then replaced it. "Please be quiet," he whispered. On the domineering side, as ushers go.
Terry decided to be just as quiet as he could.
There came from the choir loft a deep, resonating hum, like the rising of a million locusts. The call of whatever kind of hellhorn they had up there caused the congregation to drop as one man to its knees. The service had begun.
Old altar bells, long abandoned by the day church, tinkled softly. The congregation raised their heads.
Before them stood an elderly man with blazing green eyes. The most glorious vestment that Terry had ever seen wrapped his shoulders. It must be beyond anything created for centu-ries-not since the decadence of the Middle Ages-with diamonds and rubies and emeralds and sapphires, the thou-sands of tiny jewels worked into intricate symbols and designs. In his right hand he carried a crystal wand. His head was mitered with a tall conical hat.
His robe shimmered in the wan light with images and suggestions of images, scenes of horror: corpses woven of tiny black beads ran along the bottom hem, worked into every possible posture of agony. Above them rose flames of ruby and orange soapstone, and higher still were obsidian chips fashioned into the outlines of ruined cities.
He swept back and forth in front of his congregation, pacing like a lion and making passes with his wand.
Here came the mumbo jumbo. For an instant Terry actually thought that this was going to be humorous, but then the man turned to the altar and he saw the face woven on the back of the robe.
It was more than a monster's face embroidered there; it was remotely and disgustingly human. Its features were gross, with thick lips and exaggerated brows, and an excess of teeth bulging from the mouth.
The anti-man.
Terry wondered why they would want to create such a thing. What did they get from serving evil?
Power? Wealth? Or was it the same thing that drew romantic young Germans into the SS: the allure of death?
Two members of this congregation were supposed to have been bred to conceive the first anti-man.
Sure. Look at this bunch, scrubbed and clean and straight.
They must all be crazy. Had to be. Nothing that ugly could come out of a human union, no matter how horrible the parents were. And none of these people was even slightly horrible.
The chief magus, or whatever he was, turned around again and cleared his throat. He looked out across his congrega-tion with an expression only a little nicer than the one portrayed on his vestment.
"We are gathered here to pray that our Princess may survive the great suffering to which we in our impiety and stupidity have subjected her." Another stiletto type came across the nave and whispered to the dark priest or wizard or whatever he was.
Then those eyes were looking right down the center aisle at Terry Quist. "Come," the wizard said softly.
As Terry walked up the aisle faces turned to watch him. Just normal, ordinary, everyday faces. A lot of families had brought their kids.
The low, pulsing sound that had begun the ceremony started again, this time developing thrumming chords that seemed capable of sinking into the depths of the mind, evoking in Terry emotions of stunning violence.
He saw by the discomfort in the pews that he was not alone in this reaction.
Here and there younger children covered their ears. And yet this was not a loud sound so much as a penetrating one. It would hardly be audible beyond the church walls, except to somebody with unusually sensitive ears. Alexander Parker must have been one such person. The music carried a strong emotional charge. Negative. Terry fantasized a Sten gun in his hands, pulling the trigger, seeing blood and brains spray around him- "Stop right there, young man."
Terry stopped. He was about ten feet from the wizard. This close the man's face was quite simply terrible. It was old and the color of newspaper, and it looked as fragile as a dry leaf. The green eyes glared in the way that Terry's years as a reporter had taught him to associate with advanced psychosis or great rage.
"You say that you want to join us, young man. How have you come to know of us?"
Terry's sense of the situation was that there weren't many right answers to that question.
He hadn't really expected to be greeted with suspicion, given his assumption that they would want recruits. Wrong again, Terry. His life was a tissue of mistakes, way back to the beginning. Obviously, he had just made another. Or had he? Getting into this was his one and only ticket out of getting killed by it.
"I knew a guy named Alex Parker-"
Somebody grabbed his shoulders from behind and slammed him to his knees. "Never "Never address His Eminence from your feet, please." address His Eminence from your feet, please."
"Hey, now wait a minute." He sensed an arm being raised for a blow. "Sorry! His Eminence. Take it easy. I'll be real respectful."
The wizard met Terry's eyes with as cold a look as he could imagine. "So you must be Mr. Quist," he said softly. "Yes. I see your logic in coming here. You were correct to assume Parker had talked about you.
Now you want to join us rather than risk sharing Parker's fate. Clever. Convenient for us, too."
Not quite the right response. There was something Terry didn't like about his coming here being convenient for them.
"We have been given a special opportunity tonight," the wizard said. "Prepare for the Rituale Cruciatus Rituale Cruciatus Nexis." Nexis." He clapped his hands. "Mr. Quist is going to test our revised vector." He clapped his hands. "Mr. Quist is going to test our revised vector."
"What kind of a vector?"
He was shoved again. "Never address a question to His Eminence."
"Sorry! Will you tell me what test-"
"It will be very brief, Mr. Quist," His Eminence said. "This vector is so quick you'll hardly even know what happened."
"Wonderful, Your Eminence. Very reassuring. I think I want to go home."
His Eminence did not even smile.
Something was going on at the rear of the church. There were a number of people consulting with one another. Then one of them broke away and trotted up a side aisle. He consulted briefly with His Eminence.
The old man seemed testy. "And make it fast," he rasped at his departing lackey. He looked toward the choir loft. "Begin the processional, Bob."
"The organ?" came the reply, full of doubt.
"Of course not, it's too loud. The horn."
The musician was a master of his instrument, whatever it was. The music swept and swirled and throbbed. Terry even forgot his aching knees. He had never before heard a musical instrument that made such a sound. It worked on your emotions to an almost uncanny degree. This time the tone was one of peace and reassurance, like one might hear in an ancient monastery, where the monks were chanting their matins.
Perhaps fifteen minutes passed before His Eminence re-turned to the center of the sacristy. At the same time Stiletto Man and one of his assistants arrived and crowded Terry on both sides. Guess I'm going through with this, Terry thought.
The horn sounded a single, long note. Terry craned his neck around and saw a boy and girl of perhaps twelve begin marching up the aisle with the self-consciously slow tread of under-rehearsed kids. Their grave, soft faces were yellowed by the flickering light of the thick red candles they held in their hands.
They were dressed all in white, these children, and their footsteps made no sound.
Now things began to get colorful. The wizard-oops, His Eminence-raised his arms and spoke: "By the power of the King of the Underworld, O Spirits of the Hells receive our gift and remember Thee us!" He began a slow twirling dance, his face sinking to deep concentration, his wand describing quick crosses.
"Come and take our offering, O Deeps!"
The congregation replied: "Come from the east, the south, the west, and the north. Come into this house."
There was the rattle of a general turning of pages.
The children reached Terry.
His Eminence stopped his dance. He dropped to his knees, facing his congregation. "Who shall be the medium of the experiment?"
The girl replied, "Father, it is Terence Michael Aloysius Quist," Nice. They even knew the Aloysius. The last place that had appeared was on his birth certificate. The Night Church had done its homework.
"Do you give him up willingly?"
"We do, your Eminence." The children spoke as from rote, carefully and in unison. Their candles guttered and swayed.
"What shall open the gates of the future?"
"The death of man."
His Eminence stood up, a menacing presence in his shim-mering robes and tall miter. "I call Thee, Odweller in the deep of hearts, come among us and receive this our gift of thanks."
The congregation responded: "May He bless our experiment." There was that word again. Experiment.
This Night Church was half religion, half science-the demented superstition of the Middle Ages mixed with a science that had progressed far beyond the worship that accompanied it.
The music stopped.
This was a cue to the children, who had paused before Terry. "Come with us, please, sir," said the girl.