F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (53 page)

 
          
He
was more sure now than ever that they'd been searching for him.

 
          
With
the arrival of another trio of Vichy, the first three left. The second three
took up guard positions as all eight undead trudged up the Post Office steps.
Joe noticed that six of the males clustered around the female while a lone male
brought up the rear. Something familiar about that solitary figure, but Joe
couldn't place it.

 
          
No
time to think about it either. He broke into a run. Dawn was coming and he had
to race the sun to the beach.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
Soon.

 
          
Carole
sat on the bungalow's tiny rear deck and watched the sun's lazy fall toward the
horizon. A beautiful end to the day. She might have enjoyed it but for the
adrenaline buzzing through her.

 
          
A
good day ... as good as could be expected. In these times, a good day was when
nothing unusually ugly occurred.

 
          
Joseph
had made it home just after sunrise. Before dropping into a deathlike sleep in
the rear bedroom, he'd spoken into the cassette recorder Carole and Lacey had
looted from the Radio Shack.

 
          
Was
it really looting? she wondered. Did taking something from a store that was
never going to reopen make you a looter? It seemed like a silly thing to worry
about, but she did.

 
          
When
Carole had asked Lacey what she thought, she'd replied, "Who gives a
shit?"

 
          
Maybe
Carole needed to adopt more of that attitude.

 
          
Carole
had returned to the church this morning and, when no one was watching, left the
recorder on the front steps. It seemed to take forever, but eventually someone
found it and played it for the congregation.

 
          
Cheers
and tears—that was the only way Carole could describe the reaction. At least
initially. It took a while for the anger to set in, but when it came it was
fierce. The undead and their collaborators had tried to turn their Father Joe.
A craven, cowardly, backstabbing act. The anger bound the parishioners even
more closely. They'd stay on and fight harder. To the death if need be.

 
          
Carole
tried to draw strength from the memory of their boisterous resolve. For soon
she would have to do what she and Lacey had discussed. Part of her hummed with
anticipation while an equal part recoiled.

 
          
Joseph
had awakened a short while ago. He and Lacey were inside, talking. The
indistinguishable murmur of their voices drifted through the open glass door,
mixing with the thrum of the waves and the calls of the gulls.

 
          
Her
heart kicked up its tempo as their voices faded. That meant that they were
heading for the front bedroom.

 
          
Soon
...too soon . . .

 
          
"Okay."

 
          
Carole
jumped and turned at the sound of Lacey's voice.

 
          
"Now?"

 
          
How
inane. Of course now. That was why Lacey was here.

 
          
Carole
rose unsteadily. Did she have the nerve for this?

 
          
Lacey
pressed the steak knife into her hand. "He's waiting."

 
          
Carole
nodded, took the knife, and headed for the bedroom. When she reached the alcove
she hesitated. She wiped a sweaty palm on the pants of her sweatsuit, then
forced herself forward.

 
          
I
can do this, she thought. I must do this.

 
          
Joe
was sitting on the bed, head down, hands clasped between his knees, looking
like a man on death row. He didn't look up as she entered.

 
          
"Okay,"
he said, his voice hoarse. "Let's get this over—" He must have sensed
something. His head snapped up. "Carole? Sorry. I was expecting Lacey."

 
          
Her
tongue felt like flannel. "It won't be Lacey today."

 
          
Before
he could understand, before he could protest, Carole clenched her teeth and
jabbed the point of the knife into the center of her palm. She suppressed a
gasp of pain as the blade pierced her skin.

 
          
"No!"
Joseph was on his feet. "No, don't!"

 
          
"It's
already done," she said.

 
          
"Carole,
I can't." He backed away a step. "Not you."

 
          
She
held out her hand, cupping her palm to hold the pooling blood.

 
          
"Yes.
Me. It's only fair. I don't want to be left out."

 
          
That
wasn't quite the way Lacey had put it last night after Joseph had left so
abruptly. She'd said that if the three of them were going to work together, be
a team, then they'd have to act and feel like a team. "One for all and all
for one, and all that shit," she'd said.

 
          
Which
meant they had to feel at ease with each other, and that would never happen
unless someone broke through the wall of shame that had sprung up between
Carole and her uncle. Joseph couldn't do it. Only Carole had the power.

 
          
Lacey
had known one sure way for Carole to break through. It was radical, she'd
warned, something her uncle would balk at—and Carole wouldn't be too crazy
about it either—but it had to be done.

 
          
Joseph
was shaking his head, his mouth working but saying nothing. She could read no
expression in his scarred face, but his eyes looked terrified.

 
          
Still
cupping her hand, Carole sat on the bed. She placed the knife beside her and
tugged on his sleeve.

 
          
"Sit,
Joseph," she said. "You've given so much, had so much stolen from
you, let me give something to you."

 
          
"No!"

 
          
"Why
will you take it from Lacey but not from me? Do you think there's something
wrong with my blood?"

 
          
"No,
of course not."

 
          
"They
why not me?"

 
          
"Because
..." He shook his head.

 
          
"Please
don't reject me." She felt a thickness in her throat, heard a catch in her
voice. "I couldn't bear it if you turned me away."

 
          
Joseph
must have heard it too. He slumped next to her. "Carole . .. you don't
have to do this."

 
          
"I
do. I want to."

 
          
That
hadn't been quite true when she'd stepped into the room, but now, this close to
him, feeling his anguish, she wanted to be part of this, she wanted this bond,
terrible as it was.

 
          
She
held her cupped palm beneath his chin.

 
          
"Please?"

 
          
With
a groan Joseph bent his head and pressed his lips against her palm. A shiver
ran through her as his tongue swirled against her skin.

 
          
So
close . . . she'd never dreamed they'd be this close.

 
          
Carole
felt him swallow, then with a sob he pushed her hand away and sagged against
her, resting his head on her thighs, facing away.

 
          
"Oh,
Carole, I'm so sorry. So sorry."

 
          
She
made a fist over her cut palm to stanch the bleeding. Her other hand rose of
its own accord, hovered over his head for a few heartbeats, then dropped and
began stroking his hair.

 
          
"You
have nothing to apologize for, Joseph," she said softly. "This was
not your choosing. It's not your fault."

 
          
He
said nothing. For a moment she feared he might rise and leave the room, but he
didn't move.

 
          
She
said, "You almost told me why you didn't want to take my blood. You got as
far as 'Because.' Can you tell me the rest?"

 
          
"Because
..." He took a breath. "Because I love you."

 
          
She
gasped, her hand recoiling from him as if it had been burned.

 
          
Joseph
began to lift his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

 
          
"No—no,"
she said, gently pushing his head back down. "Don't move." She
couldn't let him see her face right now, for she knew her heart must be shining
in her eyes. "It's all right. It's . . . it's ..."

 
          
The
intoxicating feelings bursting through her . . . she'd never felt anything like
this before. It was indescribable. Her words dried up and blew away like dead
leaves.

 
          
I
love you . . . had he really said that?

 
          
"It's
wonderful," she managed.

 
          
"I'm
not talking about love as for a fellow human being. I'm saying that I love you
as a woman."

 
          
"All
the more wonderful," she said. "Because I've felt the same way about
you."

 
          
Now
his head shot up and she couldn't stop it. He stared at her, mouth agape.
"What?"

 
          
She
could only nod. She felt tears brimming her eyelids and didn't trust herself to
speak.

 
          
"That
can't be," he said.

 
          
She
nodded again and forced the words past the swelling in her throat. "I was
taken with you the day you arrived to replace Father McMann. And as I came to
know you, I came to love you."

 
          
"You
mean 'loved,' don't you."

 
          
"No.
I still do. More than ever."

 
          
He
looked away. "You can't. That man is gone."

 
          
She
touched his scarred cheek. "No. He's been changed, but he's not gone. He's
still there, inside. I feel him when you're near, I hear him when you
speak."

 
          
"Maybe
he's there now, but I don't know much longer you can count on him being
around."

 
          
"I
have faith in you."

 
          
"I
appreciate that, Carole but. . . I've been having a dream, the same dream
yesterday and today. Hanging from a precipice over this swirling darkness
that's calling to me, beckoning to me."

 
          
"But—"

 
          
He
held up a hand. "I know what you're going to say, but this doesn't feel
symbolic. This feels real. It bothers me that part of me wants to let go and
fall into that abyss. But that's all right. I think I can handle that. What
bothers me more is there's no sense of light above me trying to draw me the
other way. Only the darkness below."

 
          
"I
don't understand."

 
          
"Where's
the balance? The darkness seems to be in control with nothing opposing it.
Nothing but us."

 
          
"God
is out there, Joseph, working through us."

 
          
"Not
working too well, I'd say. Look what's happened to me."

 
          
She
wanted to tell him that what had happened to him might be all part of God's
plan, but held back. Now was not the time.