Becca handed him the phone, hitting his shoulder rather than his outstretched hand.

“Er, it’s a policeman. I —” Becca said.

Will lay flat on the bed, his head against his pillow. It was so black in here, it was like space. Like a coffin. A call into the void.

From the void.

“Yes?” Will said.

“Mr. Dunnigan? This is Detective Swenson, Los Angeles Police.”

Will felt the pillow, soft, incongruous.

From the void, from the tomb.

“Yeah,” Will said.

“Mr. Dunnigan, can I ask you why you called us, sir? Why you wanted us to check on your friend, Mr. Whalen?”

“What is it?” Becca hissed in his ear. “What’s wrong?”

Will shook his head. But she couldn’t see he knew.

“I — I was supposed to call him. A friend” — he said the word, uncomfortable with it —”had died. Ted Whalen had the information. He didn’t sound well when I —”

“I see, Mr. Dunnigan. Well, we went to his house, sir. And —” There was static on the line. The storm, thought Will. The storm. He lost the next few words. “We couldn’t get an answer at the door. But we got a look through a back window. A bathroom window.” The cop hesitated.

“Yes?”

“We saw Mr. Whalen. He was — he was caught, in a cabinet.”

Will thought of a clown, and spinning disks. Around and around. Here we go . . .

“We knocked out the window. We got our flashlights on him. And, sir —”

Don’t let the clown hook you through the neck. That can hurt. And be careful. When you go spinning off the disks.

“Sir, we saw Mr. Whalen and —”

Becca nudged him, hissed close to him, “What is it, Will?”

The cop told him how Whalen had died.

Told him about the moving black rug that covered Whalen’s body, black and glistening, reflecting the light.

How they saw the shape of a man, his back bent over, one arm sticking out. The legs, kneeling. But that it was all black and glistening.

“Mr. Dunnigan, he was being eaten. The ants — big ones — were all over, every inch of him. They were eating him while we watched.”

Will tried to recover a bit. “Was he dead?”

Silence. An interminable silence, stretching across the continent, then words, slow . . . measured. Then the cop said something that made Will gasp, made him turn into his pillow and want to yell, scream.

“No, sir . . . he wasn’t. He had been alive. God help us —”

The words! He said those words!

“ — alive . . . But by the time we got him out of there, the ants off him, he was dead. He was dead. He had no skin left. Nothing.”

Another pause.

And madness danced around the bedroom.

God help us, Will heard.

God help us. God help us. God help us.

Except.

There is no God.

But Will knew now — at last — that he needed help. Of some kind. From somewhere.

Help.

 

 

* * *

 

 

31

 

The policeman went on talking, asking questions that Will couldn’t answer, telling him things about Whalen — now called “the deceased” — that Will didn’t want to know.

Then the cop was gone.

Will told Becca what happened.

First, just about Whalen.

She deserved to know, he thought. Sure she does. After all, she’s in the dream too. She has a right.

Then, when he felt her, how cold she was, maybe trembling beside him, he told her the rest. Everything he knew.

About Manhattan Beach.

At first, she didn’t see any connection.

Then she laughed.

“That’s crazy,” she said. “What are you saying?” She laughed again. “That something happened that night?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” Will said. Which was true enough.

And he thought that Whalen died knowing something … something that he didn’t.

What the hell is it?

“Maybe I need help.”

She laughed again, a hysterical sound. “Help? What do you mean, ‘help’?”

“I don’t know.” He took a breath. “There’s someone Jim Kiff wanted me to call, a priest, an ex-priest —”

“What?” Becca said.

This isn’t happening, Will thought. Not real. Not fucking verifiable. I’m just getting freaked out —

No. It’s not just that. It’s as if this is a script. A little play unfolding. The Reunion. And I have my fucking part, whether I want to play it.

Or not.

There’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

“I want to go see this man,” Will said.

“Stupid,” Becca said. “Now you’re just being stupid. And” — she took a breath and sighed —”you’re scaring me.”

Will grabbed her hand. His cold hand encircled hers . . .

A script. Everything scripted.

“What you should do is call Tim Hanna,” she said. “Let him know . . .”

Will nodded in the darkness. ‘‘I’ll try. I can try.”

Sure. Because if there’s a script, then Tim has a role too. Something that all his money, all his success building high-rent apartments and office complexes in the new Battery Park City, and in the new Boston Commons, and in the gentrified south Washington, won’t keep him safe from.

Becca lay there quietly.

Will didn’t hear the soothing rhythmic sound of Becca’s breathing, slipping back into sleep.

He turned to her, and saw that she was lying beside him wide-eyed. He gave her hand a squeeze.

He said something, meaning it as a joke, a bit of black humor to break the grim night mood. .

“Becca — babe — you haven’t seen any ants around, have you?”

The dumb words were out, hanging in the air. Serious, devoid of even the feeblest shot at humor.

And she turned to him, only her eyes shining in the near-total blackness. “No,” she said calmly, as if he had been checking their milk supply. “No, I haven’t.”

Will turned away.

He lay there a long time, wondering at how he suddenly felt trapped. And what he was going do about it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

1 A.M.

 

 

* * *

 

 

32

 

Will opened his eyes.

He felt the hand locked on his, the bone rubbing against bone. And the sound filled the concrete stairwell. The sound of skin splitting, tiny liquid sounds, bubbles and pops.

But he opened his eyes.

Don’t look at it.

He knew that. I must not look at it —

— or it will be an over.

Instead, he looked at his bag. His bag of tricks.

He felt like a fearless vampire killer. A comic character out of a mock-horror film. Hey, Abbott . . . you’re not going to believe what just came out of this lady here.

His hand fumbled with the latch of the bag.

James said to pray. So he did. Mumbling the words bereft of any meaning for him. Wishing that somehow he believed.

Dear God, have mercy. Guard my soul and protect me against evil.

The words reverberated in the suddenly empty corridors of his mind. Protect me against evil. Protect me against evil.

And a terrible question.

What’s evil?

The latch popped open.

He felt the bony hand squeeze his wrist again. There was a sudden painful spike, the sound of something cracking.

It just crushed my wrist bone, he thought.

But Will didn’t turn. Instead he dug into the bag and grabbed the first thing his hand came to.

He pulled out the jar. He fumbled with the lid.

It was so damn hard to unscrew something with one hand. It didn’t move at all. He brought it against his body.

The thing holding his arm yanked him. The jar slipped a few inches, tumbling onto his lap. It almost hit the stone, he thought. Almost hit the stone and broke.

But it wedged in his crotch and he squeezed it with his legs. He grabbed the lid with his free hand, holding tight. The lid moved. He twisted the lid off. And then — taking a breath — Will turned.

The water flew out toward the dissolving hooker, the abomination, this bubbling, oozing mass that held him imprisoned.

“In the name of God, may all evil —”

He saw it now. The girl looked like a rumpled suit, discarded, curled up on the ground. She was a mess of bone and muscle and blood. But the head, the giant domehead was out now. Peering out of her midsection. And at the word “God,” he watched a dozen tiny mouths bloom all over its surface.

“All power of evil, every spirit —”

The watery splash landed, and a noxious vapor farted from the open pit that was the girl’s midsection. The dozen sets of teeth started chattering hungrily.

Still it held on, squeezing and crushing Will’s wrist, grinding bone against bone now.

“And let Lucifer be put to flight. By the power of God —”

He threw another splash. It howled. Out of a dozen orifices, it wailed, like a dozen mad babies, demented, screaming for their mother.

Will pushed back against the wall, kicking at the thing with his foot. He heard it ooze, he watched the Uncle Fester head wobble while he kicked at it.

“By the power of God!” he yelled. “By the power of God!” Begging. Screaming.

It let go of his wrist.

A tidal wave of pain crashed over him and Will moaned.

But now Will was able to stand up. He was free!

And the head with the mouths, all those teeth, was waving back and forth, suddenly acting like a balloon beginning to lose air.

He looked at the jar. The water was nearly gone. He backed up. And risked another splash, repeating his command.

Will backed up another step.

And the thing shriveled back into its hole.

In a second, it was quiet.

There was just the gentle, oozing sound of the dead hooker’s body as her blood sought ground zero.

Will heard the cars again. Horns honking.

He backed up one step. And then another. Then he stopped.

Got to cover the jar of water.

He brought his one hand around and looked at the damage. He tried to move his fingers. The hand just sat there, a useless claw. But he used that arm to hold the jar against his body. He picked the cap off the ground and sealed the jar. Tossed it into his bag.

His bag of tricks.

He laughed.

It actually worked. Praise — geez — praise God, it actually worked . . .

He closed up the bag.

Thinking: Got to get out of here. Got to get away. This will look very strange if someone comes by. Sure . . . very strange if some cops pull up in their car.

Oh, yeah, that would be a hard one to explain.

I — er — I just sent something back to God knows where.

Something with a lot of mouths.

Got to go.

He jabbed his bleeding wrist into his shirt, hoping it would stop the bleeding.

Up another step. Another.

Until he was on the street again.

Thinking: It was too easy.

Something was wrong for it to be so easy.

It won’t be easy if I find him out here.

He turned. Took a step.

And someone said something to him.

Someone said, “Hello, Will.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Joshua James

 

 

* * *

 

 

33

 

Dr. Joshua James moved the pile of books on his table. A few tumbled off the edge. He used both his hands like bulldozers plowing through the jumbled pile of books and papers, searching for the elusive treasure.

Which in this case was his lecture notes for his next class.

He made a few more runs through the pile before he stopped and thought . . .

Well. I guess I could wing it. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He scratched his balding dome, as if remembering the curly dark hair that was once there. Now there were just the vestiges of a shocking black mane that had made him more than usually handsome, especially for a priest.

Now he was nearly bald — save for two silvery patches on each side of his head.

Now he was no longer a priest.

Not a day went by that he didn’t evaluate his decision — weigh his choice of options. Run through his entire checklist of feelings to see if he had done the right thing.

And always ending up with the same answer.

I just don’t know.

Who said ignorance is bliss?

He shook his head, abandoning the search for his lecture notes. How tough could it be? he thought. Ethics 101. The type of class I can walk through blindfolded . . .

Just as my materialistic students do.

Ethics. Was there any more endangered subject in the entire curriculum? On the whole planet?

He looked at the clock. Good, he thought, I have plenty of time before class begins. I can walk across the campus — the ancient trees on the Fordham campus not yet bare. A little physical exercise, just like my doctor ordered.

He walked to a wooden chair by his office door. He picked up his Verdi attaché, the fine leather now worn to a rough rawhide by years of traveling to conferences, guest lectures . . .

Consulting.

A few of the nicks in the case had come in a more dramatic fashion.

He tended not to think about those nicks and tears.

Bad memories, he thought. You have to guard against such things. They can debilitate the soul . . . weaken your resolve . . .

James picked up the attaché.

He sniffed the air.

A habit.

The former priest reached for the doorknob.

And though he didn’t smell any thing —

He knew — just knew — that someone was waiting on the other side.

He pulled open the door and looked at the man. James didn’t smile, didn’t nod . . . he offered him no encouragement at all.

Go away, he wanted to say. I have a class to teach, students. Go away. Take your long confused face somewhere else.

Instead, James stood there. And said something —

 

“Yes. What is it?”

Will blinked. The man’s voice was crisp and harsh. I’ve obviously interrupted him going somewhere.

He felt as if he could melt under Dr. James’s withering stare.

“Dr. James, my name is Will Dunnigan, and- —”

God, how do I even start this? Will wondered. I have a crazy friend who had your book. No, not even a friend. And now he’s dead. And someone else died, and — you see — it’s the way they died- —

Dr. James shook his head, and Will realized that he hadn’t said anything.

“I have class, Mr. Dunnigan. Perhaps you’d like to schedule an appointment with the department secretary.” James leaned out of his door, took a step. “Her office is right down —”

Will looked in the proffered direction and nodded. But then he said, “No. I mean, I just need to ask you something . . .”

James came out of his office and Will felt guilty. He must get a lot of odd people stopping to see him. Weirdos who want to know about demons, spirits . . .

He looks so normal. Like any other professor …

Dr. James’s eyes narrowed, studying Will. A woman walked down the hall and Will saw James look up, as if ready to summon assistance in removing a wandering nut case.

I can’t tell him here, out in the hall, Will thought.

But James sighed.

“I really must —”

Will reached out and touched James’s arm.

A simple gesture, he thought. No viselike grip to stop the man. Just a touch. But then — then —

James looked up and all of a sudden something different was in James’s eyes. His gaze softened.

And Will felt as if he could tell this man anything, everything. It didn’t matter.

“An old friend died . . .” Will said. “Killed by rats, Dr. James. They found him all chewed to death.” More steps in the hall. “And another friend was — God.” Will looked away. I sound crazy. Nuts. “Something about ants. I — I don’t know.”

He saw Dr. James shift his attaché from one hand to the other.

James didn’t say anything.

But his eyes seemed to urge him on.

“One of them had your book . . .” Will handed it to James, who nodded, and then threw his eyes back on Will. “He was afraid. He said — I don’t know — he said a lot of crazy things. It had to do with something we did a long time ago.”

Dr. James scratched at his bald head. “Go on,” he said quietly.

“He had this too. It — it seemed important.”

Will handed him Experiments in Time, the tattered leather sticking to his hands.

James looked at the book in Will’s hand. He looked at it, but he didn’t take it.

Then slowly, deliberately, as if the act itself were important, Dr. James took the book and he said quietly, reverentially, “Experiments in Time.” He looked back at Will. “An exceedingly rare book.” He looked down at it again, and turned the book so that he could see the spine. “One could almost say . . . impossibly rare. I know of only one other copy extant.” James looked up. “Where did your friend get it?”

Will cleared his throat. For the first time since he came here he thought that he wasn’t going to be immediately booted off the Bronx campus. “I — I don’t know,” Will said. “And he wasn’t a friend really, not anymore. He was someone I once knew in school.”

Joshua James looked at his watch.

Back up to Will.

“You have time for a walk, Mr. — ?” The name escaped him.

“Dunnigan. Will Dunnigan.”

“Walk me to my class, Will. And tell me everything.”

Dr. James walked down the hallway, and Will followed, starting slowly, faltering . . . while James just nodded and listened to the whole story.

 

The wind scratched at the trees trying to violently shake off the last tenacious clusters of leaves. Already, dry, brownish-red leaves gathered in piles along the walkways that snaked through the campus. Everywhere it was red and gray, the leaves, the stone of the buildings, the gunmetal sky.

And Will told Joshua James everything, omitting nothing.

James just listened.

Then, when Will was done, James turned to him and asked, “You’re sure of the date, when that boy died?”

“Yes,” Will said.

More steps. A large, new building loomed ahead, incongruous amid the old red stone and expansive courtyard and tree-lined walkways.

“And you’ve consulted no one else, no one except me?”

Will nodded. “I almost didn’t come. It’s just that — well, with the both of them dying so strangely . . .”

James stopped. He touched Will’s arm again. “You did well. You haven’t read my book?”

“No. I — er — I’m not much for religion …”

James smiled. “You and a hundred million other people. No matter. Let me ask you something. The ceremony — whatever it was you did that night — do you remember anything about it, anything at all?”

The wind blew at Will’s hair. A cluster of leaves rustled, growled at his feet, scratching the stone walkway. “Not much. But —”

Some noisy students went barreling past, laughing, talking in great bellows, like sea lions at mating season. But they quieted, and Will saw one of the students nudge the others, pointing at James.

They moved on.

“Not much,” Will repeated. “But it’s there . . .”

James’s mouth went wide. His face scrunched up, not understanding. “What?”

“It’s there. The sheet we used. Inside that Time book.”

James’s face suddenly looked ashen, his cheeks hollow. He held the book up and examined it. The sheet of paper was barely visible, stuck halfway into the text.

“Oh, God,” James said. Then to Will, “That’s it?’”

Will nodded.

James looked at the sky and for a second Will thought of Melville’s Ahab, braving stormy seas, searching for the great white whale.

And was the whale good or evil?

James looked around as if thinking. His lips moved, and Will wondered that maybe the professor was a bit off.

Maybe I’m just overreacting. Maybe it’s nothing.

(“Chewed to death, Mr. Dunnigan. Down to the bone,” the detective said about Kiff. And Whalen, covered with ants, thousands upon thousands, chowing down on his body. Still alive . . . )

Finally James turned back to him. He took out a small memo pad and jotted something down. Then he ripped the piece of paper off and gave it to Will.

“I want you to do something. I want you to meet me this afternoon. There’s the address. It’s a small-church in the Orchard Street section of the Bronx . . . a nice little Italian neighborhood. A small” — James smiled —”old-fashioned church. Meet me there, say, at” — James looked at his watch —”four. I need to look at this.”

He held up the book.

“To think things through.”

Why a church? Will wanted to know. Why there, why not in the library or his office? But James interrupted the flow of questions inside his head.

“I have to go now. Try not to think about any of this. In fact, make yourself not think about any of it. I’ll meet you later . . . all right?”

Will took a breath. Sure, he thought. Maybe James might have an idea about what it was that Kiff and Whalen had kept from him. Their secret, maybe Tim Hanna’s too. What do they know that I don’t?

He felt cold.

Colder, as the wind blew against his thin jacket.

‘‘I’ll see you there,” Joshua James said, touching Will’s shoulder one last time.

Will nodded, and then the ex-priest hurried away, joining the swirling dance of leaves.

 

An old nun, dwarfish, her back bent into a hook shape, fluttered about the altar. Every time she crossed in front of the great marble slab, she genuflected.

The church was dark except for the flickering racks of votive candles and a pair of dim lights way up near the top of the small vaulted ceiling.

And everywhere there were statues, a soulful-eyed Christ. A Kubrickian baby with its arms extended out to the missing parishioners. A Virgin Mary looking up, her graceful hands folded in a quiet pose of adoration.

The nun arranged white flowers on the altar while straightening a bloodred cloth.

Once she looked at Will.

Will smiled.

She looked away.

This is a church from another era, Will thought. No altar turned to face the people here. No room for guitars and banjos and kumbaya, m’Lord. The air is permanently heavy with incense, an eternal ward against the sinfulness of heathens.

Will felt dizzy, surrounded by the smells, the heavy wood. It’s as if no fresh air gets in here.

He sat in a pew halfway to the back, just forward of the small choir loft.

And he waited.

The nun finished her altar arrangements and disappeared into the sacristy, There was the faint noise of water running, and the clink of metal. A chalice being cleaned, perhaps.

Will checked his watch.

It was after four. 4:10. 4:11.

My life’s been put on hold, Will thought. My sad-sack clients are filling my office with desperate, angry messages, Another court appearance was put off, not a good thing to do. Becca wanted to know what was going on.

And Will knew he couldn’t tell her … not about this.

She’d call a shrink

He smiled. Maybe that’s what I need.

Again, he checked his watch.

4:15.

He felt almost relieved that Dr. James wasn’t here. He’s bailing out. Gone on to other emissaries from the demonic realm.

Will began to feel like a sucker.

When he heard the heavy doors behind him swing open. Bang shut. He turned and saw Joshua James hurrying to him. The ex-priest genuflected and crossed himself. Then he slid into the pew, moving next to Will.

He patted Will’s hand,

“Good to see you again,” James said, smiling, the kind of buck-you-up grin bestowed on a pilot about to fly a suicidal run into enemy territory.

James knelt down. Closed his eyes, His lips moved.

Praying, Will thought, feeling uncomfortable,

Then James finished, crossed himself again, and sat back.

He pulled a small chalkboard out of his attaché.

Then he dug out a piece of chalk. He set them on his lap and he turned to Will.

 

 

* * *

 

 

34

 

“What is evil?”

James’s voice was a whisper, but still his question seemed to shatter the stillness of the small church.

“What? What do you mean?”

James repeated his question. “What is evil?”

Will smiled. Silly question. Silly answer . . .

“Bad things. And bad people who do bad things.”

“Uh-huh,” James said. “Just kind of faulty mechanisms, breaking down? Poor upbringing, environment, all that?”

Will nodded. “Yes, I guess so.”

James shook his head. “Then you’re saying that there is no evil, no objective evil?”

“No. I mean, there are people that do —”

James held up a hand and interrupted him. “Without evil, Will, there’s no good. No Satan, no Christ. It’s a package deal.”

The old nun came out again, this time holding a white cloth across her arms. She genuflected and then struggled to her feet.

“Unfashionable words, I’m afraid. But very true. You see, Will, there is something called evil. It exists as surely as good exists. And its goals are” — James smiled, as if he were teaching a small boy his addition facts —”directly in conflict with life as we know it.”

“What are those goals?”

“To destroy the power of God, the power of heaven, the force of order in the world . . . the force that made life appear on earth. And evil’s power is in direct proportion to the status of the human soul.”

Will shook his head. It’s all too much, he thought.

“You can look around at our world and see that God is losing.”

Yeah, thought Will. And I’m losing it.

“Here. Let me make it simple. The soul, the human spirit, can affect external events. Say you get discouraged. Down on yourself. And, presto, suddenly you start having a bad day. Very simple, but that’s the process. Hopelessness and hatred feed off each other, growing around us. Weakening the power of God.” James cleared his throat. “While the Adversary of existence grows stronger.”

“The Adversary? Who’s the Adversary?”

James answered him by handing him the chalkboard.

“That’s what we have to find out.”

James sat back and waited a second before beginning his ever-more-incredible explanation.

“Automatic writing, Will. We’ll try it. We’ll see if you know more than you think you do.”

Will grinned. “You’re losing me. I was just trying to get some help, some advice —”

James looked affronted. “You came to me? Correct? I didn’t come to you. You came to me. And I believe in the power of God. And the power of evil. You came to me. If you don’t have even the beginnings of some belief, then why in the world did you come to see me?”

Will shrugged. He looked at the chalkboard. He remembered something about automatic writing. A phony psychic’s trick. It’s in the same class with a Ouija board, a crystal ball.

James saw him looking down uncomfortably at the small chalkboard.

“If I called this psychometry, would that make you feel better?”

Will knew that term from his psych courses, years before.

Psychometry was the unconscious reading of objects and events. It was the Jungian idea — later adopted by spiritualists — that objects would carry fingerprints of their past.

Will held the chalkboard. “I don’t know. This seems —” He wanted to act polite.

Through the stained-glass windows, Will saw the light fading. The dismal afternoon was giving way to the early black shadows of a fall night.

The doors opened again. And Will turned to see a young woman walk in. She dipped her hand in the holy water fountain and then sat in the last row.

The cheap seats, Will’s father used to call them.

He turned back to James. James held out the chalk. Will shook his head. But he took the chalk.

“Close your eyes, Will. Close them and relax and listen to me.” .

Will made a face. But he followed James’s directions. “Now just listen to my voice, Will. Think about nothing else, nothing but what I say. I want you to write whatever words come to your mind as I talk to you, and nod if you understand.”

Will made his head go up and down.

Ridiculous, he thought.

What did I get myself into here?

“Any words. I want you to picture all your friends from that night. Each of them, and — as you do — I want you to write their names . . . and any other words that occur to you.”

Will made the chalk move on the board. It screeched, the horrible sound echoing in the nearly empty church.

James went on talking, quietly. “Good. Think about that night, what you remember, what you see, as if you were there, Will, right there, on the rocks, drawing on the rocks, saying the words.”

As Will wrote, he felt James lean over and erase the board, clearing it for more words, and —

Will felt his hand moving. Just jiggling up and down. Like the needle on a seismograph, shooting up and down. He laughed nervously, almost opened his eyes.

“Don’t open your eyes!” James commanded, his voice loud, surely scaring the woman in the last pew.

Will nodded.

“Remember it all,” James commanded.

And Will did.

 

The salty wind. Standing in the circle, in the points of a star. The words, silly, making them laugh. All of them drunk with the booze, all of them wobbling on the star points, waiting for something to happen.

But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Except —

Something did.

(I never remembered this. How could I forget this?)

There was a hole.

A monstrous, black hole at the center of his memory. He couldn’t imagine the circle, the star anymore. There was just this hole. And the five of them standing around.

No one was smiling.

I don’t remember this.

Yet it was there.

He went on writing.

Words upon words upon words.

James erased, hardly able to keep up with the flailing movements of Will’s hand.

Something glistened from within the hole.

I see something, Will thought.

There — where the circle, the star should be. Lumbering out of the hole.

We all watch.

We all see it.

It didn’t happen.

But why do I remember it? Why do I see this?

Out, until the black glistening skin revealed an iridescent rainbow of colors, moving swirls of magenta and purple, like a dark jovian planet filled with giant storms traveling along its surface.

We all look.

Then it’s there.

The smell fills his nostrils.

No one laughs. No one’s drunk.

It’s there. A shape with blackish eyes, or do we just imagine them? And a mouth, an opening. As if it would speak, as if it would talk to us.

It looks at each of us.

And I — and I —

Will cried out. He screamed.

“No! Oh, God, no!” He stood up, and the chalkboard slid to the floor.

Will looked at the altar.

The nun started back.

“No,” he muttered.

“Will.” James was up next to him, his arm around him, strong, gripping him. “You have to continue, Will. You can’t stop now.”

Will shook his head back and forth. “Yes, I can. I can stop now —”

James knelt down and picked up the chalkboard.

He grabbed Will’s hand and stuck the board in it, then the chalk. “No. Sit down. Finish it. You know you have to finish it now.”

Will turned to him.

He thought of Becca. Setting the table for dinner. The chatter of their two girls. He thought of his house. Please, he thought. I want to go there.

Joshua James is a madman. He’s going to make me lose it all.

But he knew that wasn’t true.

Because he was beginning to know what the truth was.

“You’ll continue?”

Will nodded.

He sat down. He heard the church doors open. The lady left.

Not a good night for quiet prayer.

“All right . . . close your eyes . . . continue …”

 

It turns and looks at each of us.

Each of us, fixing us with those eyes, sending messages, wonderful promises, with each amazing swirl of colors on its body.

Just a form, Will knew.

It can be anything. Anywhere. Anytime.

At any moment.

It looked at Will . . .

Will felt it then. Looking at him. Demanding.

Promising. Oh, the promises, the wonders, the power, the beauty . . .

Asking the question.

Will felt it.

And he felt his answer.

 

Will opened his eyes.

He was crying.

James cradled, held him close. Will sobbed, in a way that made him think he was five years old again, watching his mother leave home for the first time. Crying for her. Heaving, gasping at the incense air.

“Oh, God, oh, sweet God, I never —”

James pulled him close. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Call on His name.” James laughed. “It’s okay here . . . it’s all right . . .”

And Will was allowed to cry until the feeling was over.

Then James released him and said, “You have to continue now. You have to finish, Will.”

But Will knew that. Knew it.

Because he was beginning to know how all this would end . . .

 

It turned from him, and all that beauty and power, all the promises of worlds and life to come vanished. There was just the terrible stench and the cold and the crashing of the hungry sea.

It turned from him.

Will’s hand moved on the chalkboard slowly.

“Tell me,” James said. “Tell me who it is.”

It turned and Will watched it, saw it looking at the next person on the point of the star. It stretched something out, a hand from some part of its body, arm-like, reaching out.

And someone reached back.

Will stopped his writing.

He gave the chalkboard to James. His eyes were red, puffy from his tears.

The old nun was near the sacristy door, pointing at them. A young priest stood next to her.

James looked at the chalkboard.

“The Adversary,” James said. He turned to Will. “You did well. We have the name. And there’s power in names, Will.”

“It was like I was there,” Will said.

James nodded.

“Yes, you were.” He looked at Will and smiled sadly, as if he realized the strange, hopeless thoughts running through Will’s head. “I can tell you now about time, what it really is, but I needed you to do this” — he held up the chalkboard — “first.”

Will looked at it.

He saw letters, the words barely legible, scrawled across the board. Zar . . . Osirin . . .

“Its name,” James whispered.

And below it another word, something that Will knew already, just one word. The letters all crooked, jagged, spiky, fighting the pressure of his fingers.

Tim.

Will shook his head.

James patted his hand. “I won’t lie. You’re in danger, Will. Your family is in danger.”

Will turned and shot a look at him.

I’ll kill him, Will thought. I’ll kill the goddamn —

But he knew that wasn’t possible. It wouldn’t be that easy.

James made a small smile, trying to be reassuring. “But there’s time, Will. Always time. He can be stopped. If you do everything I tell you . . . if you trust me completely. Can you do that?”

Will nodded.

The young priest opened the gate that was part of the communion rail. He walked toward them.

“Good,” James said. “There’s time . . . and we have the name. God help us, we have the name.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

35

 

“Hey, Dad,” Sharon said, nearly barreling into Will as she went galloping up the stairs. She grinned. “Er, you like missed dinner.”

But then her smile faded.

And Will knew that she must have seen that he didn’t look okay. Something’s wrong with Dad . . .

I must be showing the telltale signs of insanity. This is how madmen look just before they cart them off.

He saw a book tucked under her arm. Mathematics Around Us. There was a ruler and space shuttle on the cover. A reassuring statement about the world. From the King’s foot to deep space — all of it is understandable, manageable by the human mind. With the help of modern mathematics’

Except for some things that just don’t fit, Horatio.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked.

Will shut the door behind him feeling like Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman. And what I’m selling today, they wouldn’t buy even on cloud cuckoo land.

Beth ran into the room, wearing a happy smear of chocolate across her face. She grinned — the weird gap of her missing front teeth both comical and bizarre.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said. Then, pensive, thoughtful . . . “Where were you?”

Will smiled at her. At least, he thought it was a smile.

“I — er — I had things to do.” He looked back to Sharon, but his oldest was already clomping up the stairs.

Away from me.

Away from the crazy man.

“How — how was school?” Will asked, taking a step toward Beth. But her snaggle-toothed smile was gone, and she backed up, and — Christ — I need a shower. Something to bum away, wash away, the church smell, the incense, the feelings —

Then Becca came out.

Looking as if she already knew some very bad news.

 

Becca watched him eat. Will felt her eyes follow the movement of his fork as he speared stringy bits of beef Stroganoff and then brought the food up to his mouth. He dabbed at his lips. Wanting to appear tidy while under such close scrutiny.

He didn’t tell her the truth.

Not even close.

“I got tied up at work,” he said between bites. “A big drug-trafficking case —” He nodded to her. “Big for Westchester, that is. Sorry …”

He went on eating, feeling Becca’s eyes studying him.

“What about your friends?” she asked slowly, as if afraid to bring the subject up. “What’s his name? Kiff?”

Will shook his head. “I don’t know. Strange stuff, eh? Pretty strange.” Another forkful of noodles and beef.

Then he quoted a bumper sticker. “Life’s a bitch.”

“You look like shit,” she said.

“Thanks.” He smiled. “I feel about that good too.”

His fork scraped noisily against the plate. He looked up to see Becca chew at her lower lip, the telltale sign of worrying. A dead giveaway.

“You should get to bed. Early,” she said.

Will shook his head, his mouth full.

“Can’t,” he said finally. “I can’t . . . because …”

But she saw this coming, Will knew. All along, saw it coming.

“There’s someone coming here tonight,” he said. He couldn’t make his mouth smile, too afraid of the sick, comical cast it would take.

“Thanks for telling me. Do you mind telling me who?”

Will nodded. He had practiced the fabrication in the car, saying it out loud to hear how it sounded, to see if it was the kind of lie that would encourage immediate disbelief.

“An old teacher of mine, from St. Jerome’s.” He cavalierly speared some food. “Going through some bad times. A divorce —”

“How old is he?” Becca asked, with an explosive laugh.

Will smiled back. “A young lady is taking him to the cleaner’s. I told him I’d help him get the ball rolling. Protect his savings account.” Will gestured with the fork. “That kind of thing.”

“And stay here?”

Will nodded.

“Just for a night or two. That’s all.”

Becca pushed her chair back and stood up. “Well, as I said, thanks for telling me. How long do I have to get the guest room presentable before — what’s his name?”

Will told her Dr. James’s real name.

James had said it wouldn’t matter. Not after it was all over.

“Okay, when is he coming?”

Will looked up. Becca wasn’t too happy. She didn’t like surprises, didn’t like people drifting into her house, unsettling it like a huge stone plopping into a still lake.

“Late,” Will said. “Very late. I’ll wait up for him.”

Becca walked away, shaking her head. And on the way out she passed Sharon, who had returned with her math book.

Sharon stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. She was a lean, sharp-eyed kid.

“Dad,” she said.

Will listened to the word. Cherished it.

He turned to Sharon, still leaning against the entrance, tentative. “Dad, do you know anything about finding hypot — hypothen —”

“Hypotenuses?”

Sharon snapped her fingers and said, “Yeah. That’s it. Well, do you?”

Will squinted and made his eyes look up to the heavens. “I did once . . . a long time ago. But I doubt that it’s anything I can’t pick up again.” He stuck out his hand. “Here, let me take a look.” Sharon stepped forward, holding out her math book. “It’s like riding a bike. Something you never forget,” he said.

Which, Will discovered, wasn’t at all true.

And for a little while, he was lost to a quiet moment with Sharon and the wonders of elementary geometry …

 

* * *

 

Will flicked from the play-off game to the news, and back again. With a 5-1 score, it looked as if the Giants would tie up the series tonight. Then it would be three games each. Tomorrow night’s game would be interesting.

The news wasn’t on yet. He caught a bit of a sitcom, something about two guys living together with a teenage daughter — gimme a break.

Will waited for the news.

He heard Becca leave the bathroom and walk down the stairs, halfway, toweling her hair as if it were teeming with lice.

“Still not here?” she said.

Will shook his head. “No. He will be.”

“Show him where I put the towels,” she said.

“Sure.”

“And make sure you lock all the doors.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No, you don’t.”

“I will,” he said.

The sitcom ended.

“Good night,” Becca said.

“Good night,” Will said, turning to her quickly, and Becca disappeared upstairs.

Hard to look at her, he thought. She always was hard to lie to . . .

Jangling theme music. A lightning bolt, and then a bright-eyed news team came onto the screen.

He listened to the first story. A three-story tenement caught fire and killed everyone living inside it. A half dozen families, kids, old people. Neighbors were interviewed, talking inchoately about the smell of the smoke, the other smells. And how nice the people were. A shot of a sea of black faces standing ,around the building, wondering when it would be their turn to be caught in some ghetto inferno.

Then the world news. Footage of marchers in Estonia, celebrating its government’s decision to seek admittance to NATO and alliance with the West.

There were also clips from an anti-Semitic demonstration in an Estonian city. And the Soviets were threatening military force to keep Estonia “independent.”

The bright-eyed news team cut to another local story.

A press conference about the budget. And the mayor is asked about progress in tracking down the slasher . . . the ripper . . . the madman.

Each reporter uses his own pet name for the killer.

The mayor looks annoyed. But then — looking as if he felt the cameras were guns aimed at him — he says something reassuring. Bland.

The mayor says the police are following up numerous leads, investigating every possibility. And patrols have been doubled, even tripled in target areas in the city.

Will sees a few beads of sweat bloom on the man’s brow.

Doesn’t have a fucking clue, Will thought.

Another question — from good old Gabe Pressman, as annoyingly feisty as ever.

Are the police ready to ask for outside help . . . ready to admit that they have no leads?

The mayor stops Gabe.

And says no comment.

Then it’s back to the Newscenter team, all hyped up and excited about the Giants tying the play-offs and yes, coming up, there’s some cold weather in Big’ Al’s five-day forecast.

So stay tuned.

But Will shut the TV off. To listen to the quiet streets outside, the safe streets. Listening for the sound of James’s car.

But it was too early. Way too early.

The night is young. And he turned the TV back on.

 

Every car that roared up the block, even the improbable ones that sported souped-up engines and drop-dead mufflers, got Will to his feet. But he was left looking out at the deserted street, the dark side of Our Town, all shadows and maple trees heavy with leaves aching to join the frolic on the windy streets below.

His hand touched the cold glass.

And then Will would walk back to his chair and dredge up another fifties sitcom from late night TV — still actually funny almost forty years later — while he kept his vigil.

Until he heard a car that didn’t thunder and roar up the street.

No, this one slowed as it came near the house, slower, and Will imagined someone trying to read the house numbers, always so well hidden. Slower, slower, and then stopped. Right there, right outside.

Will didn’t get up this time.

Not until he heard the car door slam, heard the footsteps right outside the door.

He opened the door before James had a chance to ring the bell.

A sound that Will feared would wake up everyone in the house, everyone in the sleepy neighborhood.

Will opened the door and threw the light on.

And what he saw scared him.

 

James pushed his way into the house.

“Wh — what time is it?” he said, looking around for a clock.

Will looked at the VCR.

“Two-fifteen,” Will said. His own voice sounded dry and thin. It came from another galaxy. I’m groggy, just the way I felt in college after staying up all night trying to crack the wonders of calculus. Or playing Monopoly till dawn, greeting the breadman when he showed up at the frat house.

James looked at Will. He grabbed Will’s hands and Will felt how cold James was. The leathery skin felt cold and dead. “Do you have something warm I could drink?” James sniffed.

Will knew that James had been outside a long time.

Then James looked around, at the stairs, leading to Becca, the girls.

I’m crazy, Will thought. Crazy to let this man inside my house.

But James — as if sensing Will’s doubts — gave his hands a squeeze. “And someplace to talk, someplace where we won’t wake your family.”

And Will nodded.

 

Will put the teacup into the microwave and zapped it for three minutes.

“I saw him,” James said.

The microwave hummed behind Will.

“You know it was him?”

James nodded, rubbing his hands together, fighting the chill.

“Yes. I mean, I’ve seen his pictures. I’ve seen Timothy Hanna in the newspaper. He came out of his building and —”

The microwave beeped.

Will opened it and removed the cup of Lemon Zinger.

“Honey . . . sugar?” Will asked.

James shook the question away. He took the cup from Will and wrapped his hands around it.

“I saw him and” — James looked up at Will —”he didn’t see me.” His eyes looked away again. “I was right. He didn’t sense me. Not if he wasn’t looking.” James grinned. “I could follow him.”

Will sat down in a chair facing James, watched him.

“It was Tim Hanna,” Will said. “You’re absolutely sure?”

James nodded. “Yes, he came out of his building as if he was just going to the comer for a newspaper. For a little walk. I saw him say something to his doorman. I thought he might look down the block and see me.” James grinned, a crazy man, thrilled with his wonderful phantasm.

Why is he here? Will thought. How did this happen? How did it happen that this man is here, and I’m listening to him, just because — because —

Two old friends are dead.

Bought the farm.

In a real nasty way.

And I’m scared.

God, I’m scared.

Watch the clown with the hooks. Oh, watch them …

“I watched him. I stayed in the shadows of the buildings.” James grinned again. “I thought the police would get me, find me, but I followed him. He couldn’t sense me, you see. I’m nothing special to him. Nothing at all. So I could follow him, watch —”

Will nodded.

Another car went down the street, tires screeching, sneering at the peace of the neighborhood.

“I watched him.” James nodded. “I watched him kill.”

James paused. James’s face twisted, disgusted, with something unspeakable.

Will looked away. “Oh, Jesus.” Then back to James. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

James sipped the tea. It had to be scalding hot but James sipped at it, his two hands wrapped around the cup, cherishing it.

“He followed a girl. A young streetwalker, I guess. I don’t know. I was so far away. I followed him. He turned down a block. Thirtieth Street. Thirty-first, I’m not sure. There didn’t seem to be any police around. None of those patrols. As if he knew that they wouldn’t be there. As if he could keep them away.”

Will took a breath.

He looked at the refrigerator. America’s bulletin board. With Sharon’s last spelling test, a 96. And Beth’s picture of a pumpkin with a giddy toothless face that mirrored her own. A page from the Sunday Times about the Gauguin show at the Met. Yellowed, old, the show long gone.

Missed.

And a grocery list. Whole-wheat bread. Yogurt. Fles color. Fles color? What’s that? Will wondered, an alien item suddenly on the list. He looked at it again, the scribbled word resolving into intelligibility.

Flea collar. Right. For the cat.

Will looked back to James.

The man hadn’t gone away, he hadn’t vanished while Will tried to absorb all the reassuring normalcy that filled the kitchen.

James was watching him.

“We have to start,” James said. “I have to teach you everything you need to know. All this” — James’s birdlike eyes scanned around the room, an unclean act that made the room seem sullied — “is in danger, Will. You must know that. Trust me.” James’s hands left his cup and grabbed for Will. “You’re the last one left. You know that? The last payment. You will have to stop him.”

James waited for an answer. It was quiet. Will waited too, sat there, listening, waiting, until he realized that he was the one that had to answer.

“Yes,” he said. ‘‘I’m ready.”

But he wasn’t. Not really. Not for what he was about to hear . . .

 

 

* * *

 

 

36

 

Will insisted that they stop at dawn.

But first, James went out to his car and got the bag.

It was the first time Will saw the black bag, sitting on the kitchen table, right at the spot where Beth ate her Kix, where there probably were sticky stains from yesterday morning’s juice.

James wanted to go through it all again. But now only bits and pieces of what the man was saying stuck . . .

Disconnected phrases.

“It’s like Rumpelstiltskin,” James said, laughing to himself. “And of course he’d pick prostitutes. The tension, the emotional pain, is perfect . . . just what he needs.”

Will asked few questions.

He asked, “What is it? What am I really fighting?”

“Evil,” James said, as if describing the postman. “A demonic power. There are many. There are thousands —”

Will remembered the word Kiff used. Legion.

James nodded. “This one — this one, though — is special. Very powerful. Very clever.”

Will rubbed his eyes.

The chunk of sky in the kitchen window, bordered by the blue gingham curtains, shifted from black to gray. There was no bright sun this morning. There were faint drops of water on the window.

“You have to be prepared for deceptions, for the paradox. Tricks. I can tell you about some of them. But you can’t let them surprise you.”

Will nodded, punch-drunk with nonsense.

But every time he thought of getting up from the table and ordering James out, he thought of Whalen. Covered with ants. Crawling over his body, in his body, until he was completely flayed. Flayed. And poor crazy Kiff, kicking at the rats, dozens and dozens of rats.

He heard footsteps upstairs. Little ones. Beth, an early riser, was up. Tiny feet padding on the floor.

“We have to stop,” Will said groggily. “For now. Get some rest. We can do more. This afternoon.”

Will followed the sweet sound of the small footsteps. Trooping into the bathroom. Then out again. Stopping in her room. For a Barbie. Or maybe a softie to drag downstairs as a TV companion.

“Yes,” James said, his voice overcome with exhaustion. “Yes. You’re right. But Will —”

James waited. Until Will was looking at him.

“Will. You have to know this now. You have to know this.” James licked his lips.

Footsteps coming down the stairs.

Will knew what was coming.

It had been there. At the corners, just hovering there, unsaid.

“Will. God help you. You may never see them again.”

Footsteps. Down to the living room, hurrying out to the kitchen, hearing their voices.

Beth. Running in.

“Daddy!” she said. “Why are you up?”

She wore a pink quilted robe. Mickey Mouse slippers. She climbed onto his lap. “Huh, Daddy? How come?”

Will used a hand to cradle her head against his chest, pressing it tight against him.

“Because, honey,” he said. His voice felt funny, his voice tight, closing up tight. He coughed. “Because, honey, Daddy has to do something.”

The girl asked no other questions.

And Will’s tears fell onto her hair, unfelt by Beth, who just enjoyed the warmth of being held close and tight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

37

 

Will woke up and he didn’t know what time it was. The bed sheets twisted around his body, covering his head, and his right arm was numb.

He moved his head out from under the sheets.

He looked at the clock: 1:33.

He watched it a moment.

1:34.

It’s afternoon, he thought. He sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes. He saw the window, covered with rain. He heard the steady ping as the drops splashed against the window.

Then he heard voices. Downstairs.

He got up, slid on his pants, and hurried down.

Joshua James was sitting in the kitchen with Becca, smiling, chatting.

Just a neighborly visit.

“Well, good afternoon,” she said. “Your day is pretty well shot. Coffee?”

“Yeah.”

James looked different, refreshed, smiling.

But when he looked at Will, his eyes narrowed, as if sending a warning. Will drew a blank and then the message — obvious — appeared.

Act normally. It’s important to act normally. Everything is fine. Everything is okay.

“Yes, your husband was a great help to me last night. I’m in a terrible way. All these legal things I don’t understand . . .”

Becca put the coffee down on the kitchen table. “Well, I should hope he helped you . . .” She rolled her eyes at Will. “Because the public defender’s office is getting curious where he’s been.” She stood next to him. “You know you have a trial starting tomorrow?”

“Damn,” Will said, sitting down. “I —”

James interrupted. “Oh, I’m sure your husband will be all prepared,” he said affably. “He’s very good.”

Becca grunted noncommittally.

James turned to Will, his eyes still cut into slits, but now an easy smile on his face. “I was telling your wife why I left the priesthood, Will.”

“Oh, really.”

James laughed. “She thought that maybe I wanted to get married or something.” James turned back to Becca. ‘‘I’m afraid that wasn’t the reason . . . not at all.”

Will sipped the coffee.

Becca had her coat on.

And keys in her hand.

“Leaving?” Will said. My voice, he thought. It sounded —

Worried. .

She laughed. ‘‘I’m helping with Beth’s Halloween party. You and Dr. James can have some more time to —”

“Please,” James said, “call me Joshua. I feel old enough without the ‘Doctor.’” He turned to Will. “I explained to your wife that I left because I wasn’t allowed to write. Not what I wanted to write. Mother Church keeps such a tight control on the works that its clerics publish. I felt that I could be more effective freed of the collar.”

Becca scooped up her purse from the counter.

“You didn’t tell me that Doc — Joshua — writes books.”

Will cleared his throat. “No, I —”

“Well, I’m off. Give you some more time to work.” Becca looked at Will, an unspoken plea that the house guest must move along.

“See you,” Will said.

Becca left by the side door. And when it slammed, Will asked, “Is that really why you left?”

“That’s not the whole truth. I made some enemies at the Vatican. An Order of Silence was handed to me, a very serious thing. Apparently someone in the Papal Nuncio didn’t appreciate my writing and talking about my work.”

“Which was?”

James laughed. “A consultant. A tactician. Fighting the good fight against chaos. When I said that we were losing that fight, some of the good cardinals asked for my resignation.” James shook his head. “That’s when I knew that the level of corruption — of influence, if you will — had reached even there.”

Will nodded.

“I’ve been thinking,” Will said. He waited for James to interrupt, as if the former priest might anticipate his thoughts. “I’ve been thinking that maybe this is all wrong. I’m getting carried away. How do you know someone was killed last night? How do you know it was- — He smiled. “Maybe it’s hysteria. That’s all, and —”

James nodded. He unfolded the newspaper lying on the table near him. He slid it over to Will.

It was the New York Times, its first page cluttered with stories. But James pointed to the first column.

Another Midtown Murder.

Then, below it, in smaller type: “More Signs of a Bizarre Ritual.”

James’s face was set, granite hard, unsmiling. “You have no choice, Will. You know that.”

Right, thought Will. No choice.

Free will was a thing of the past.

The past. Maybe the future. But not now.

James was quiet while Will read the dispassionate description of the “suspected prostitute’s grossly mutilated body.”

Then — when Will finished the article — James stood up. “I’ll stay with them, Will. I’ll stay here tonight. You can tell your wife you have to do some research, some work. I’ll be here. I’ll try to make things easier.”

Will thought that he might start shaking. crying again.

Make it go away, he begged. Make this whole damn thing just disappear.

“I’ve arranged for a rental car. It will help.”

Will nodded.

He rubbed at his cheeks, and he felt the bristles of a day-old beard. I should shave, he thought. I should get myself together.

But it didn’t matter.

James looked at the kitchen clock.

Tick. Tock. The second hand moved noisily around the circle of numbers.

“Your wife won’t be gone long, Will. We have to go over it all again. We have to make sure you’re ready.”

Will nodded.

Trapped. A prisoner.

No way out, he thought.

No way at all. My personal Vietnam.

There’s only one escape — if James is wrong. And then what?

But that possibility was even more terrible.

He couldn’t bear to even think about that.

 

Becca came home with Beth holding a construction-paper pumpkin. James was in the tiny guest room resting. He’d have a long night, a night when he’d have to stay awake.

And Will had been in the bedroom — dumb thing. Looking at the old photo albums. Summers at the beach. Holidays, so many holidays . . . Christmases melting into birthdays, year after year.

Beth trudged up the stairs and ran into her room to show her artwork to Barbie. Will stood in the hallway and watched his daughter — dressed in a yellow rain slicker — vanish into her room without even seeing him.

Daddy wasn’t supposed to be home.

Daddy worked.

He was tempted to walk up to her doorway and just watch her play.

Watch her without her knowing it. But then Becca followed upstairs, carrying a basket of laundry.

“Oh,” Will said, startled. “I can help you with that.” He took the basket from her.

“Tanks, bub. It’s all part of the challenging career of housewifery.”

Will smiled. Becca bore the boredom and the chowder — but just barely.

He followed her into the bedroom.

Thinking it was best that he tell her now.

He dumped the basket onto the bed and Becca started to sort the clothes into four piles. He stayed beside her to help.

“I have to go out tonight.”

His words hung there while he dug out his oversized shorts from the more petite articles of the rest of his family.

“What?”

“I’ve got to do some research. For that case tomorrow. I lost time today, and the law library is open until twelve.”

She shook her head. “I hope your kindly old professor will be moving on. He’s a nice old man and everything. But —”

Will didn’t say anything, and he felt Becca turn and look at him.

“He’s staying another night.” Will made his face look sheepish. “Just one more night. He’ll have someplace to go . . . tomorrow.”

“Oh, brother. Well, thanks for the warning. He’s a nice man . . . but he kind of scares Beth.”

Will listened. But he drew close to Becca and put his arms around her.

“Hmmm . . .” she said. “In the mood for afternoon delight?”

It wasn’t that, he thought. Not at all …

He pushed her straight hair aside and kissed her neck.

His hand went around to her front and cupped her breasts. She backed against him. He was already hard, and it felt so good to have Becca pressing against him.

“Beth is just next door,” Becca whispered.

He pulled her closer.

“Shut the door,” he whispered. “Shut it and lock it.”

Becca pushed against him once more and he felt that wonderful pressure, the perfect way her body moved against his.

Then she moved away, to the door. Shutting it gently. Turning the lock.

Then back to him.

She unzipped her skirt. Kicked out of her shoes. She pulled her sweater over her head.

“Can’t make too much noise,” she hissed. “There’s Beth … and Grandpa, downstairs …”

He smiled.

She came to him.

He pulled her tight while she worked at his belt, pushing his pants down. Pulling him out. Stroking him, urging him to move more quickly now.

Not knowing.

Not ever suspecting, he thought, poor girl.

That this was it.

The last time.

For them.

Such a terrible thought, a thought to make his stomach sick with the pain. But then there was just her hand, working on him, and her lips searching his face, pressing against him, until they found his lips. And her tongue dancing wildly inside his mouth.

And then that’s all there was, as they tumbled back onto the bed, strewn with clothes.

For a few brief moments, that’s all there was . . .

 

 

* * *

 

 

38

 

Beth was still up. Will knew that. He heard her chatting to herself, issuing severe instructions to the rambunctious crowd of softies that loitered on her bed.

Will walked into the room, dark and heavy with the sleepy smell of a small girl’s bedtime.

“Good night, sprout,” he whispered, leaning down close to her.

For a second Beth didn’t answer — lost in her fantasy. But then she said sweetly —

“Good night, Daddy.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. A few strands of her thin hair brushed his lips.

“Daddy,” Beth said, “when will you be back?”

Will made a fist and reached up to his mouth, covering it, nearly moaning, nearly crying out.

Can’t. He thought. Can’t …

He waited until it passed.

“Soon, honey. Real —”

A sudden lurch. The dark room exploded in a fireworks display. He touched the bed to get his balance.

“Soon,” he whispered huskily.

He backed out of the room. Wounded, bleeding, dying inside while his little girl snuggled against the pillow. She pulled her sheets up tight, safe and sound forever.

In the hallway, he turned around.

Will walked past Sharon’s room.

He looked at her, bent over her schoolwork, the radio on low. Only the syncopated hiss of the rap music could be heard.

But Sharon’s room was bright, and he couldn’t hide his feelings if he went in there. So he stayed in the shadows. “Good night, babe,” he said.

Sharon looked out, into the darkness, and squinted. “Dad? Night.” Nice and casual. Just one of a thousand good-nights to come. She smiled and went back to her work.

Then Will spun around. I’m going to fall down, he thought. I’ll stumble right down the stairs. Already the house was an alien thing, a lost place, a place he dimly remembered.

He went down, the stairs. And —

There’s no other way.

No other . . .

The bag was at the bottom of the stairs, right by the front door. Becca was doing something in the dining room. James stood by the door. The TV was on, masking what James whispered to Will.

“Are you all right?” the man said. “You look —”

Will grinned. “Yeah. I know. I look pretty bad.”

James is worried. He’s worried that I’m falling apart, that everything might fall apart. James has done things like this before. What was the figure — 100, 120 exorcisms? He knows about this . . .

But then Will looked in the man’s eyes, and he saw fear there too.

“You’re shaking,” James said. He reached out and grabbed Will by the shoulders. “Steady, Will. Steady. It’s all right, Will. They’ll be fine. They’ll —”

Will was too embarrassed to explain that it wasn’t his family — right then — that had him terrified.

I don’t think — he thought — I don’t think I’m cut out for this … sacrifice.

It’s just a variation of the runaway-truck scenario.

Which went like this:

A runaway truck is barreling down the street, careening out of control, right at your blue-eyed toddler. Your sweet little girl. Your darling blue-eyed boy.

And you see that you can probably knock your kid out of the way. But that’s about it. You’d be stuck there while eighteen gigantic wheels rolled over you.

So what do you do?

Every parent knew the one, correct answer.

You move. You save your kid. Without a thought for your own life.

And here I am, Will thought.

The truck roaring right toward my family.

“Will —” James said quietly, still holding on to him. “You’re okay?”

Will nodded. “I’m —”

Becca came into the room.

“Oh, I thought you left already,” she said. She looked confused seeing James standing there so close to him. He’s propping me up, babe. Getting me out the door.

Then James backed away, smiling, and Becca came closer. “Drive carefully,” she said. “What time do you expect — ?”

“Late,” Will said. “Don’t wait up.”

She smiled, her eyes looking at him, the confusion fading. “Don’t worry. I’m beat. Are you — okay? You getting a cold?”

Will forced a smile. “Sure. Maybe.” He shook his head. “Just tired.”

He turned away. He looked at the bag. By the door.

And walked over and picked it up. Then, like any traveling salesman, he walked over to Becca and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips.

“Good night,” she said.

Will said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. He nodded to her, then to James.

And he turned and opened the door, a zombie-man walking as straight as his wobbly zombie-legs could carry him. He shivered as if he were braving a January morning dressed in just his underwear.

Will kept walking. down the steps. not looking back.

Out to his car. Which he was about to drive a block away, and leave it for the rental car.

He looked at his block. This quiet street they lived on.

Sleepy and safe, already the pumpkins glowing from people’s windows, trying to scare away winter.

He got into his car and turned on the ignition.

The digital clock flashed on.

It was nine o’clock.

And it was time he went to Manhattan.

 

 

* * *

 

 

1:15

 

 

* * *

 

 

39

 

Will wouldn’t have recognized him.

People change. We shed our high school images like butterflies emerging from a cocoon. Or flies screwing out of their maggoty pupas . . .

Will’s wrist throbbed.

But he knew the voice. It still had that clear, cutting edge. The perfect lawyer’s voice. A debater’s voice.

Will said his name.

Remember the power of names, James had said.

“Tim . . .”

Will backed up another step. The bag was heavy, dangling from his hand. His mangled wrist throbbed. He jabbed it into his leather jacket like Napoleon. He felt the wet sear, growing.

“Pretty messy down there, eh, Will? You’re lucky —”

Was there a smile? Will wondered. Was that a smile there?

“Lucky no cops came by.” Tim Hanna looked around at the buildings, at the night sky. “There are a lot of cops on the streets. Looking for me, I guess.”

Another laugh.

Tim Hanna took a step forward. Another. Will backed up. “Which is a waste of time, of course.” Another smile. Another step. Will wished his wrist would stop throbbing. Damn, if only it would just stop throbbing.

The pain flashing on and off, hot and cold, driving any chance for a clear thought away.

“But I guess you see how impossible that is, don’t you?”

Will nodded.

At nothing.

Tim Hanna had disappeared.

Will heard movement from behind him. He turned around.

And there was Tim Hanna behind him.

“Impossible, Will. They’re dealing with a” — a pause, a grin that caught the light —”a higher power here. The only fly in the ointment, the only bug in the plan, the only —”

Tim walked toward him again, and Will backed up. But then he stopped.

What does it matter? What the hell does it matter? If he can just appear behind or in front of me anywhere? What the hell difference does it make?

“The only little kink in the plan is you. The others all carried their weight, their burden, like good little soldiers. You — you escaped free —”

“What — what are you talking about?”

The bag, Will felt it hanging down, heavy, useless.

But he listened, and tried to think about what he was going to do . . .

Got to remember . . .

“I knew that Narrio’s ride would end prematurely. I saw the fucking rail, Will. No surprises there. None at all. And so did Whalen, and Kiff —”

“They knew?”

Tim Hanna nodded. “Sure did, my boy.”

And Will thought: Were they too drunk to stop him? Or maybe drunk enough to want to see what would happen.

The bag. Got to get it. Pull it up. Open it.

He looked at Tim.

“But why do you want me?” It sounded pathetic, a pitiful plea.

Tim Hanna laughed. “You were part of it from the beginning . . .” Hanna took a step. “You’re not so innocent — never bullshit a bullshitter. And you had a family, children. Untainted. They would finish it. That was part of it.” Another smile. “From the beginning.”

Will nodded. He knew that.

Now, thought Will, I’ve got to do it now, before he comes closer and —

He yanked the bag up, pulled it tight against his body. The latch was still open. He locked the bag in the crook of his bad arm.

My bag of tricks.

Watch the signs, James had said. Watch for the stench, the noise, the signals —

He reached into the bag and touched the jar. The lid was loose and Will fiddled with the cap while it was still inside the bag, trying to twist it off.

Fiddling crazily, he looked up at Tim Hanna — a man with golden hair, piercing eyes. Dressed in a dark suit. His skin smooth and tan even under the crime-stopper tungsten lamps. He was right there, in front of Will.

The lid fell off. Will pulled out the jar.

“By the power . . . of God —” Will muttered.

Like some deranged idiot.

Will went to toss the water.

Only feet away, at Tim.

But the jar grew warm, then hot, hotter, and a plume of steam erupted from the open mouth. The water bubbled and Will had to let the jar, so damn hot, slip through his fingers.

‘‘‘You didn’t really think that would work, did you?” Tim Hanna laughed. Then he said, “By the power of Mickey and Donald, Goofy and Pluto, Goobers with peanuts, a Penis for Venus, and Walla-walla Bing-Bang!”

The words echoed off the asphalt, off the concrete, off the buildings.

Will pulled out the cross, shaking it free of its velvety wrappings.

Again, he yelled, “By the power of God, all evil shall go, all- —”

Hanna sneered. And Will thought he smelled something. A wind that blew across his face, filled with the gaseous odor of methane, a sticky warm gust of foul air.

“Don’t say that fucking name!” Tim Hanna screamed. He raised his fist. “You will never say that name to me!”

Will held the cross up, pathetically. His bad arm holding the bag, the other holding the cross aloft.

Then it burned. Grew hot. It’s a trick, thought Will. Just a trick. It’s not really hot, and I can —

Hotter, until the metal creaked, bending, and it went soft in his hand. Will cried.

His fingertips burned. He tried saying the words.

“Power . . . God . . . commands Lucifer, commands all evil, every spirit . . . put to . . .”

He had to let the cross slide through his fingers, crying out as it turned cartwheels in the air, spinning to the ground, splattering to the sidewalk.

Will cried.

He heard the noises.

The chattering, the clicking sounds.

Listen for them, James had said. Take hope from them.

His control is not perfect. Then it’s time.

“I saved the worst for you, Will. The absolute fucking worst. For you. And your goddamn family.”

The clicking filled his ears, but beneath that he heard another sound.

And he looked to the side of the buildings. To where the noise, the cracking sounds, were coming from.

He saw long, blackish things moving back and forth, hugging close to the crack of the building.

No, Will thought, not blackish, brown. He saw a line of them emerge into the purplish light.

“Big, aren’t they? The biggest fucking cockroaches, Will. Do you know how a cockroach eats? They’re maniacs, absolute monsters. They tear at their food, eating everything.” Tim smiled. “I’ll let them save your brain for last.

As above so below, thought Will.

It’s all scripted. He heard James . . .

We can change the script. It’s about time, Will, time and power . . .

He knew that he really shouldn’t look at the building, to the sounds that now circled him. But God, he had to, couldn’t avoid looking down, around —

At the sea of brown. At these giant roaches, moving fast, excited, climbing over each other, surrounding him, hundreds, thousands, millions.

Waiting for a signal.

“There’s just one thing I have to add,” Tim Hanna said, “before we begin —”

Now, thought Will. Turn away. Don’t listen.

You must act, James had said. When you see the signs, smell them, hear them, you must act then. He won’t expect it.

Will dug into the bag and pulled out the book. It had a black binding, and ribbons dangled from it.

James’s own Bible.

Been through a lot, he’d said. A lot of battles.

You’ve got to wrestle with the devil . . . not in your name, but God’s.

Will held it up. Tim Hanna seemed unalarmed.

The rest had been a lure. Show him that I have no weapons. That I’m defenseless.

Then the words. Memorized, repeated at almost unintelligible speed. The book held out. Keeping me focused on where the power, the strength come from.

Telling Tim Hanna. It’s not me.

Telling his master.

Because . . . because that’s who the game was all about.

The roaches seemed directionless, moving over his feet, suddenly unleashed from any control.

Will sputtered, babbling quietly, but loud enough to be heard over the clicking noise, the sound of teeth gnashing, eager for their earthly feast.

“I command you, whoever you are . . . unclean spirit, and all your companions who possess this child of God —”

Will kept his eyes on the book, off Hanna, away from his face. Can’t get distracted. And then faster, running the words together at high speed, but louder now, starting to yell —

“By the mystery of the Incarnation. The Passion. And Resurrection and Ascension. Of Our Lord Jesus Christ!”

A howl. A mind-numbing scream. From just ahead. Will kept looking at the book.

He felt cold. A million voices hissed at him.

You don’t believe anything, you shit. You goddamn atheist fornicating sonuvabitch. You don’t believe anything and —

Right. That’s right. And this won’t work. This is nonsense.

And it means nothing because there’s no God, no life, no —

No.

He made himself say the words. “By the Holy Spirit, be summoned to judgment, leave this soul. Leave and obey the word of God.”

He screamed the last words again.

“Obey the word of God. By the power of Lord Jesus Christ, leave and —”

 

Will took his eyes off the book. He looked at Tim Hanna.

Hanna backed up, staggering now, oh, yes, reeling like a fighter taking another smash to the head.

Will intoned the words again.

The book felt cool in his hand, impervious to anything Hanna would do. Will walked forward, through the sea of roaches. He heard them crunch and crack under his steps. Some crawled absently and undirected onto his shoes, a few big ones up to his pants leg, but Will just kept repeating the words.

Over and over.

Tim Hanna said, “You liar. You believe nothing, your soul is empty. A damned empty pit. You are a fucking liar.”

Will repeated, “By the power of God, I command you to obey . . . obey God’s word and—”

He lifted his eyes from the book.

Another smell filled his nostrils.

The signs. He’ll grow desperate, James had said. He’ll call for help. Remember that. Watch for the signs. They mean he’s desperate. Don’t lose your concentration, your thoughts . . .

Back, nearing the corner of the street, Hanna stumbled backward.

Will looked up. The smell was barnlike, the stink of animals.

And then, dropping around Will, on him, landing on his head, his arm, on the Bible, something . . . gooey wet glops of offal, the smell filling Will’s throat. Burning his throat. Choking him.

Will coughed. The words sputtered to a stop as he hacked at the air.

I looked away, he screamed inside his head. Then he saw it all slipping away. His concentration. His belief. Everything melting — a dream.

Something bit his leg. He cried out.

I’ve lost it.

They were at the corner.

Will tried to start his chant again. But it didn’t feel the same.

Liar, screaming in his ear. Bullshit artist.

God-hater. Deceiver.

Dumbfuck.

Hanna spoke.

He said, quietly, calmly, “Listen.”

Will thought: No. I won’t do that.

But he did.

The pay phone rang.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Over and over.

“It’s for you,” Hanna said.

“By God’s power, obey and —” Will tried to say again.

The phone kept ringing. Hanna said, “I think you should answer it. It’s for you, Will.”

A cold spiky hand seemed to close around Will’s heart. He moaned.

“It’s for you,” Hanna said, his voice garbled, as if coming over through a cassette player in need of batteries.

“Pick it up. Pick it the fuck up, Will!”

Will stopped his yammering.

“It’s a call from home,” Hanna said.

But Will knew that already. Oh, sweet Jesus . . .. he knew that.

And he reached out for the phone …

 

Joshua James shifted in the seat. It was strange, sitting here in this quiet house, sitting watch over Will Dunnigan’s family.

Not as strange as other places I’ve been, other vigils I maintained.

No, I’ve sat huddled in freezing-cold tenements surrounded by stale puke and feces. I’ve walked through tiny Amazon villages in search of someone who was said to be blessed with powers and abilities.

When blessed was the wrong word.

James felt sleepy.

And he thought —

I can’t fall asleep. I have to stay awake.

Simple as that.

Until morning. Until it’s over.

He rubbed his eyes. He had the TV on, very quiet, almost inaudible. And a book. Father Paone’s Meditations. A simple book of simple prayers.

Easy does it.

And beside him, a Bible, its cover worn to a frayed and tattered black hide. My spare, he thought. And —

I must not sleep.

He thought of his lie.

When they asked him why he left the priesthood.

How that wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth. But he couldn’t very well tell them the truth, now, could he? Couldn’t very well tell Will that one time he buckled? I ran from it, scared, terrified beyond belief. My own worldliness thrown into my face, my own secret desires dredged up, dancing in front of me.

And I was lost.

I was useless against it. Because each time, this evil, this mocking abomination, would plunge into my soul and find the hollowness and desire there. It fed on it. Like rats. Like ants. Fed on it, growing stronger.

The state of the human soul feeds it. And I had let mine grow weak.

No, he thought. I couldn’t tell him that. Not to Will.

Just as he knew he couldn’t tell Will how he feared the same thing might happen to him. That Will might face the Adversary, so much stronger than he was, that it would be no contest.

If he forgot in whose name he fought …

And I must fight this feeling of hopelessness, James scolded himself. That was the worst. That opened all sorts of doors. Bad doors.

He shut his eyes. They were so heavy with a terrible need for sleep that they ached. He shut them. Just a second. Then he quickly opened them.

The TV seemed to have no sound now. Fading.

Fading.

Must not sleep, he told himself.

Must.

Not.

 

Will’s hand locked on the phone. It kept ringing.

“Go on,” Tim Hanna said. His voice smooth, seductive. It was a voice of reason, a doctor asking you to breathe in and out while he listened to your lungs. Nice, normal breaths, please. Or the dentist pleading for you to stretch your maw open just a bit wider.

Then, a subtle change, “Pick it up, you stupid bastard.”

“No,” Will moaned.

It rang in his ear, electric and shrill. Again and again.

Tim Hanna again, oily now, victorious. “Reach out . . . and pick it up!”

And shaking, shivering, Will did . . .

 

James’s eyes blinked open. The phone was ringing. And, and —

Becca Dunnigan was standing there, in her white nightgown, looking out the window at the street. A red light lit her face. Faded. Lit her face, and then faded.

“The police,” she said quietly. “There’s a police car . . . right out —”

The ringing again. Except, no — it’s not the phone. It’s the doorbell.

I’m asleep, James thought. This is a dream. Nightmare. Not happening.

Becca went to the door.

“What are the police doing here?” she said to James as if he might know.

Awake. James knew. I’m awake.

The doorbell rang again. It’s not the phone. It’s the door.

Of course, it’s- —

“No,” he said. James tried to get up. He pushed against the arms of the chair, but he was settled into the soft plush cushion, and his body didn’t move. His legs tingled, the circulation cut.

“No, Becca. Don’t open the door. Please —”

She undid the dead bolt. Then the chain. She opened the door.

A young cop stood there. He looked concerned.

James finally pushed himself up.

And then he thought, God, it’s about Will. Something has happened to him.

The cop was saying something to Becca, but James couldn’t hear it. He saw the young dark-haired cop’s lips move. And Becca nodding. And then the cop took another step inside the door.

And from behind James, there were more sounds.

Too fast. Things are happening too fast here, James thought. What is going on?

Behind him. The oldest girl, Sharon, bouncing down the stairs. Her face was all scrunched up, but it picked up the rotating red swirl from the police car’s light outside.

Then the little one, Beth, following her sister, coming down the stairs.

James looked at the cop.

Still not hearing anything.

Watching how his eyes moved so slowly from Becca, then up the stairs to Sharon, on to Beth, marking their positions.

And —

Ringing.

The phone. Yes.

The phone ringing.

From the end table.

The cop gestures at it.

James shakes his head. No. No, he says. James thinks he says. But — funny thing — he doesn’t hear anything.

I fell asleep, he thought. God forgive me. I fell asleep.

The cop takes another step in. The red light seems to flash more wildly, more excitedly.

The cop is moving toward the phone.

No.

Not the phone. I have to get to the phone.

It rings and rings and rings . . . while James takes a step. Then another lurching step toward the phone, on rubbery legs, falling, collapsing, reaching out for the phone.

His hand closes around the cord, grabbing it.

Yanking the cord.

Pulling the phone right off the end table.

Until it clatters off the table, and the receiver is right there, right by his head …

 

“Hello,” Will said. “Hello.”

An icy breeze cut up the street. There was no one in the entire city except for him and Tim Hanna.

We were friends. School buddies. And now?

He’s the darkest thing in the universe.

“Hello.”

“Listen,” Hanna whispered gently to him.

Will heard a gasp, a sound. Then a voice. gasping near the phone. “Will? Will!”

It was James. Then another sound.

Becca’s voice. Crying out. Then screaming.

Will squeezed the phone tighter.

Then — oh, God, no — please no.

Sharon. And Beth. Crying out, their shrieks traveling from miles away. Right into his ear. Into his brain.

Will heard tearing, cutting, more screams, and more screams, and —

 

The cord was alive. It wrapped itself around James’s throat like a sleepy snake curling up for a sleep on a sunny rock. James watched it, and pulled at it. But the wire was too strong, tightening too quickly against him.

And he could see the others. Becca grabbed Beth, holding her shoulders. Holding her daughter tight.

But the cop — wasn’t a cop anymore.

He became this dark thing, this purple-black pile of excrement, this gigantic tower of shit, with hundreds, thousands, millions of squirming things moving around and through it. In and out, a feast for worms.

The cord tightened.

No more air.

James felt his eyes bulge.

The tower leaned close to Becca, backing up, holding her Beth tight, the little girl’s fists raised to the air, cursing at the horror, screaming at it through her endless tears to go away.

Instead — so quickly — a dozen of the things inside it grabbed Beth. The shock stopped her tears.

They moved along her skin.

James closed his eyes.

Like a vacuum cleaner, they peeled away the skin.

James started praying.

The poor sweet baby.

James heard another terrible yell. And he knew Becca had tried to wrest her daughter from the thing.

Silly, futile —

And James kept muttering the prayers …

 

* * *

 

“It was all planned, Will. From the beginning, this is just how it was . . . in the plan. But then, you know that. You do know that —”

Will turned to him.

He recognized Beth’s screams. He wanted to drop the phone and grab Tim Hanna. Just a man, standing in front of him.

But then Becca’s plea reached his ears.

Her voice. A disgusting croak. But clear enough — through what must be, yes, blood gurgling in her throat — yes, clear enough for him to hear the word.

“Will,” she begged.

And where is James? Oh, Jesus, what have I let happen?

“You were part of it, Will. You felt his presence and you agreed like all of us . . . You agreed …”

Hanna grinned in the darkness.

Another scream. Sharon.

Will screamed into the phone. “Sharon, honey, run away. Get out of there. Run, baby, run —”

Run. Run. Run.

The scream changed. A higher pitch. The human thread pulled even more taut. Playing another, more desperate song. Sharon begged it. Begging this thing. He heard her beg. Please, oh, please, oh. Tearing sounds. More yelling, and —

Please.

Will looked at Hanna, not hearing him, trying to remember.

What am I supposed to do? What is it that I must do?

I’ve got to remember. I’m here to do something. Now, what is it, what is — ?

I just can’t . . .

“It got your agreement. Kiff. Whalen. And we all agreed. And Mike Narrio was given to it.”

Will shook his head. Not true. Not true. I never —

“Kiff knew. He knew what he’d done. Spent his whole life trying to wipe it away.” Hanna grinned. “Crazy Kiff . . . But you can’t do that, you know. Not allowed, kiddo. And Whalen pushed it away. Even though he saw the broken rails of that ride, saw the way they just streamed into space. He knew. And he tried to run away.”

Hanna paused. And stepped closer. Just a step.

But there was something about it, something that Will could see. Even though Will was shaking, rocking on the sidewalk, back and forth, mumbling, biting his lip.

He saw it.

What happened to them? What happened to my family?

“Dr. James,” he said quietly into the receiver.

He heard sounds on the phone. Sliding. the movement of something heavy dragging across the floor.

“Dr. —”

 

James’s throat kept contracting, trying to suck air through his nose.

He saw bits of their bodies in the thing. A bit of bone, Sharon’s hair, slowly subsumed into it. A single small blue eye looked out at him.

But now it moved toward him.

And — oh, forgive my weakness, James prayed — he hoped that he’d die before it reached him.

But that didn’t happen.

A dozen things squirted out of its body and landed on him, and he felt every tear, every pull at his skin, until it was a blessing to join the horror of its body …

 

“You blocked it, Will. Blocked it right out. Simple as that. But you can’t hide secrets forever.”

Will held the phone away from his ear. There was nothing more to hear. No.

Nothing at all.

But.

Must remember.

Have to remember.

Can’t listen to this.

“You blocked out your . . . agreement to Narrio’s death. Your part. I understand, but you know it’s true, Will. You did it.”

Remember.

The wind made him shiver more. Icy cold. He let the phone fall. The streetlight was a kaleidoscopic blur. I wonder why it’s so blurry?

Of course. Of course.

My eyes are so wet.

The phone swung like a pendulum, banging into the pay phone’s pillar.

The Bible was there, still clutched in his aching claw hand.

“You did it.”

Will didn’t move.

He’s right, Will thought. I let it happen. I agreed. Just as I blocked out the memory of that black shape in the center of the circle. I let it happen —

Then he remembered James’s voice.

Watch the lies. The deception. The tricks. The paradox. You’ll be tied up before you know it. Lost in a maze of thoughts. And then it will be too late.

Tim Hanna took another step.

A cautious step, a shriveled part of Will’s brain whispered.

Hiding it. But cautious.

“You did it!” Hanna laughed gleefully.

Will shook his head.

It’s just a trick.

I’ve got to remember. Got to remember what I have to do . . .

And now.

Oh, God, now I do.

Will staggered back, shaking like a drunk into the pay phone. He saw Hanna’s grin broaden. Will’s stomach heaved. Even though it was empty, it went tight like a rag being wrung dry.

But now I pull the trick, Will thought.

He staggered back some more, while his good hand reached down. Into his bag, his magician’s bag of tricks.

“No,” Will mumbled, shaking his head, hoping to keep Hanna’s eyes on his. “No. You’re lying.”

His family’s screams seemed to echo in the air. Becca shrill, faint, calling for him.

“Will.”

He wanted to reach out and grab Hanna. Lock a hand around his throat.

But he waited.

Another cautious step by Hanna.

Hanna didn’t notice anything odd.

Another.

And another.

And Will held up the book.

Maybe you won’t even need it, James had said. Maybe it’s not even important.

But take it, he said. Take it. While you do what only you can do. Only you can do it . . . because only you were there.

Will held the Bible. Just pages. Filled with words. And some of them were silly words.

Dumb words, stupid words, false words, idiotic —

No.

Hanna saw him holding the book. And he had jumped into Will’s head, shoveling in thoughts and doubts on top of him like manure.

“No,” Will said.

The Bible was there just to help.

Will had to do this himself. Because I was there at the beginning.

At the time that it happened.

He took a step toward Hanna.

What’s precognition? James had asked, flipping through Dunne’s book. What is it but a jump in serial time? And why? Because serial time is merely a creation. There are many times, many possible selves. Time is a creation of our minds, a tool for our lives —

Another step.

Hanna looked at the book. His face sneered, he spat. Again, and again, at the ground. And tiny smoky plumes erupted from the sidewalk, a miasma to protect him from the hated text.

And time can be changed, Will.

Will grabbed Hanna.

Hanna spat at Will, spraying acid droplets onto Will’s face, dribbling onto the book. And a different smoke filled his nostrils.

Will felt a yawning expanse of chaos.

He touched Hanna. And he felt the hater, the annihilator, the Adversary Incarnate, the end of existence.

The words came out too slowly, swallowed by the foggy mist summoned by Hanna’s spit.

Watch for the signs, the voices, the stench. It means he’s growing desperate, trapped . . .

Will spoke.

“By the power of God, He commands you.” Something clutched at Will’s stomach, right into his insides. Clutched it and twisted it.

“God commands, oh, no,” he moaned, doubling up. More spits. More smoke.

Things crawling on his leg.

Desperation.

“By the power of God, take me, a witness, to that time and place of your coming —”

Then, barely able to sputter out the senseless sounds, Will said the name.

“Zar . . . Osirin . . .”

Again. And again, louder, screaming it, hearing Hanna’s scream in his ear, and shake, and quiver, rocking back and forth as if he might explode.

A mad dwarf in a kid’s book, sputtering with frustration.

“The time and place of your coming! Show yourself. By the power of Our Lord Christ, the time and —”

The Bible slipped from Will’s hand.

He heard it land.

The clouds of smoke choked him. There was no air, nothing to breathe. Nothing at all.

And then . . . there was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Manhattan Beach

 

 

* * *

 

 

40

 

This place, the rocks, the beach, the washed-out night sky — it all was as if he had never left.

Will felt the odd tilt of the stone slab he was standing on. And the air was full with the stinging, ripe smell of the sea, crashing so close by.

And Will looked at the sea and remembered how it seemed to him.

How the ocean seemed hungry, eager to suck at the land, to pull it away. To reclaim everything.

He was at Manhattan Beach.

And he wasn’t alone.

There was someone behind him, breathing, just out of range of his peripheral vision. He heard movement. Steps scraping against the stone.

I should turn around and face him. Yes, Will thought, have to turn around and face him. To finish this —

He told himself that. And again. But he didn’t move.

A hand landed on Will’s shoulder.

“You cocksucking bastard . . . You stupid asshoIe —”

Hanna’s voice — dry, an old man’s voice — croaked in his ear. Then Will spun around and saw him. Hanna was dressed the same, but now he was bent over, holding his stomach as if his insides were ready to explode onto the ground. .

And Will — like some torturer from the Inquisition — started in again —

His voice screaming above the wind, the waves …

“By God Almighty, by the power of Our Lord —”

A gust of smoke belched out of Hanna.

“Jesus Christ, appear. He commands you to leave this soul. God commands you —”

Then the name.

Names have power.

Rumpelstiltskin.

Mr. Mztplyx.

And —

“Zar . . . Osirin …”

Tim Hanna curled around, a snake speared by an invisible lance. He curled around, writhing in agony. He looked at Will. His eyes softened. Then a smile that was almost human.

But a sick look suddenly covered Hanna’s face. And Will heard something louder than the crash of the waves. A cracking, creaking sound. Hanna’s face split open, a ripe coconut, splitting right down the middle. The tear went all the way down the front. His skull, his lips, pulled apart.

Will gagged again.

But I’ve got nothing to throw up. Nothing except my own stomach acid.

But the smell overwhelmed him, a putrid, toxic stench that felt liquid, drowning him.

The splitting went on, until Hanna’s body teetered to the side, discarded, hitting the stone.

And there was this thing in front of Will. Will had only one thought.

This took my family.

It uncurled — a twisted birth — revealing its shape slowly.

Will stepped back. He lost his balance on the stone. He started to fall. He yelled out while he fell to the ground.

While all the while, he kept his eyes on the thing that uncurled before him.

It was nearly invisible against the black musty sky. Its skin — if it was skin — gobbled up the light. Will saw small liquid pools moving near a head-like shape.

Black eyes looking out.

Will’s knuckles clawed at the stone, ripping the skin off. While he cursed, screamed at the thing.

“No! Oh, no — damn you! Damn —” He got to his feet.

His ankle hurt.

In fact, it might fall right in, and I’ll fall down right in front of this thing.

And it spoke.

“Your family,” it said. An elephant sound, a trumpeting, honking blast. But it said words . . .

Will thought it said words …

“Your . . . family . . . they died so wonderfully. Do you want to hear how they screamed? Do you want to watch now, to see how the little one kicked at my servant, how she called for help, begged to be left alive? Do you want to see that? I can let you see that.”

No, Will thought. Begged. Please. No.

Watching. Listening.

“No,” he begged. “Oh, God. No. I can’t —”

He closed his eyes.

Another trick.

There was a rustling sound.

Christmas packages being opened. Too fast. Always over too fast.

Or dry skin peeling away from a corpse left too long on the mortuary slab.

Will quickly opens his eyes.

Tissue-thin membranes now dangle from the thing’s back.

And Will sees.

Beth pulled into it, her fists bravely up in front of her. Stay away from strangers, they told her. Watch out for —

In the blackness, he sees Becca, slowly sucked into this purplish mass, her skin peeling off like carrot scrapings.

She looks out at him.

She wonders why he won’t help.

Why? Help me, Will.

Help.

And somehow he remembers.

Somehow he has the sense to remember.

The one chance he has to help his family. The one way.

Here. Now.

Twenty-seven years before they are killed.

 

The images stopped. As if it sensed that Will had turned away from the horror, the screaming.

It reached out for him, slowly, and Will knew it was still unsure.

“No,” Will said. “You won’t have them. Not now . . . not ever . . .”

He took a step closer to it.

But then he heard boys’ voices behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

41

 

Will Dunnigan, sixteen and starting to feel quite drunk, saw two people down near the rambling jetty that meandered into the Atlantic. At first, he thought they were two old homosexuals, looking for a quiet spot. Maybe two drunks.

But no.

They seemed to be fighting, grappling with each other.

“Hey, Dunnigan,” Whalen said. “Pay attention. It’s showtime.”

Tim laughed. And Kiff and Narrio collapsed into each other, giggling. Stewed to the gills. Really bombed. Will grinned at them.

But he still watched the two shapes, moving around the rock. “Hey,” he said. “I see —”

He thought he heard a yell. A cry of some kind.

It was a scary sound.

“Will, are you going to fucking do this with us or not?” Tim said.

Will nodded, but he kept on watching the two people.

“Let’s get to it!” Kiff said. “Bring on the demons!” Mike Narrio laughed.

Will looked back at the circle, the pentagram, the weird symbols drawn on the stone. A big wave crashed nearby, and Will felt a fine spray on his face.

Kiff was saying words. Silly stuff.

Will looked over his shoulder at the two men, the two drunks, the —

Two . . .

And gooseflesh ·sprouted on his arms and legs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

42

 

Will grabbed it.

It was like touching Beth’s Play-Doh, or digging his hands into warm clay or into an elephant’s turd.

Will grabbed it.

“Your wife,” it roared.

A hole opened, and oh, God, Will could smell her. The way her hair smelled after a shower. The perfume she wore. The sweet, wonderful smell of her skin when they made love.

The hole closed.

“I can’t —” he said to himself.

Closed. To the world.

The creature spoke again.

If it actually spoke at all.

“Your children . . .”

And Will heard them. Fighting with each other, bickering over absolutely nothing. Then laughing. Their squeals as they opened birthday presents. Their call to “Look at me, Daddy, look at me!”, when they dove into the pool. Fearless of the cold water.

Fearless of everything.

Signs. Voices. Images.

Will thought. Watched.

Desperation.

He held the thing, his fingers plunged into its fecal-like body.

Will thought he heard it groan.

“By God’s power . . .”

He looked for eyes, some sign of intelligence. But this thing, this mad spirit — if that’s what it was — was completely alien. No eyes. No soul. Eternal emptiness.

The negative image of existence.

The end of life.

The chaos of death.

Will looked at it. Held it fast, muttered the words. Over and over.

Until he roared with the waves, drunkenly shouting at the thing, feeling it shrivel, watching it curl up before him, melting like the Wicked Witch of the North.

Until just he stood there.

His hands reaching into the air.

Grabbing at nothing.

Will heard a chirp.

A feral sound. A rat worming its way through the maze of jumbled bricks.

Then Will turned to face them.

The friends of his youth.

Still so young …

 

Funny.

Now there was only one there.

One man.

And Will Dunnigan thought: Where did the other guy go?

Kiff was still carrying on with his silly prattle. His mumbo jumbo.

But now — God, Will felt cold, and the high tide was spraying him, and the bourbon wasn’t sitting so well in his stomach.

The man stood there watching them.

“Shit,” Kiff said. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Yeah, like you really expected something would happen?” Whalen said.

Will looked at the man, feeling creepier and creepier, and watched him looking at them. He’s watching us, Will thought. Just standing there . . . and watching us.

And what happened to the other guy?

Maybe it isn’t too safe here. He stepped out of the circle. Off the star point.

I’m cold and I want to go home.

And he knew he’d do that. No matter what crazy ideas Kiff came up with …

Narrio giggled. Drunk as a skunk. And then he too wobbled away from the circle.

Will looked back to the man.

But the …?

He was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

43

 

Will climbed up to the street.

I won, he thought. I won.

It never happened.

Nothing happened at Manhattan Beach. We never went to Steeplechase. Narrio never climbed onto the ride.

It all never happened.

He reached the comer, the row of small houses with unkempt lawns, unmowed for months. The breeze made the grass dance. The light let him see something that he hadn’t been sure of.

My clothes, he thought. Blue jeans. Leather jacket. Sure, I’m dressed the way I was.

But now . . . now I’m here.

Before men like me wore blue jeans.

It was just as Dr. James had said it might turn out.

A one-way trip, Will. You have to know that. You have to accept that.

You may never come back.

And now Will knew that it was true.

He kept on walking, following the street to some faint neon lights in the distance.

But he also knew this:

If it all never happened …

Then Becca . . . and Sharon . . . and Beth were safe.

Time is a mental construct, Will, James had said. Something to keep us sane, to give order to a universe more complex and chaotic than we can ever begin to imagine.

Time can be changed.

And —

Will took a breath, sucking the air, clean, fresh.

I did it.

I changed what happened . . . what will happen. I was the only one who could.

With only one small problem.

I have to stay here.

This is my life now. My time.

Will kept on walking. The lights grew brighter. He saw people. Stores. Someplace to stop, perhaps. And think.

About the irony, the terrible irony.

To think that I saved them. That they’ll live.

Only because I left them.

He laughed. And then because it seemed like the right thing to do, something he had to do, he started crying. Full out, crying, for joy, for sadness, for salvation.

Yes, by God.

Salvation.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Epilogue

 

1.

 

One of those lights, that night, had been a bar.

H was called the Bay Ridge Tavern. And Will went in looking for something to give him some sense of normalcy. A sink to wash the blood off his hands. the smell from his fingers . . .

But instead. what he saw and heard made him feel more lost.

The TV was on. Jack Paar was talking to a starlet with mile-high hair. But no one in the bar was listening. The men — there were only men in the bar — were talking loudly, laughing, ignoring the flickering colors on the set.

A purple blotch sat near the top of the TV screen.

Color TV had problems back then, Will knew.

Back then —

Which is now . . . for me.

He sat down on a vacant stool.

The bartender, a bowling pin of a man with a loud laugh and sleeves rolled up, came up and asked what he wanted.

Will said, “A beer.”

“Hey, speak up, mac. Can’t hear you.” Then the bartender turned to a bunch of guys at one end who were laughing as if they had just heard the funniest damn thing in the world.

“Will you fokin’ guys pipe down’” Then back to Will. “Jeeez . . . What’ll it be?”

“A beer.” Will said. The bartender went in search of a clean glass.

Will saw a calendar. A cartoon cowgirl. all legs and perfectly rounded bottom.

October 1965.

“Here you go,” the bartender said, returning with a glass with a foamy inch-tall head.

Will reached for his wallet.

Which wasn’t there.

James had told him that too.

Bring nothing that ties you to this time.

Nothing that could keep you here.

A wallet could do that. It holds your life, your identification, your money. your credit cards. Photos.

“Oh, sorry,” Will said. “I —”

The bartender’s smile faded. He saw Will’s arm slinking back from the futile grab at his back pocket. He noticed the crusty blood on Will’s knuckles.

“I don’t —” Will started to say.

But then the bartender — as if seeing something in Will’s eye — -said, “Hey. Don’t worry, mac.” The bartender tapped the heavy wood bar. “It’s on th’ house.”

Will nodded and said, “Thanks.”

He took the sip.

He let the beer rest on his tongue, burning. Then he swallowed it.

The Paar show ended and the news came on. The newscasters were unfamiliar, and both looked goofily modish. The man was dressed in a suit with flaring lapels way too wide, and his tie glowed an otherworldly red. His hair was long, cut into a silly-looking page boy.

His woman partner had perfectly straight hair pulled back and she wore brilliant red lipstick.

The first story was about Americans bombing the Ho Chi Minh Trail. And a videotape of General Westmoreland flashed onto the screen, his shirt sleeves rolled up, arms folded in front of him.

He explained that the raid was “surgical.”

That it would end any Cong initiative for the rest of the year. No doubt about it.

We could be out of here by Christmas, he said, grinning.

Right, Will thought. Will took another sip of beer.

I feel like laughing, Will thought. A giddy feeling. Right, sure . . . out of here by Christmas . . .

He felt the bartender looking at him, standing at the other end of the bar talking to his regulars.

Best move on, Will thought.

He looked down at his jeans. He looked at his leather jacket. Nothing too out of the ordinary there, he thought.

But I better leave …

He finished the beer.

Got up and started for the door.

The bartender called out to him.

“Hey. Fella? You looking for a job?”

Will stopped. Turned around.

And — he rubbed his chin. He guessed he was.

So Will nodded, and he walked back to find out what he’d be doing the rest of his life.

 

2.

 

It was a life, he guessed.

The job was clerking in a small grocery, a small market not much larger than a deli. Stock work at the beginning, but then — as the owner got to know and trust him — Will ran the store. He got friendly with the customers. They liked him.

He was paid cash. And that made things easy.

The only difficult times were when people got too close, like the owner or regular customers. And they wanted to know where he came from. Where had he been? What had he done?

Will guessed what they suspected.

They think I’m an ex-con.

And that was pretty useful.

So he’d just smile and say, “Oh, I’ve worked out West, did lots of things. I was married once . . .”

And the sad look in his eyes was usually enough to close down any further questions. Most people assumed that he was divorced.

There were women, just friends mostly, but women near his age who were looking for someone just to talk to, and perhaps sleep with.

He’d take them fishing out on Sheepshead Bay, and he almost enjoyed this lost world, a safer world, before graffiti, before crack, before the world changed.

But there was one thing he had promised himself that he’d never do. James had told him that it would be wrong. Perhaps dangerous. Will figured he was just trying to spare his feelings.

Will couldn’t keep that promise.

So as soon as he had a license and a car, he started watching.

Becca, in college at Russell Sage.

Sometimes he’d drive up and watch her on the streets of Troy, New York, walking with her friends, laughing, years before she would meet him. .

And sometimes she’d stop and look in his direction.

He’d slide down in the car seat, hoping that the sun’s glare on the windshield would hide him. Hide the man watching her.

Then she’d move on.

And he watched himself.

A young man. Carousing through the sixties. So full of life that he couldn’t relate to that person at all.

That’s not me, he thought. That’s someone else. But he was wrong.

And when he came back to his small studio apartment in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn, only a block from the elevated subway, he’d sit in the dark and think about the life he’d lost.

He got older. Middle age took a firm hold, and he was fifty.

Will and Becca got married . . .

And he was amazed that all the details were the same.

As if nothing had changed.

But he knew it had. He knew it, because this Will still saw his old school friends. He went to reunions where Kiff was still a crazy man, and Tim Hanna was doing pretty well in real estate — no great shakes, but not bad. Whalen and Narrio both moved to California, but they flew back for the occasional reunion.

I changed it all, Will thought. Things were different.

And his apartment grew to be filled with the history of these people’s lives . . . photographs that he took secretly . . . the articles from local newspapers, while the seventies unrolled like an old, badly scripted movie.

Then one night, drunk, sick with the pain that never went away, he pulled all the pictures down and threw his collection into a big box, intending to throw it into the garbage.

Which he never did.

Instead he put everything in a closet.

Knowing that he’d have to stop this shadow life, watching the others, the real people, live their lives that he had given them.

He stopped spying on Becca and Will. Feeling too sick every lime he did it.

He stopped.

 

3.

 

But when the first baby was born —

When Sharon was born —

Will went to the hospital and he walked up to the giant window that showed the parents and the relatives a sea of squirming babies, all of them identical.

He had to tilt his head to read the card.

Sharon Dunnigan.

He put his hands against the glass.

That’s my baby, he thought.

His lips pressed against the glass.

My little girl.

And he sobbed against the glass, heaving, looking at the tightly swaddled infant asleep.

And he was there for Beth too.

Now he couldn’t stop.

He went to their school plays, seeing them again, rows behind their parents, and he felt crazy, loonish.

Once he thought about visiting Joshua James. Because — all the time — he felt this need to talk with someone, anyone, about what had happened. Someone who would understand, who could say, “You did good, Will Dunnigan.”

He went so far as to go to the Fordham campus.

A place that the other Will would never have to visit now. And sometimes, after a lot of drinking, Will hoped that maybe, if he went to see him, Dr. James would know him, that somehow he’d have this memory of what he and Will had done.

But that was impossible. Absurd.

When I changed everything, it changed for James too.

And so he never went to visit James.

And his days passed.

Until he was an old man.

 

4.

 

He turned sixty-eight.

And though he still worked, the new owner of the food store, a bright-eyed Latino named Hector, just had him operate the cash register.

Hector forgave Will when the register turned up a few bucks. short. Will had trouble reading some of the prices, and the bodega didn’t have a scanner.

Hector asked Will why he didn’t retire. Why not live on Social Security, use Medicare?

Will smiled. He explained that he couldn’t do that.

He didn’t tell Hector that — as far as the government was concerned — he didn’t exist.

Hector still paid him in cash and food.

It wasn’t so bad, even if Will felt tired and empty.

He was alone now, most of the time. The people he had known in the neighborhood were gone, or dead. Many of them moved out to the suburbs, the sticks, before the neighborhood “changed.”

Others went to live with children, grown, with their own families.

Will hadn’t seen them — hadn’t seen his family — in years. It was harder to make the trip up to Westchester. His driving wasn’t so great.

And somehow, he was always left shaking afterward. Shaking like a leaf.

He took medicine. For his heart.

He still had his box of pictures and clippings, sitting in a closet. That was important to him.

And he still watched baseball.

Though it had been boring knowing who was going to win the World Series each year. And how many times had he been tempted to place a bet with the local bookie?

Too many times.

But that seemed all wrong.

I’ve been given a gift, he thought.

Life for those I love.

To bet on the things that I know . . . that would be all wrong.

But today . . . today was a special day.

Today there was an important baseball game and he didn’t know who won.

It was the last play-off game. The Mets vs. the Giants.

Because today . . .

It was the day he left.

Twenty-seven years, he thought. Such a long time. To end up back where you started from.

Twenty-seven years.

And nothing would happen tonight. There was no slasher, no demonic ripper.

Had there ever been?

And the other Will would watch the ball game with Becca curled up on the couch with him. He’d have a few beers. Eat some popcorn, and see whether the Mets pulled it off.

And I’ll watch too, thought Will. I’ll watch, and I’ll think about them, and — finally — I’ll taste some time that I haven’t lived through before.

His apartment was cold when he got to it. The landlord didn’t recognize the chilly winds of fall. There would be no heat for a while. So Will — as soon as he went in — turned on the gas stove and left the oven door open. It was a smelly heat, stinky with the gas smell. But it kept him warm.

He opened a can of hash. Maybe I’ll fry an egg and put it on top, he thought.

Why not celebrate?

And though he tried to watch his beer intake, he had a six-pack of Bud Light cooling.

I’m going to enjoy this game tonight, he thought.

It’s a special night!

And he almost believed that.

 

 

5.

 

He fell asleep before the game ended.

And he woke up in his apartment with the TV yammering at him. An old movie, a World War II film. He saw Van Johnson, Ronald Reagan. It looked colorized.

A half-empty beer can was wedged in the pillows.

He looked at the clock on his cheap Korean VCR that didn’t work anymore.

1:13.

He rubbed his chin.

I missed my game, he thought. I still don’t know who won the game, now, isn’t that something? Isn’t that a pisser? Isn’t that — ?

1:14.

He looked at the digital readout as if it were a beacon into another world, another time.

He tried to tell himself: It’s nothing. I’m about to pass the time I left. It’s nothing at all.

No big occasion.

It’s not New Year’s.

What’s the big deal? What is the damn deal

Just moving from one minute to the next.

His legs hurt.

They often did now, some kind of circulation problem, the young doctor told him. You need more exercise. You need to walk around.

Around here? Will laughed. At night?

Right. Sure. That would be a good way to end my life. Sure …

He tried to push himself off the chair. He pushed against it.

He grunted. His body didn’t seem to want to move.

He reached for the arms of his easy chair. Reached out —

To pull himself up.

He saw the clock.

1:15.

 

6.

 

And someone touched him.

He still saw his small apartment, the cluttered kitchen tabIe, the TV flickering, the old war movie —

And then he didn’t.

Instead, he saw who was tugging at his sleeve.

Pulling at it. Standing there in her bare feet, her nightgown with purple flowers — her favorite — touching the floor.

It was Beth.

“Daddy, what are you doing? What are you doing down here?”

This is not real, Will thought. It’s another one of them cursed dreams, teasing me all the time, driving me half crazy when I wake up.

A sweet, lost dream.

But the Beth ghost tugged harder.

“Dad-dee!”

The TV was on. The same movie.

Will looked around.

At his house.

“Beth,” he said. A whisper. The tiniest sound.

She cocked her head, as if aware that something strange was going on.

“Beth — my baby, my —” he said.

His hands moved to hers. So nervous that it would all disappear.

You can’t touch things in dreams. They just disappear. They just vanish like cotton candy shriveling in your mouth to sweet nothingness.

He covered her hands.

She still looked sleepy and unsure.

Then Beth smiled, a toothless grin. “Daddy, you should be in bed, I wanted a glass of water and you didn’t hear me.”

Will nodded. “Yes, honey. Yes. I — I didn’t hear you.”

And Beth, reassured, pulled at him and Will stood up, easily.

His legs didn’t hurt.

He saw himself in the living room mirror.

He saw who he was.

Who he was now.

And his mind tried to deal with this incredible change, this amazing gift.

And all he could guess, could only dream . . .

When I reached the point that I left, when I finally got to that spot on the circle of time, then it was all over …

My life could be mine again.

My life was mine again.

Beth tugged at him.

“It’s bedtime, Daddy.”

“Yes, honey,” he said. And he followed her.

Knowing that Sharon would be upstairs, her math homework done. And Becca would be asleep on her side of the bed, her steady breathing a guardian against all the bad things that the world might send at him.

Up the stairs, a giant led by a little girl. An image came to mind.

Frankenstein’s monster being led to a little lake by a small girl who knew no fear because she was innocent and full of love.

Up the carpeted stairs until he reached the top.

And, beside her door, Beth turned to him and said, “G’night, Daddy.”

She kissed his hand.

And before she could scurry away, Will crouched down close to her and held her tight, tighter, planting a million kisses in her curly hair.