And into the arms of yet another sister. Sister Mary. Mary Banion. "Let me go!"
"Oh, you poor darling!"
A man was coming into the room behind her, a man with a mustache and great, bushy eyebrows. He bit his bottom lip up into the mustache. "Now, Patricia, we aren't going to hurt you."
"You're crazy, Doctor Gottlieb! You're one of them."
"Shouldn't we tranquilize her again, Doctor?"
"We can't afford to impede her memory. She's got to recall her part in the ritual."
Gottlieb took her wrist, concentrated a moment. "Pulse is good. And the gynecological exam was very successful, Mary."
"Don't you dare examine me!"
"I did it while you were asleep, dear. I'm not a fool."
"You're evil! All of you! I want out out of here!" of here!"
"Now, wait a minute. What in the world is the matter with you? Don't you remember anything?"
"You're liars, all of you-vicious, evil liars! And the Church is unholy, filthy!"
"You're badly confused, darling."
"I want Jonathan! I want him now!"
"Soon. Very soon."
"You're monstrous, all of you-"
"Patricia, I'm not sure I understand your problem. What's the matter with coming home after all this time in hiding?"
Mary was so clever. So damned clever. Patricia told herself to remember what she had said to Jonathan: We may be mutated in a thousand different ways, but we can live ordinary lives if we try. We may be mutated in a thousand different ways, but we can live ordinary lives if we try.
"You have a great work to perform, Patricia. The greatest of all works. You must remember so you can do it well."
She recalled how Mary had tried to press a cloth soaked in ether onto her face while she lay on the altar of Holy Spirit Church.
As the late effects of the shot they had given her wore off, Patricia became better able to consider her situation. She stopped arguing with her captors. There was no point to it. Instead she tried to seem a little more cooperative. Only by winning their trust would she have any chance at escape.
"What are you thinking, Patricia?"
She couldn't be to compliant, though. That would give her away. She took what she thought might be an expected stance. "You were there when It raped me. You let It rape me!"
It had great, heavy coils and eyes like yellow marbles.
"You were the victim of a terrible mistake. All I can say is that I'm sorry. We're all sorry."
Sorry. That was one way to be.
Again she looked out into the countryard. At the far side was a ten-foot wall. The only way to scale it would be to jump to a low-lying limb of the elm and vault over. The wall fronted on Sullivan Street. Beyond it would be cars and students and joggers and old ladies and derelicts and kids and all the world. Just being a shopgirl out there would be a privilege compared to the suffocating horror of life in this place.
Patricia had been the highest of them all, but for Jonathan.
You are our hope.
Your child will be a god.
She had been seduced by such praise. She admitted it. If she was clever, she might be able to convince the seducers that she was succumbing to them again. Then they might give her the few unattended minutes she needed. "Our belief is that mankind is a failure, isn't it, Mary?"
"Look at the conditions you encountered on the outside."
Mary touched her wrist. Patricia let a soft and devoted look come into her eyes. But she thought only of escape. Nothing would ever make her believe the Church's propa-ganda again.
She recalled the rituals, hundreds of them: annuals and seasonals and monthlies. Rituals for the rising and setting of all the major stars, rituals for the rhythms of the body, the phases of the moon, rituals to mark the earth's important passages, and prayers that praised her, the planet of pearly green beauty, whose needs the Night Church served. Then there were the Sacrificials, the bloody rites in honor of the saints of the Church.
Saint Gilles de Rais, accused of torturing and murdering children. Actually the teacher of Jeanne d'Arc, another of the great saints of the Night Church. Like her, burnt.
Saint Elizabeth Bathory, one of the greatest of the medie-val genetic experimenters. Walled up in her own bedroom for what the ordinary population called mass murder.
Saint Appolonius of Tyana, killed by the Christians for writing of sorcery.
Saint Iamblichus, crucified by the pagans.
On and on went the list of the honored dead. Magicians, they were called, or alchemists or sorcerers or wizards. All the while, though, their hidden Church was the true guardian of the future, carrying the Treasure of Solomon forth to the millennium.
To the end of time.
"You must be ready to do your duty."
"Yes," was all she said. But she thought, My duty! My duty is to be destroyed.
It had come upon her stinking worse than any animal; its eyes glistening and inhuman, yet piercing with intelligence. It had mounted her with the weight of an anvil.
Patricia's mind twisted and turned between thoughts of capture and freedom. Inwardly she felt like a kitten so desperate with pain that it begins to try to bite itself to death. But she forced herself to sit on the beside and talk with Mary, and pretend to be a good little princess again.
She belonged only to Jonathan-the Jonathan of the ordi-nary world. The dark thing thing within was not really a part of him. It belonged to within was not really a part of him. It belonged to them. them.
"The preparations for the marriage have already begun. You should see your wedding dress! This is going to be the most wonderful ritual in all our history." Mary smiled, touched Patricia on the cheek, on the hand. "Of course, it is the culmination of the Church. It ought to be grand."
"I'm sorry I've been so upset. I have a confession to make. After what happened in June-I'm scared to try again."
Mary hugged her. "My poor darling, I don't blame you, not for an instant. But remember that under normal condi-tions It can be gentle. And these will be normal conditions. No surprises for either of you. Oh, it'll be a grand occasion, you'll see!"
She returned Mary's embrace. "You're very reassuring."
Mary smiled, pleased by what she assumed to be a compli-ment. "I'm a faithful member of the Church.And your friend, my dear."
I would like to knock you aside, run through those doors, across that terrace, grab that limb, and swing right over onto Sullivan Street.
I want to be free! free!
But she also wanted Jonathan. Somehow she would have to get to the senior men's wing, find him, and free him so they could both escape together. Woe tugged at her heart when she thought just how hard that would be.
They sat side by side in the deepening dark. Just when Patricia was deciding that Mary was never going to leave, she kissed her on the cheek and stood up to go. "I'm glad you're getting yourself together so well.We need cooperation from both of you if this thing is going to work."
In the distance a gong sounded. Mary moved toward the door. "Dinner. But I think it best that you don't attend Commons just yet. I'll bring you a plate myself."
Patricia looked to the French doors, her heart already beginning to pound with the thought of escape.
"Thank you, Mary. I'm really hungry."
She almost burst into tears when Sister Saint John came back the instant Mary left. She was all bright and admiring. "You are are coming along well," she cooed. Patricia could have choked her. coming along well," she cooed. Patricia could have choked her.
"I feel much better."
"You must be so excited," she breathed.
That hardly seemed the right word. "Why?"
"I mean, with the wedding in a few hours-"
The words, so unexpected and so shocking, made Patricia literally stagger. Sister caught her before she could fall, and cradled her gently.
A few hours!
Her mind raced along. "But what about Jonathan? Won't I see him again-beforehand?"
Sister laughed. "Not before the wedding."
But she would see him then, before he sank into monstrum. monstrum.
They would have to make their escape from the church before the ritual.
Oh, God, protect us and preserve us!
She looked up past the doors into the dark sky. There was a little patch of heaven there, the moon riding in twisted clouds, the moon so free, the moon so far away.
Chapter Twenty-two.
HOLY SPIRIT RECTORY was hidden in a forest of dark trees, only its tall, silent gables rising above them into the moonlight. A weed-choked path led to the front door. Mike had no intention of knocking.
After the disappearance of Patricia and Jonathan and his suspicions about Mary, he trusted no friend, not even old old Harry Goodwin. Harry Goodwin.
He had ceased to trust his own men weeks ago. He had ordered a stakeout of Holy Spirit after the rape-which had been quietly canceled by Max while he was at Lourdes. No results, Max said.
Scratch Max and the whole Sex Crimes Unit for good measure, and God knew how many other cops.
There must be something damned appealing about the Night Church to bend decent people the way it did.
He intended to carry out the rest of the investigation alone. At least he didn't have to worry about loyalties. He was on the side of the little guy, the schmuck who got kicked, Mr. Nobody. Outfits like the Night Church were just like organized crime, maybe worse. The Enemy.
He wasn't here for evidence. There was plenty of that in Titus's house. As the days had passed, each person Mike loved had been implicated.
Harry was a fine old friend. More than that, he was Mike's confessor, his priest. But the rape had happened in Harry's church.
Mike had shared his truth, his sins and deepest sorrows with this man. He hated to test him now.
What a luxury it would be to sit across Harry's kitchen table and talk this thing out with someone he could trust. Surely Harry would check out. He was among the very best men Mike had ever known.
Mike looked up to the second floor. Harry's bedroom window was dark. It was ten fifteen and Harry Goodwin was, as always at this hour, asleep. Those six A.M. Masses did it to him.
Rather than try to pick the difficult deadbolt lock, Mike went around the side of the house, looking for a window to enter. It wasn't hard. Harry was hardly buttoned up. All Mike had to do was apply a little force with his fingers and the sash of the office window went up with a dry rasp.
Mike observed thirty seconds of silence, then began the painful and difficult process of hauling himself in.
He hadn't climbed into a window in fifteen years or more.
He put his hands on the sill and struggled. His legs windmilled, caught against the side of the house. Then he got a knee over the edge and heaved. The central bulk of his body swung inward, and he landed on Harry's desk with a subdued thud. He had to lie there a moment letting his heart calm down.
The house was silent. By the faint light from the window Mike could see that the door to the hall was standing open. He went over to it. The only sound came from outside, where a restless breeze snatched at the eaves and rattled the windows. Upstairs Harry would be sleeping-if he slept at all. He looked awful these days, nervous and thin and ill.
Conscience-stricken was how he looked.
Mike returned to the office. The Parish Council sometimes met here, the men sitting on the black, vine-carved chairs, some of them smoking the stale cigarettes Harry always kept in a box on the coffee table. Harry would preside from behind this desk, his glasses gleaming, his eyes as grateful as a dog's. You pitied him, and it made you squirm.
Mike pulled the blinds down and closed them, then closed the door to the hall. He risked a light. If there was any evidence of the Night Church here, it would be somewhere in these records. Mike sat behind the desk and began going through the file drawer. The sections were marked CCD, H. Name, PC, Confraternity, Altar Society, Oil, Insurance, Mscl. Bills, on and on, all the details of parish management.
There was nothing suspicious, nothing even a little out of the ordinary. Mike opened first one file and then the next, scanning their contents, lists of names, ideas for sermons, parish bulletin notices, diocesan directives, bills and more bills.
Through all of this desperation one could glimpse the determination of Harry Goodwin. Despite the desertion of his people, he was keeping his parish going, robbing from one account to fill another, practicing every imaginable economy, even to cleaning his vestments himself in the basement, and from the look of some of these bills, not paying for the cleaning fluid. Keeping it going in case his people returned. Or when when they did. Probably it never crossed Harry's mind that they might not. they did. Probably it never crossed Harry's mind that they might not.
He was not getting support from the Night Church, at least not on the surface. Mike scanned the shelf beside the desk until he found the buff-green journal where he knew the parish finances were recorded. It was a simple double-entry journal. No fancy bookkeeping for Harry. He could no longer rely on voluntary help from Catholic bookkeepers in the parish. The entries were in Harry's own spidery hand ... in pencil overwritten with ink.
Mike looked at the endless, meticulous entries for collec-tions, the amounts dwindling steadily as summer settled in and people's air-conditioning bills took more and more of their money. Last Sunday Harry had taken in $171.29. Paging back through the journal Mike could find no entry so low for a Sunday. It was a parish record, forty dollars below the next lowest figure. But then, just a couple of days ago, there was a stunning contribution, fifteen hundred dollars from the Hamil Foundation, especially earmarked for paint-ing and cleaning the interior.
What the hell? That was the philanthropic arm of Hamil Bank. Did Laurent Hamil have a program supporting indi-gent parishes? He was certainly a big-time Catholic. His foundation might well be called on in emergencies. Not too suspicious. But Patricia worked there. Was there a connec-tion between Hamil and the Night Church?
Mike looked at the entry. The hand was a little more spidery, and there was no penciled trial entry.
Harry had known the exact amount of this particular contribution.