Insane, insane, insane.
Farther along there was a complicated genealogical table, showing how they intended to bring about their anti-humanity. Generation by generation they were breeding toward the monster. The genealogical table was a chronicle of their progress. It was labeled "The Hidden Kingdom, 1021-1952." It spilled over twenty pages of names and more names, all connected together by lines of relationship.
Mike read with increasing foreboding the lists of Tituses, until he quit trying to puzzle the middle centuries together and flipped to the end. Sure enough, there was Martin Titus, wife Mary Derwent Titus, son Jonathan.
Mike found a chair. His penlight was beginning to dim but he had to read more and he couldn't risk taking books.
All the time he had been right in the middle of the thing. These Tituses weren't just in the cult, they were were the cult. And the wonderful kid was heir to the whole damn thing. the cult. And the wonderful kid was heir to the whole damn thing.
Biogenetic Atlas: Engineering the Future proved to be a complicated scientific treatise of recent origin. proved to be a complicated scientific treatise of recent origin.
The spine crackled when Mike opened the book. It had been printed in 1981. There were charts and graphs, and detailed diagrams of what seemed to be genetic helixes. The chapter headings were daunting: "Structural Physiology of Titus/Pantera Off-spring." "Biogenetic Reference Tables' to Families 121/166."
(Here there were thirty pages of tables of numbers, evidently referring to changes in the genetic structure of generation after generation. Every twenty columns or so somebody had made a check mark in red ink beside a major change in the numbers.) Looking at these charts Mike got a sense of the steady progress that had been made by the Night Church, patiently breeding two families together over hundreds and hundreds of generations, breeding them like fruit flies in a laboratory. But the Night Church didn't have laboratory conditions. This had been accomplished across the tumult of history.
This section of the book was accompanied by illustrations. The earliest ones were Roman wax paintings, familiar to Mike from an afternoon's wandering through the Metropoli-tan Museum with Mary. He had assumed them to be satyrs or something. Not until now had he ever dreamed that those old Roman monsters were real, living creatures.
According to the text, carefully bred people with the proper genetic structure could briefly become such monsters in a ceremony called the Rituale Pudibunda Coitus. Rituale Pudibunda Coitus. Thus transformed, they were called Thus transformed, they were called monstrum. monstrum. If a man in the If a man in the monstrum monstrum state inseminated a correctly bred woman, the resulting anti-human would be male. If the woman was the state inseminated a correctly bred woman, the resulting anti-human would be male. If the woman was the monstrum, monstrum, the child would be female. the child would be female.
Generation after generation they had tried to give birth to a living anti-man. All they needed was a male: he would be able to mate with normal humans and produce monstrous offspring. But they hadn't succeeded. One would be born with a defective heart, another with an unformed brain, a third with some mysterious genetic disease. It was as. if nature rebelled against the travesty.
Astonishingly their failures were chronicled publicly, there for all to see just like the old Roman paintings.
As time went on the creatures had become more and more terrible. Anybody could study them even now: their portraits were on all the Gothic cathedrals in the world. They were the gargoyles.
Generations of failure had only spurred the Night Church to greater efforts of breeding. Mike reflected as he read that here was a group of people in love with death. Their books were decorated by images of Thoth, the all-seeing Egyptian god of the underworld. Thoth and the arms of the Black Prince of the Middle Ages, and the glittering death's-head symbol of the SS.
The Night Church was a religion of death, just as Chris-tianity was one of life. As Christianity strove to resurrect man in Christ, the Night Church sought to destroy him in Satan.
Next was a technical appendix showing recent progress in creating the state of monstrum. monstrum.
Mike was more utterly revolted by this than by anything he had seen in all his years as a cop. The Night Church was breeding human beings like lab mice, toward ugliness and deformity. And making them carry out obscene rituals in churches, becoming monstrum monstrum in order to give birth to hideous things. in order to give birth to hideous things.
But there was genius in it, sparkling like a black, evil diamond through these carefully reasoned words.
As a cold touch, there came to Mike the realization that he was looking upon the very work of Satan. This was real real evil in all its hideous ugliness, not the paltry nastiness of human beings. The Night Church was a dark, festering miracle, a Satanic masterpiece. evil in all its hideous ugliness, not the paltry nastiness of human beings. The Night Church was a dark, festering miracle, a Satanic masterpiece.
Mike wanted to throw down the book in his hand, to somehow cleanse himself of the foulness it exuded.
But he forced himself to read on. Here was the jargon of high science: "Signal Ritual Induction in Late Titus Offspring." As if to crush what little hope of disbelief he had left, this section contained a photograph of almost unspeakable hide-ousness. The picture was blurred by the fact that the light was low and the subject twisting and turning against chains. But Mike could see the awful, mucous-slick scales half-grown out of human flesh, the bulging vulture eyes still bearing a man's brow, the mouth crusted with blood from the sudden eruption of the yellow fangs, the flaring, pink snout still looking a little like the nose it had been.
This dreadful image, of a man half-transformed into something else, was accompanied by a dry paragraph of scientific jargon: "Induction in collateral Titus male 22, Ungar, Robert Titus Martin, type O-, genetic subclass AR, 22.66 measured PKO, reversion in 52 sec. to human. Outcome: monstrum monstrum deceased before impregnation of female could be com-pleted." deceased before impregnation of female could be com-pleted."
Mike could no longer control himself. He cried, openly, loudly, like a child lost in a haunted forest.
The Night Church was another, darker world hidden in our own, a place of terror and agony lurking in the shadows of everyday life.
He wanted with almost crazy desperation to get out of this wicked house. But he forced a shaking hand to put back the atlas and draw out another book, this one entitled Genealo-gies Pantera. Genealo-gies Pantera. This was the family that had been bred along with the Tituses across so many generations. This was the family that had been bred along with the Tituses across so many generations.
The female line.
He went directly to the last few pages, to see if he recognized any of the modern names. He was thunderstruck by what he found. Patricia was there, listed as the daughter of Samuel and Rebecca Murray, who went through a long line of Irish families back to Roman Britain, and thence to someone named Joshua, who had been a sorcerer in the time of Solomon.
Mike had reached the end of his strength. This was more than he could bear. He threw the book against the wall and screamed out his rage and disgust.
Every living person he loved was in this monstrous, corrupt cult! Every one of them.
He ran, ignoring the noise he was making, out into the black night. The roses on the porch trellis filled the darkness with their scent. As Mike ran he got scared. It was as if some great creature was following him, reaching out for him. He vaulted a hedge and slipped in dew-covered grass, falling and rolling. He lay on his back gasping for breath. And saw among the stars two great vulture eyes staring down at him.
His scream was as thin and high as a baby's. His wildly pumping legs pushed him along for a moment, then he managed to get to his feet and scramble the thirty paces to his car.
Frantically he worked the key into the starter, said a little prayer as the engine turned over, fought the impulse to floor it when it started.
Mike drove down Abingdon Street, slowly for quiet, and did not turn his lights on until he had reached the corner of Lefferts Boulevard.
The precinct was three minutes away, but Farrell's was what he wanted. Lights and people and normal things like coffee and tea. Lobster-shift cops would be there. He needed the reassuring presence of other police.
Tonight he had seen things that could drive a man mad. In an hour the whole world had changed for him.
Satan was no longer a vague symbol of emotional disturbance. Satan was a real thing, as vital and alive as any human being. Mike had no doubt that those eyes he had seen in the sky were Satan's. Evil and ugly and tremendous, and staring right at him.
He cruised past his own house. A dim light shone in his and Mary's bedroom. What was going on in there? What might await him?
He had given that woman his love. Goodbye to that. And the kids? He had to reserve judgment there, he just didn't have the heart to start hating Jonathan and Patricia.
The boy had demanded a poly-like he suspected himself of the rape but did not know. Could that mean the two of them were dupes, ignorant of their own true selves?
He thought of going over to All Souls Cemetery and visiting Beth, just to be near someone who had once been warm and good and loved him, to wash off with memories of her goodness the evil that clung to him.
"Honey," he would say, "I never thought Mary was really a replacement for you, but she was warm and decent, and she was real pretty. I didn't fit with her and I guess I should have known something was wrong, but she was so damn beautiful. That counts. She isn't as pretty as you, though, no, ma'am. Lord, honey, I'd like to get you in my arms right now. I'd like to kiss your neck while we made love, the way I used to."
His chest was tight, his throat ached with sorrow. "You had a beautiful name, Beth. A beautiful name."
Oh, quit your bawlin', you sentimental Irish asshole. You have to put yourself back together. For better or worse, you've been handed the biggest job any cop ever had.
He felt that horrible chill again. He sensed that the eyes were back, glaring at him right through the roof of his car. A sudden wind rocked the old Dodge on its springs, and made the trees ahead toss wildly in its headlights. For companion-ship he flipped on the police radio. He headed for Farrell's even though he had realized that the lobster shift was off break, so there weren't likely to be a hell of a lot of cops there.
There weren't any at all.
He was tempted to cruise the boulevard for a whore, but he couldn't do that successfully in an obvious unmarked car like this. They'd run away, naturally, from a city-issue Dodge with cop plates.
Naturally.
He finally rolled into Farrell's, put on his hat, and went in. The counter was empty, the booths were empty. A black preacher and his family sat at one of the tables eating a turkey dinner. At this hour of the morning?
Okay.
Old Gus the drunk was on duty, with Reynaldo running the grill. "Gimme coffee, Gus."
"Sure thing, Inspector."
Call me Mike. I'm just Mike. Good Lord, but I am alone.
MARY: THE WEBS OF THE INQUISITION.
It is four o'clock in the morning. I sit here in my little pool of light writing, alone in an empty, hostile house.
I am a betrayer. I have lived with a man in love in this house, falsely drawing him down into a pit from which he cannot save himself.
I look at these smooth hands of Lilith, my hands, witch's hands. They used to burn my kind in autumn fires long ago, in forest villages when the wind crowded down the leaves and the sky ran gray.
I am swift in the night, the taloned maiden. Look at my red-tipped claws. Mike would call them fingers, and say they are beautiful. I know differently. When he thinks they are caressing him is when they are cutting deepest. I can make a man's soul leak out through his skin.
Distantly the bell of Holy Spirit Church tolls four times. All well, all well, all well, all well. Not far from here Mike is searching the cottage Franklin used while he was living under his alias. All well. Mike is being tricked into finding exactly what we want him to find, just enough of our secrets to animate in him a great fear of us. He will take nothing important away; he dares not. Within moments of his depar-ture the crew that is waiting in the basement will come up and strip the house of every single scrap of evidence.
Mike is an actor now in the terrible theater of Lilith. He will strut and posture until the end of the play.
He will not escape me.
Look at the words I have just written. He will not escape me. I'm sure of that, I suppose.
By going where he has gone, Mike Banion has delivered himself to our control. We are vastly better equipped for this game than he. We have people, resources, equipment, and above all the insight of the demons to guide us. For his part, Mike is afraid even to involve his own men for fear that some may be members of our Church.
Mankind drifts along, haunted by gibbering spirits and useless gods. At the bottom of each human soul is the evil old ape from which we have sprung. We, the transitional species, half-animal and half-god, all full of tragedies and destructions.
I am almost overwhelmed with a worshipful desire to get on with our great work. What a mercy bubonic positive 3 will be. Homo sapiens has suffered itself for a hundred thousand years. It is past time for this awful tragedy to end.
The actors upon the stage are at last dissolving into dark.
Only the Inquisition can stop us now. But will it? We are very close to success. And yet . . . there is always the possibility of something overlooked.
The Inquisition spins subtle webs.
I worry, turning the same few facts over in my mind again and again. I imagine priests-silent, careful, fanatical- slipping through the darkness, filling every ignored corner, obsessed with their mission to save a religion and a humanity that are both already dead.
Most human creatures, in their secret hearts, hunger for destruction. Freud's "death wish" is the instinct of a defec-tive species toward its own extinction.
As the church of the destruction of man, we use the great human symbols of death: the unblinking eyes of Thoth, the steel helmet of the Black Prince, the glittering silver death's head of the SS.
Mankind longs so much for an end to itself that it has even devised means of mass suicide. Or else why are there such vast nuclear arsenals on the earth? If man does it himself, with his atomic bombs, the race's death agony will last for years. The few destroyed in the explosions will be lucky. As for the rest-radiation poisoning, burns, infection violence, and starvation will take them ... so very slowly. Dr.
Cochran's new bubonic positive 3 kills quickly-in under ten minutes, to judge from our experience with Terence Quist. We, at least, are merciful.
Chapter Eighteen.
THE INCREDIBLE REALITY that Jonathan's instruments had unlocked tore at Patricia's mind, threatening her very sanity.
From the moment she had understood what he meant she had thought of only one thing: escape. escape. If she had been able to magically trade bodies with somebody else she would have done it. But that was impossible. She was in herself and she couldn't get out. If she had been able to magically trade bodies with somebody else she would have done it. But that was impossible. She was in herself and she couldn't get out.
He was trapped as well. Two mutants.
Who felt like, wanted to be, in their hearts were were just ordinary people. just ordinary people.
They were going to go where they could live the lives they coveted. Their wants were simple: a home and children. Just like everybody else, they had a right to a quiet life.
We can life in sunshine. The shadows that have caressed us can be burned away They crept through the dangerous silence of Kew Gardens, beneath the black intricate trees lining the streets, their feet falling softly on the close cropped lawns and spotless sidewalks. It was so quiet their breathing seemed to shake the air.
Every movement Patricia made, every rustle of her skirt or touch of bare arm against a shrub, almost stopped her heart. Slowly they drew closer to the Banion house and whatever might await them there.
Had there been a choice they would have gone directly from the lab to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, but there was no such option. Money was essential, unless they wanted to terminate their escape this side of Philadelphia. Jonathan carried no credit cards. The best Patricia could do was a Hamil MasterCard with a three-hundred-dollar credit line that was almost used up. Between the two of them they had thirty-six dollars and the card.
The night through which they moved was on one level just another fragrant August night, rich with the mysterious content of nature. But underneath the beauty lurked an evil presence they could feel but not name. They sensed it in the reflection of moonlight from the startled eyes of cats, and in the long voice of the wind that seemed always to be with them.
The moon had dropped low. Soon the gray shadows of trees and houses that crazed across the lawns would be blackened away. Only the Manhattan glare in the western sky would be left providing light.
Patricia took Jonathan's hand in hers as they approached the Banion house. She wanted to say, Don't be afraid, but she did not dare even to whisper until they were better concealed.
They had gone first to her apartment to get her miserable little cache of five-dollar bills. Four of them-big deal. But what could they expect? She was at the moment taking home exactly $168.42 a week.
The pistol Mike had given her was there too, guarding her fortune, and she had dropped it into her purse as well.
It was safest to assume that the Night Church was every-where, watching, waiting. Not patient, either.
Patricia remembered the avidity of the thing that had raped her.
With each step she took she said a prayer. But it was not your usual Catholic turn-the-other-cheek sort of thing, it was a raging, furious prayer for the utter destruction of the Night Church and all its faithful.
Patricia had insisted that they walk instead of taking the bus from her place to his, for a very practical reason. This way they could better detect anybody following them. The streets of this quiet and exclusive enclave hidden in the middle of Queens were just too empty at four thirty A.M. for a follower not to be seen or heard. They didn't want the Night Church and didn't need Mike's guards. This had to be done alone.
She intended that they would take the Long Island Rail-road milk run in from Kew Gardens at five. From Penn Station they would walk to the bus terminal and get on the first long-distance express they found, and go where it was going.
Now that this plan was being executed she could almost taste the freedom of the new life it promised.
She took Jonathan's hand. Nobody was going to ruin the common, everyday happiness she wanted to share with him.
As they walked along, she felt in her purse with her other hand, touching the steel flesh of her pistol.
"I don't think I can kill," he had said when she picked up the weapon. "Can you?"