The Omen (6 page)

"Whoa .. . whoa . . ." uttered Thorn on a shaking breath, and his voice caused the animal to coil tighter, as if ready to spring.

"Quiet down, now," said Mrs. Baylock as she appeared from her room. "This is the master of the house."

And the dog fell silent, the drama suddenly ended. Mrs. Baylock touched a light switch and the hall was instantly illuminated, leaving Thorn breathless, staring down at the dog.

"What... is this?" he gasped.

"Sir?" asked Mrs. Baylock casually.

"This dog."

"Shepherd, I think. Isn't he beautiful? We found him in the forest."

The dog lay at her feet now, suddenly unconcerned.

"Who gave you permission ... ?"

"I thought we could use a good watchdog, and the boy absolutely loves him."

Thorn was still shaken, standing stiffly against the wall, and Mrs. Baylock could not hide her amusement.

"Gave you a fright, did he?"

"Yes."

"See how good he is? As a watchdog, I mean? Believe me, you'll be grateful to have him here when you're gone."

"When I'm gone?" asked Thorn.

"On your trip. Aren't you going to Saudi Arabia?"

"How do you know about Saudi Arabia?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I didn't know it was a secret."

"I haven't told anybody here."

"It was Mrs. Horton told me."

Thorn nodded, his eyes moving again toward the dog.

"He won't be any trouble," assured the woman. "We're only going to feed him scraps . . ."

"I don't want him here," snapped Thorn.

She gazed at him with surprise. "You don't like dogs?"

"When I want a dog, I'll choose it."

"The boy's taken quite a fancy to it, sir, and I think he needs it."

"I'll decide when he needs a dog."

"Children can count on animals, sir. No matter what."

She gazed at him as though there was something else she was trying to convey.

"Are you . . . trying to tell me something?"

"I wouldn't presume to, sir."

But the way she looked at him made it plain.

"If you have something to say, Mrs. Baylock, I'd like to hear it."

"I shouldn't, sir. You've enough on your mind . .."

"I said I'd like to hear it."

"Just that the child seems lonely."

"Why should he be lonely?"

"His mother doesn't seem to accept him."

Thorn stiffened, affronted by the remark.

"You see?" she said, "I shouldn't have spoken."

"Doesn't accept him?"

"She doesn't seem to like him. And he feels it, too."

Thorn was speechless, not knowing what to say.

"Sometimes I think all he has is me," the woman added.

"I think you're mistaken."

"And now he has this dog. He loves this dog. For his sake, don't take it away."

Thorn gazed down at the massive animal and shook his head. "I don't like this dog," he said. 'Tomorrow take him to the pound."

"The pound?" she gasped.

"The Humane Society."

"They kill them there!"

"Just get him out, then. Tomorrow I want him gone."

Mrs. Baylock's face hardened and Thorn turned away. The woman and the dog watched him move away down the long hall, and their eyes burned with hatred.

Thorn had spent a sleepless night. He sat on the bedroom terrace smoking cigarettes, disgusted by their taste. From the room behind him he heard Katherine moan, and he wondered what demon she fought in her sleep. Was it the old one, the demon of depression come back to haunt? Or was she simply replaying the awful events of the day?

To keep his mind off reality, he began to speculate, retreating into his imagination to drive off immediate concerns. He thought about dreams, the possibility of one man's seeing another's. Brain activity was known to be electrical; so were the impulses that created images on television screens. Surely there was a way to carry one to the other. Imagine the therapeutic good it could do. The dreams could even be put on video tape so the dreamer could replay them in detail. He himself had y often been haunted by a vague sensation that he had had a troubling dream. But by morning the details were lost, leaving only the feeling of uneasiness. Besides being therapeutic, think how entertaining such taped dreams could be. And how dangerous, too. The dreams of great men could be stored in archives for future generations to see. What were Napoleon's dreams? Or Hitler's? Or Lee Harvey Oswald's? Maybe Kennedy's assassination could have been averted if someone could have seen Oswald's dreams. Surely there must be a way. And in this manner Thorn passed the hours until morning.

When Katherine awoke, her injured eye was swollen shut, and as Thorn left he suggested she see a doctor.

It was the only conversation they exchanged. Katherine was silent, and Thorn was preoccupied with the day that lay ahead. He was to make final arrangements for his trip to Saudi Arabia, but he had the feeling that he should not go. He was afraid. For Katherine, for Da-mien, and for himself; yet he didn't know why. There was uncertainty in the air, a feeling that life was suddenly fragile. He had never before been preoccupied with a sense of death, it was always far away. But that was the essence of what he was feeling now. That his life was somehow in danger.

In the limousine on the way to the Embassy, he made perfunctory notes about insurance policies and business details that would have to be attended to in the event of his death. He did it dispassionately and without the realization that it was something he had never done, or even considered doing, before. Only when he was finished did the act frighten him, and he sat in tense silence as the car approached the Embassy, feeling that at any moment something was going to happen.

As the limousine came to a stop, Thorn moved stiffly out, waiting there until it had pulled away. And then he saw them descending on him; two men moving fast, one taking pictures, the other firing questions. Thorn headed toward the Embassy, but they got in his way; he tried to step around them, shaking his head in response to their questions.

"Have you read today's Reporter, Mr. Thorn?"

"No, I haven't..."

"There's an article about your nanny, the one that jumped . . ."

"I didn't see it."

"It says she left a suicide note."

"Nonsense."

"Could you look this way, please?" It was Jennings with the camera, moving quickly, clicking away.

"Would you mind?" asked Thorn as Jennings blocked his way.

"Is it true she was involved with drugs?" asked the other.

"Of course not."

"The coroner's report said there was a drug in her bloodstream."

"It was an allergy drug," replied Thorn through clenched teeth. "She had allergies .. ."

"They said it was an overdose."

"Could you hold it like that?" asked Jennings.

"Would you get out of my way?" Thorn growled.

"Just doing my job, sir."

Thorn sidestepped, but they pursued him once again, getting in his way.

"Did she use drugs, Mr. Thorn?" ' "I told you . . ."

"The article said . .."

"I don't care what the article said!"

"That's great!" said Jennings. "Just hold it like that!"

The camera came too close and Thorn pushed it aside, knocking it from Jennings' hand. It crashed hard on the cement, and for a moment everyone stood in silence, shocked by the burst of sudden violence.

"Can't you people have some respect?" Thorn gasped.

Jennings knelt, gazing up at him from his knees.

"I'm sorry," said Thorn in a shaking voice. "Send me a bill for the damage."

Jennings picked up the broken camera and stood slowly, shrugging as he looked into Thorn's eyes.

"That's okay, Mr. Ambassador," he said. "Let's just say .. . you 'owe' me."

After an uneasy nod, Thorn turned on his heel and entered the Embassy, as a Marine ran up from the street, too late to survey the aftermath of the incident.

"He busted my camera," said Jennings to the Marine. "The Ambassador busted my camera."

They stood nonplussed, then disbursed, each going his separate way.

Thorn's office was in turmoil. The trip of Saudi Arabia was in jeopardy because Thorn was balking, saying, without further explanation, that he was unable to go. Planning the trip had occupied his staff for the better part of two weeks, and his two aides were up in arms, feeling cheated that their work had gone to waste.

"You can't cancel," entreated one. "After all this, you can't just call and say ..."

"It's not canceled," retorted Thorn, "it's postponed."

"They'll take it as an insult."

"So be it."

"But why?"

"I don't feel like traveling right now," replied Thorn. "It's not a good time."

"Do you realize what's at stake here?" asked his second aide.

"Diplomacy," answered Thorn.

"More than that."

"They've got the oil and they've got the power," said Thorn. "Nothing will change that."

"That's precisely why..."

"I'll send somebody else."

"The President's expecting you to go."

"I'll talk to him. I'll explain."

"My God, Jerry! This thing's been planned for weeks!"

"Then replan it!" Thorn shouted.

His sudden outburst created silence. An intercom buzzed, and Thorn reached for it.

"Yes?"

"There's a Father Tassone here to see you," replied a secretary's voice.

"Who?"

"Father Tassone from Rome. He says it's a matter of urgent personal business."

"I've never heard of him," replied Thorn.

"He says he just needs a minute," responded the voice. "Something about a hospital."

"Probably wants a donation," mumbled one of Thorn's aides.

"Or a dedication," added the other.

"All right," Thorn sighed. "Send him in."

"I didn't know you were such a soft touch," remarked one of the aides.

"Public relations," muttered Thorn.

"Don't make a decision on Saudi Arabia yet. Okay? You're down today. Just let it sit."

"The decision is made," said Thorn with fatigue. "Either someone else goes or we postpone it."

"Postpone it until when?"

"Until later," responded Thorn. "Until I feel better about leaving."

The doors swung open, and in the massive archway stood a diminutive man. He was a priest; his robes were disheveled, his manner tense, his sense of urgency felt by all in the room. The aides exchanged an uneasy glance, uncertain whether it was safe to leave the room.

"Would it... be all right..." asked the priest, in a thick Italian accent, "... to speak with you alone?"

"It's about a hospital?" asked Thorn.

"Sir . .

After a moment, Thorn nodded, and his aides moved hesitantly from the room. When they were gone, the priest closed the doors behind them; then he turned, his expression filled with pain.

"Yes?" Thorn asked apprehensively.

"We have not much time."

"What?"

"You must listen to what I say."

The priest refused to move, remaining with his back touching the door.

"And what is that?" asked Thorn.

"You must accept Christ as your Saviour. You must accept him now."

And there passed a moment of silence, Thorn at a loss for words.

"Please, signor ..."

"Excuse me," interrupted Thorn. "Did I understand you to have a matter of urgent personal business?"

"You must take communion," the priest continued. "Drink the blood of Christ and eat his flesh, for only if He is within you can you defeat the child of the Devil."

The atmosphere in the room burned with tension. Thorn's hand reached for the intercom.

"He's killed once," whispered the priest, "and hell kill again. Hell kill until everything that's yours is his."

"If you'll just wait outside ..."

The priest had begun to approach now, his voice rising in intensity.

"Only through Christ can you fight him," he entreated. "Accept the Lord Jesus. Drink of His blood."

Thorn's hand found the intercom button and pushed.

"I've locked the door, Mr. Thorn," said the priest

Thorn stiffened, frightened now by the priest's tone.

"Yes?" asked the secretary's voice through the intercom.

"Send for a security guard," replied Thorn.

"What's that, sir?"

"I beg you, signor," pleaded the priest, "listen to what I say."

"Sir?" repeated the secretary.

"I was at the hospital, Mr. Thorn," said the priest, "the night your son was born." Thorn was jolted. Riveted in place.

"I... was a ... midwife," the priest said in a faltering voice. "I . . . witnessed ... the birth"

The secretary's voice came again, this time edged with concern.

"Mr. Thorn?" she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Nothing," responded Thorn. "Just. . . stand by."

He released the button, gazing fearfully back at the priest.

"I beg you ..." said Tassone, choking back tears.

"What do you want?"

"To save you, Mr. Thorn. So Christ will forgive me."

"What do you know about my son?"

"Everything."

"What do you know?" demanded Thorn.

The priest was trembling now, his voice thick with emotion.

"I saw its mother," he replied.

"You saw my wife?"

"I saw its mother!"

"You're referring to my wife?"

"Its mother, Mr. Thorn!"

Thorn's face hardened, and he gazed back evenly at the priest.

"Is this blackmail?" he asked quietly.

"No, sir."

"Then what do you want?"

"To tell you, sir."

"To tell me what?"

"Its mother, sir . . ."

"Go on, what about her?"

"Its mother, sir . .. was a jackall" A sob escaped the priest's throat. "He was born of a jackall I saw it myself!"

With a sudden crash, Thorn's door flew open, a Marine entering, Thorn's aides and secretary behind

him. Thorn was ashen, immobile, the priest's face wet with tears.

"Something wrong in here, sir?" asked the Marine.

"You sounded strange," added the secretary. "And the door was locked."

"I want this man escorted out of here," said Thorn. "And if he ever comes back •.. I want him put in jail."

No one moved, the Marine hesitant to put his hands on a priest. Slowly, Tassone turned and walked to the door. There he stopped, looking back at Thorn.

"Accept Christ," he whispered sadly. "Each day drink His blood."

Then he left, the Marine following him, all the others standing in confused silence.

"What did he want?" an aide asked.

"I don't know," whispered Thorn gazing after the priest. "He was crazy."

On the street outside the Embassy, Haber Jennings leaned up against a car, checking out his spare camera, having put the broken one away. His eye caught sight of the Marine escorting the priest down the front steps, and he snapped off a couple of shots of the two as the priest slowly shuffled away. The Marine spotted Jennings and walked to him, eyeing him with distaste.

"Haven't you gotten into enough trouble with that thing today?" he asked, indicating Jennings' camera.

"Enough trouble?" smiled Jennings. "Never enough."

And he clicked off two more shots of the Marine at point-blank range, the Marine glaring as he withdrew. Then Jennings changed focus and found the small priest; he snapped off one more shot of him as he disappeared in the distance.

Late that night, Jennings sat in his darkroom gazing at a series of photographs, his eyes curious and confused. To make sure his spare camera was operating efficiently he had shot off a roll of thirty-six pictures at varying exposures and speeds, and three of them had turned out defective. It was the same sort of defect he'd had a few months ago in the shot of the nanny at the Thorn estate. This time it involved the shots of the priest. Once again it seemed to be a flaw on the emulsion, but this time it appeared more than once. It came twice in a row, then skipped two shots, then returned, exactly as before. Even more curious, it seemed linked to the subject, the strange blur of movement hanging above the priest's head as though it were somehow actually there.

Jennings lifted five photos from the developer and examined them closely under the light: two shots of the priest with the Marine, two close-ups of the Marine alone, then one more of the priest alone in the distance. Not only did the blemish disappear in the two shots of the Marine, but when it reappeared in the final shot, it was smaller in size, relative to the size of the priest. As before it was a kind of a halo, but unlike the blemish that defaced the photo of the nanny, this one was oblong in shape, suspended well over the subject's head. The haze that enveloped the head of the nanny was inert, conveying a sense of peace, but the one above the priest's head was dynamic, as though in motion. It looked like a ghostlike javelin about to skewer the priest to the ground.

Jennings reached for an opium joint and sat back to speculate. He had read once that film emulsion was sensitive to extreme heat, just as it was to light. The article appeared in a photographic journal and dealt with ghostlike images that showed up on film taken in one of England's famed haunted houses. The writer, an expert in photographic science, had speculated on the relationship of nitrate to temperature change, noting that in laboratory experiments intense heat had been found to affect film emulsion the same way as light Heat was energy, and energy was heat, and if indeed, apparitions were, as some speculated, residual human energy, then under the right circumstances their shape could be recorded on film. But the energy the article spoke of was without relation to the human body. What was the meaning of energy that clung to the outside of a human form? Did it come at random, or did it have some meaning? Did it have to do with external influences, or was it perhaps born of anxieties festering within?