"Come on! Pull yourself together. We've got to think this out."
She stopped, but only by jamming her own feelings down into her guts and holding them there with a fierce effort of will she doubted she could sustain for long.
"We are mutants. The other word was unfortunate." He sounded calm, and that helped a little.
"Genetically we must be very different from other people." He shook his head. "God knows what we are.Halfway between Homo sapiens Homo sapiens and-well, something else. I cannot imagine what our chil-dren will be like. A virtual new species." and-well, something else. I cannot imagine what our chil-dren will be like. A virtual new species."
"But we're people!"
"Not really. Close, yes, but you and I are not people."
She was losing her home, her family, her happy life. She knew it-she could feel it all being destroyed by that one awful word. Freak. "But we look look like people, we like people, we act act like people!" like people!"
He nodded agreement. "We're a close mutation." He looked at his hands, felt his cheeks. "Amazing. Me.
You. That we would be this . . . whatever we are."
"Are you sure sure it's not the hypnosis?" it's not the hypnosis?"
He took her hands. "I know how to read my charts, We may be under hypnosis. In fact I'm sure we are.
But the overriding finding is the high degree of abnormality in our brains' electrical functions. That means-"
"Don't say it again! Don't say that word!"
She let him hug her. Gratefully she buried her face in his chest. She remembered the monster again, and felt all at once the absolute coldness of the unknown. How little she really knew, even about herself. "We look look like people!" like people!"
"Yeah. We can probably mate with people too. Have human-like kids. But if we mate with each other our children won't be remotely human."
She couldn't stand to hear that. "Just stop it! Stop talking that way. Look, we can go away somewhere.
Nobody will ever know, nobody needs to know. Whatever we are inside, we can keep it secret, we can hide it! We'll be able to get married and all, and things'll work out. They will, I know it!"
He held her more tightly. "Baby," he said, his voice quaking, "somebody already knows all about us."
He could only mean the Night Church. There flashed in her mind again an image of the revolting thing on the altar. She let herself weep into his shoulder, and she thought, We're in the middle of God knows what, and we're getting more lost by the second.
She held him, and he held her, and for a precious moment (hat was all there was.
We two.
Chapter Seventeen.
FEAR WAS NOT normaly part of Mike's emotional makeup. Tonight, though, he could taste it in his mouth, a sour dryness that made it hard to swallow.
It is not a sound, but you can hear it in the wind; not a presence, but you can feel it watching you.
Fear.
He had no ilusions about searching Mr. Apple's house. It belonged to a powerful and hitherto unknown cult. The Night Church. Coming here was probably the most danger-ous thing he had ever done.
He suspected he was a fool to be doing it-especially this way, alone and without backup.
He had no warrant. As far as the law was concerned, he was a common burglar. But then the law didn't know he was here. He didn't trust his own people enough to risk swearing out papers.
He waited until the hours past midnight to drive through the streets of Kew Gardens to the empty house. He parked around the corner and walked back, his hands thrust into the pockets of his raincoat, his hat shadowing his face when he passed under streetlights. He moved with the precision of a dancer, his shoes making no sound on the sidewalk.
His entrance was professional, so quick that an onlooker would have assumed he had a key. As he gained the front hal he returned the plastic card he had used to prize the lock to his inside coat pocket. Almost automatically his fingers reached in and touched the butt of his police special, tucked into its shoulder holster.
The floor groaned with his weight. Good-that was a sign it hadn't been walked on for some time. Mike went across the foyer and into the living room. The air was dense, faintly tinged with the musk of mildew.
As Mike's eyes got used to the light he could see that nothing had been removed from this room. That was as expected. Mr. Apple had left no relatives and no will. It would be months before Probate Court got around to dispos-ing of this place on behalf of New York State. He took a crystal ball from a collection in a case in the living room. The little quartz orb dimly reflected the thick velvet drapes, the intricate Chinese carpet, the Flemish landscapes on the walls, and the deep mahogany of the Victorian furniture. One could almost see shadowy figures moving in the com-plex dark of the crystal.
Beside the orb was a small silver key, rounded at the end in a unique and familiar way. It was a coffin key. Mike had seen them often enough at the morgue. Strange thing to find in a home. Was it the key to Mr. Apple's coffin, left here by a careless mortician when the old man had so conveniently died?
He replaced the crystal, picked up the key. It was a typical stubby coffin key, steel, looking like a luggage key, but with the name Aurora stamped on the flange. Largest coffin company in the world. Mike had used such keys in disinter-ments.
Carefully, patiently, he moved through the living room, brushing his gloved hand along the back of a chair, caressing the surface of a mahogany table.
Old Mr. Apple.
That name hadn't checked out. Back around the turn of the century foundlings in upstate New York were always called Johnny Apple on their birth certificates. "Mr. Apple" was an identity generated from the birth certificate of a foundling who had died in the Oneonta County Institution for Indigent Children two weeks after he was discovered in a box behind a grocery store.
"Franklin Apple's" birthday was December 11, 1893. That was the day Johnny Apple had been discovered in the box. Developing an alias this way was a clever technique. You find somebody who died young about the time you were actually born, and you send for the birth certificate. Then you use that to get a social security card and a passport, and the passport to get a driver's license, and the license for everything else.
You use the alias until it gets hot. Then you kill it off.
Father Goodwin hadn't mentioned Mr. Apple during inter-rogation, but one of the ladies at the supper had. Mike was so desperate for leads he had begged Harry to dredge his memory. "The incident was very minor," he had said. "The man made her nervous and she didn't want to talk to him. I told her to offer it up.
That kept her with him for fifteen minutes. She said that he was creepy. It's a matter of no importance, I'm sure. He was very old."
Mike hadn't told Harry how important he thought Mr. Apple might be. Always best to play a case like this one closer than you thought you had to.
To discover the little tiny motives that always seem to start crimes, the best place to go is a man's hidden world, his sock drawer, his medicine cabinet, the back of his closet.
Crystal balls? Coffin keys? Not the likely possessions of just any old man. But an old man who was playing around with sorcery might have such things.
Strange mementoes themselves were of little value as evidence. Such things did suggest, though, didn't they?
Mike returned to the central hallway of the house. On the opposite side was a study. Behind it would be the master bedroom and dressing room. Mike knew the layout of the house; he had lived in one very much like it with his first wife, Beth. Rego Park, from 1964 to 1975. The house had been built by Butler and Horowitz in the late twenties-they had put up hundreds of them all over the borough. Butler Boxes, they were called. By now most had been torn down or so altered as to obscure their original modesty. Not so Mr. Apple's bungalow. It even retained the vintage twist-spring doorbell.
Beyond the door of the study Mike could see a big desk, shelves of books, a television set on one of the shelves. He went in, walked the edge of the room.
When he brushed past the television set he paused. He put his hand on it. Was there a little warmth there, or was it simply the hot night? He went on, circling the desk. Nothing was disturbed in here. He would save the study for a few minutes. Even as inefficient as it was, Probate would have removed any important papers with the body and stored them in its vault down at the Queens County Courthouse.
To get an idea of the man as he had been in his skivvies, at his most revealed, Mike would try the bedroom. He stepped carefully along the Persian prayer rug that served as a hall runner. His penlight told him that, like everything else he had seen in the house so far, the carpet was very fine. Mr. Apple certainly hadn't lived in want.
Which raised an interesting question. Why had a rich man like this gone to a seniors supper to eat Father Goodwin's meager offering?
The sonofabitch had gone there to observe Patricia. Even then he had been watching her.
The bedroom was a puzzle. It did not talk old man, not by a long shot. If Mike's instincts were working, this room had been decorated by a young woman. There was even a vase of fresh roses. Perhaps only a day old, from the feel of the petals.
Fresh flowers, a slightly warm television-somebody was living living here. Mike became aware of the weight of his pistol. and wished he had spent some time down on the practice range recently. here. Mike became aware of the weight of his pistol. and wished he had spent some time down on the practice range recently.
He got much more careful, but also much more interested. He glanced at his watch. Three fifty. This time of night people who weren't home could be expected any minute or not at all. Good that his car was around the corner and not out front. He began to work the penlight with his hand cupped around it.
Reflections on the ceiling would read outside like the flicker of a match.
Then he froze. He had heard a sound, a scrape like a window being raised.
There it was again. It was followed by silence. Maybe some wind had come up and was scraping a tree limb against a pane of glass.
There was a small writing desk under the window. Lying on it was a fountain pen. Mike touched the nib.
Full of ink. It was eerie to come into the house of a dead man who might not be dead.
He opened the single drawer of the desk. Inside was a black leather binder that contained about ten sheets of blank chart paper, like something a scientist might use to plot curves. He felt the surface for telltale indentations. Sure enough, someone had written on the top sheet and torn it off, leaving depressions on the sheet below.
Mike took the indented sheet off, laid it on the desk, and shone his penlight along it edgewise. There were words neatly inscribed in one corner, as a scientist might label the chart of an experiment. But the words were not scientific R-i-t-u R-i-t-u-something. Then C-r-u-c-i-a-t-u-s, C-r-u-c-i-a-t-u-s, then a word that began with then a word that began with N N and had an and had an x x in it. Then a name, which Mike recognized with sick dread. in it. Then a name, which Mike recognized with sick dread. Quist! Quist!
Come on, guy, quit shaking. You're a cop, you're carryin' heat, you got no problem.
Cruciatus. Mike's altar boy Latin was exceedingly rusty, but there was an ugly sound to that word. It didn't mean crucifixion-that was Mike's altar boy Latin was exceedingly rusty, but there was an ugly sound to that word. It didn't mean crucifixion-that was crucifixus. crucifixus. This sounded worse. This sounded worse.
Seems from this they must have hurt Terry. So what's the surprise? Look what they did to Patricia.
Beside Terry's name were two slashes-a date had been written there, but the numbers were too faint to be dis-cerned. Below the name, pressed into the paper as if the writer had been bearing down for emphasis, was written "Titus strain 334, Cochran batch, B. positive 3." Here and there across the paper faint lines indicated that a chart had indeed been drawn. At the bottom, at regular intervals, were numbers, but Mike could only make out a few-3:54.22 was the first. Farther down was 3:57.44. The others were unintel-ligible.
Titus strain. Mary's first husband was named Martin Titus. Batch? Mike felt a cold shiver go up his spine. What the hell was it Terry had said about diseases? And what the hell was Mary's former married name doing on this chart?
You be careful, guy. Forget going home for tonight. Mary was now a suspect. She had gone out before the kids at Lourdes-he had witnessed that. Now her first husband's name turns up here. So she must be considered dangerous, and prepared for accordingly. Damn, damn. What in hell hell was this all about? Mary involved? That beautiful, decent woman? He loved Mary, damn it, and he was now suspect-ing she was about to become a very big disappointment to him. was this all about? Mary involved? That beautiful, decent woman? He loved Mary, damn it, and he was now suspect-ing she was about to become a very big disappointment to him.
Cruciatus. Whatever the hell Whatever the hell Cruciatus Cruciatus was, it sounded bad. He looked at the paper. Killing by disease and charting the results. Experimenting. was, it sounded bad. He looked at the paper. Killing by disease and charting the results. Experimenting.
Was Mary crazy or what? He was getting all choked up. He loved that woman, damn her. Damn everything. People got hooked by cults all the time-Reverend Moon and all that-but this thing-God, if Mary knew about Patricia. If she knew! knew!
Cruciatus. It might mean excruciation. Torture. That poor guy. Such a rotten end for an innocent human being. Mike next went to the high, beautifully carved antique four-poster. He took off his gloves and raised the edge of the bedspread. Thrusting one arm beneath the sheets he felt the intimate space where the user would sleep. The sheets were damp, slept in recently. It might mean excruciation. Torture. That poor guy. Such a rotten end for an innocent human being. Mike next went to the high, beautifully carved antique four-poster. He took off his gloves and raised the edge of the bedspread. Thrusting one arm beneath the sheets he felt the intimate space where the user would sleep. The sheets were damp, slept in recently.
Why, Mr. Apple, you're not dead, you've just moved to some new name. As far as that beautiful piece of mahogany amoldering six feet down is concerned, let archaeologists of the future figure out why it contains cinder blocks.
Make a note: get the damn thing exhumed ASAP.
The house was suddenly filled with voices. "Please, let me go, let me go!" a woman screamed. Mike whipped out his pistol and backed into the shadows.
"I can't help myself!" a man cried back, his voice full of anguish.
Then Mike saw a flickering glow in the hallway. And those voices-they were accompanied by music.
The goddamn TV had been turned on.
Mike's heart began thundering. Somebody must have come home. Now he was watching an old movie.
God, these people were stealthy. They even crept into their own houses.
A coldness spread through his body. He didn't believe people could be as quiet as this one had been. Not normal people.
He started down the hall. To get out he had to pass that study, and the door was wide open. At least he had the sound of the TV to cover him.
He was three-quarters of the way past it when he risked a glance in. The study was empty.
A television set turning on by itself? Mike swallowed, braced his pistol in his hands, and went into the room. The television had gone from picture to snow. The station must have signed off.
For a moment he watched the pulsing, hypnotic glow of the screen. Then there was an audio problem-the hiss changed to a deep, tooth-jarring sound that made Mike lunge forward to turn off the set.
Don't do that! You're crazy-whoever turned it on will notice! He stood transfixed, staring into the dancing, pulsat-ing glow, listening to the low booming sound.
And didn't he hear a voice?
No.
His eyes went to a small box attached to a wall socket immediately below the TV.
He almost laughed with relief. It was a timer. The set was timed to go on in order to make the house look occupied.
At four o'clock in the morning?
Hell, maybe the timer was defective.
Mike pulled the timer out of the socket. The TV went off. He returned to his search, feeling more than a little annoyed with himself for letting a perfectly explainable incident throw him off balance. It now seemed as if the place would be a rich source of information. No probate officer had made an inventory of this house, because Mr. Apple hadn't really died.
Mike looked around at the shelves and shelves of books and the big desk.
He intended only a quick glance at the books. There were a few modern titles, mostly privately printed from the look of the spines. Biogenetic Atlas: Engineering the Future, Transmission of Contagious Biogenetic Atlas: Engineering the Future, Transmission of Contagious Vectors, Genealogies Pantera, The Family of Flavius Sabinus Titus. Vectors, Genealogies Pantera, The Family of Flavius Sabinus Titus.
Who? Always go for the names. Names are hard informa-tion.
Mike took the Titus volume down. It turned out to be about a Roman emperor. A long story about how he had sacked Jerusalem started the book. Mike thumbed through it. A chapter heading: "The Treasure of Solomon." This chapter was about ritual magic, hypnosis, and "the calling of the demiurge." "Out of the union of the perfectly bred will arise the antithesis of man, who will inherit the mantle of species and the favor of demons." On and on like that. Next chapter: "The Coming Good: Anti-Man."
Mike read: "He will bear the appearance of a demon, yet have a living heart. As God made man in his miserable image, so Satan will make the anti-man in His glorious one. He will be as a dark fury, going about at night and sleeping during the day. Taller, stronger, more intelligent than a man, he will be heavy-boned and like the lower animals be born competent to walk. He will have great jaws and eat raw flesh by gorging. His strength will be such that he will need neither house nor fire, but will be comfortable in the fields and forests. All the despoiling of the land that man has done will end when the anti-man repopulates the earth with his own issue."
Mike stared at the words, dumbfounded. They were talking about nothing less than giving the world to some devil-made species.