Darkfall (37 page)

Hampton lowered his eyes, stared into his brandy for a moment, then looked at Jack again and said, “There’s another reason I must help. The stakes are higher than I first thought when I threw you out of the shop this afternoon. You see, in order to crush the Carramazzas, Lavelle has opened the Gates of Hell and has let out a host of demonic entities to do his killing for him. It was an insane, foolish, terribly prideful, stupid thing for him to have done, even if he is perhaps the most masterful Bocor in the world. He could have conjured up the spiritual essence of a demon and could have sent that after the Carramazzas; then there would have been no need to open the Gates at all, no need to bring those hateful creatures to this plane of existence in
physical
form. Insanity! Now, the Gates are open only a crack, and at the moment Lavelle is in control. I can sense that much through the cautious application of my own power. But Lavelle is a madman and, in some lunatic fit, might decide to fling the Gates wide, just for the fun of it. Or perhaps he’ll grow weary and weaken; and if he weakens enough, the forces on the other side will surely burst the Gates against Lavelle’s will. In either case, vast multitudes of monstrous creatures will come forth to slaughter the innocent, the meek, the good, and the just. Only the wicked will survive, but they’ll find themselves living in Hell on Earth.”

Rebecca drove up the Avenue of the Americas, almost to Central Park, then made an illegal U-turn in the middle of the deserted intersection and headed downtown once more, with no cause to worry about other drivers. There actually was some traffic—snow removal vehicles, an ambulance, even two or three radio cabs—but for the most part the streets were bare of everything but snow. Twelve or fourteen inches had fallen, and it was still coming down fast. No one could see the lane markings through the snow; even where the plows scraped, they didn’t make it all the way down to bare pavement. And no one was paying any attention to one-way signs or to traffic signals, most of which were on the blink because of the storm.

Davey’s exhaustion had eventually proved greater than his fear. He was sound asleep on the back seat.

Penny was still awake, although her eyes were bloodshot and watery looking. She was clinging resolutely to consciousness because she seemed to have a compulsive need to talk, as if continual conversation would somehow keep the goblins away. She was also staying awake because, in a round-about fashion, she seemed to be leading up to some important question.

Rebecca wasn’t sure what was on the girl’s mind, and when, at last, Penny got to it, Rebecca was surprised by the kid’s perspicacity.

“Do you like my father?”

“Of course,” Rebecca said. “We’re partners.”

“I mean, do you like him more than just as a partner?”

“We’re friends. I like him very much.”

“More than just friends?”

Rebecca glanced away from the snowy street, and the girl met her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered,” Penny said.

Not quite sure what to say, Rebecca returned her attention to the street ahead.

Penny said, “Well? Are you? More than just friends?”

“Would it upset you if we were?”

“Gosh, no!”

“Really?”

“You mean, maybe I might be upset because I’d think you were trying to take my mother’s place?”

“Well, that’s sometimes a problem.”

“Not with me, it isn’t. I loved my Mom, and I’ll never forget her, but I know she’d want me and Davey to be happy, and one thing that’ll make us real happy is if we could have another mom before we’re too old to enjoy her.”

Rebecca almost laughed in delight at the sweet, innocent, and yet curiously sophisticated manner in which the girl expressed herself. But she bit her tongue and remained straight-faced because she was afraid that Penny might misinterpret her laughter. The girl was so serious.

Penny said, “I think it would be terrific—you and Daddy. He needs someone. You know ... someone ... to love.”

“He loves you and Davey very much. I’ve never known a father who loved his children—who cherished them—as much as Jack loves and cherishes the two of you.”

“Oh, I know that. But he needs more than us.” The girl was silent for a moment, obviously deep in thought. Then: “See, there’re basically three types of people. First, you’ve got your givers, people who just give and give and give and never expect to take anything in return. There aren’t many of those. I guess that’s the kind of person who sometimes ends up being made a saint a hundred years after he dies. Then there’re your givers-and-takers, which is what most people are; that’s what I am, I guess. And way down at the bottom, you’ve got your takers, the scuzzy types who just take and take and never-ever give anything to anyone. Now, I’m not saying Daddy’s a complete giver. I know he isn’t a saint. But he’s not exactly a giver-and-taker, either. He’s somewhere in between. He gives a whole lot more than he takes. You know? He enjoys giving more than he enjoys getting. He needs more than just Davey and me to love ... because he’s got a lot more love in him than just that.” She sighed and shook her head in evident frustration. “Am I making any sense at all?”

“A lot of sense,” Rebecca said. “I know exactly what you mean, but I’m amazed to be hearing it from an eleven-year-old girl.”

“Almost twelve.”

“Very grown up for your age.”

“Thank you,” Penny said gravely.

Ahead, at a cross street, a roaring river of wind moved from east to west and swept up so much snow that it almost looked as if the Avenue of the Americas terminated there, in a solid white wall. Rebecca slowed down, switched the headlights to high beam, drove through the wall and out the other side.

“I love your father,” she told Penny, and she realized she hadn’t yet told Jack. In fact, this was the first time in twenty years, the first time since the death of her grandfather, that she had admitted loving anyone. Saying those words was easier than she had thought it would be. “I love him, and he loves me.”

“That’s fabulous,” Penny said, grinning.

Rebecca smiled. “It is rather fabulous, isn’t it?”

“Will you get married?”

“I suspect we will.”

“Double fabulous.”

“Triple.”

“After the wedding, I’ll call you Mom instead of Rebecca—if that’s all right.”

Rebecca was surprised by the tears that suddenly rose in her eyes, and she swallowed the lump in her throat and said, “I’d like that.”

Penny sighed and slumped down in her seat. “I was worried about Daddy. I was afraid that witchdoctor would kill him. But now that I know about you and him ... well, that’s one more thing he has to live for. I think it’ll help. I think it’s real important that he’s got not just me and Davey but you to come home to. I’m still afraid for him, but I’m not so afraid as I was.”

“He’ll be all right,” Rebecca said. “You’ll see. He’ll be just fine. We’ll all come through this just fine.”

A moment later, when she glanced at Penny, she saw that the girl was asleep.

She drove on through the whirling snow.

Softly, she said, “Come home to me, Jack. By God, you’d better come home to me.”

Jack told Carver Hampton everything, beginning with the call from Lavelle on the pay phone in front of
Rada,
and concluding with the rescue by Burt and Leo in their Jeep, the trip to the garage for new cars, and the decision to split up and keep the kids safely on the move.

Hampton was visibly shocked and distressed. He sat very still and rigid throughout the story, not even once moving to sip his brandy. Then, when Jack finished, Hampton blinked and shuddered and downed his entire glassful of Remy Martin in one long swallow.

“And so you see,” Jack said, “when you said these things came from Hell, maybe some people might’ve laughed at you, but not me. I don’t have any trouble believing you, even though I’m not too sure how they made the trip.”

After sitting rigidly for long minutes, Hampton suddenly couldn’t keep still. He got up and paced. “I know something of the ritual he must have used. It would only work for a master, a
Bocor
of the first rank. The ancient gods wouldn’t have answered a less powerful sorcerer. To do this thing, the
Bocor
must first dig a pit in the earth. It’s shaped somewhat like a meteor crater, sloping to a depth of two or three feet. The Bocor recites certain chants ... uses certain herbs.... And he pours three types of blood into the hole—cat, rat, and human. As he sings a final and very long incantation, the bottom of the pit is miraculously transformed. In a sense ... in a way that is impossible to explain or understand, the pit becomes far deeper than two or three feet; it interfaces with the Gates of Hell and becomes a sort of highway between this world and the Underworld. Heat rises from the pit, as does the stench of Hell, and the bottom of it appears to become molten. When the Bocor finally summons the entities he wants, they pass out through the Gates and then up through the bottom of the pit. On their way, these spiritual beings acquire physical bodies, golem bodies composed of the earth through which they pass; clay bodies that are nevertheless flexible and fully animated and alive. From your vivid descriptions of the creatures you’ve seen tonight, I’d say they were the incarnations of minor demons and of evil men, once mortal, who were condemned to Hell and are its lowest residents. Major demons and the ancient evil gods themselves would be considerably larger, more vicious, more powerful, and infinitely more hideous in appearance.”

“Oh, these damned things were plenty hideous enough,” Jack assured him.

“But, supposedly, there are many Ancient Ones whose physical forms are so repulsive that the mere act of looking at them results in instant death for he who sees,” Hampton said, pacing.

Jack sipped his brandy. He needed it.

“Furthermore,” Hampton said, “the small size of these beasts would seem to support my belief that the Gates are currently open only a crack. The gap is too narrow to allow the major demons and the dark gods to slip out.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Yes,” Carver Hampton agreed. “Thank
all
the benevolent gods for that.”

Penny and Davey were still asleep. The night was lonely without their company.

The windshield wipers flogged the snow off the glass.

The wind was so fierce that it rocked the sedan and forced Rebecca to grip the steering wheel more firmly than she had done before.

Then something made a noise beneath the car.
Thump, thump.
It knocked against the undercarriage hard enough to startle her, though not loud enough to wake the kids.

And again.
Thump, thump.

She glanced in the rearview mirror, trying to see if she’d run over anything. But the car’s back window was partially frosted, limiting her view, and the tires churned up plumes of snow so thick that they cast everything behind the car into obscurity.

She nervously scanned the lighted instrument panel in the dashboard, but she couldn’t see any indication of trouble. Oil, fuel, alternator, battery—all seemed in good shape; no warning lights, no plunging needles on the gauges. The car continued to purr along through the blizzard. Apparently, the disconcerting noise hadn’t been related to a mechanical problem.

She drove half a block without a recurrence of the sound, then an entire block, then another one. She began to relax.

Okay, okay, she told herself. Don’t be so damned jumpy. Stay calm and be cool. That’s what the situation calls for. Nothing’s wrong now, and nothing’s going to go wrong, either. I’m fine. The kids are fine. The car’s fine.

The gas flames licked the ceramic logs.

The blown-glass lamps glowed softly, and the candles flickered, and the special darkness of the night pressed against the windows.

“Why wouldn’t those creatures bite me? Why can’t Lavelle’s sorcery harm me?”

“There can be only one answer,” Hampton said. “A
Bocor
has no power whatsoever to harm a righteous man. The righteous are well-armored.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. You’re righteous, virtuous. You’re a man whose soul bears the stains of only the most minor sins.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No. By the manner in which you’ve led your life, you’ve earned immunity to the dark powers, immunity to the curses and charms and spells of sorcerers like Lavelle. You cannot be touched.”

“That’s just plain ridiculous,” Jack said, feeling uncomfortable in the role of a righteous man.

“Otherwise, Lavelle would have had you murdered by now.”

“I’m no angel.”

“I didn’t say you were. Not a saint, either. Just a righteous man. That’s good enough.”

“Nonsense. I’m not righteous or—”

“If you thought of yourself as righteous, that would be a sin—a sin of
self
righteousness. Smugness, an unshakable conviction of your own moral superiority, a self-satisfied blindness to your own faults—none of those qualities is descriptive of you.”

“You’re beginning to embarrass me,” Jack said.

“You see? You aren’t even guilty of the sin of excessive pride.”

Jack held up his brandy. “What about this? I drink.”

“To excess?”

“No. But I swear and curse. I sure do my own share of that. I take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“A very minor sin.”

“I don’t attend church.”

“Church-going has nothing to do with righteousness. The only thing that really counts is how you treat your fellow human beings. Listen, let’s pin this down; let’s be absolutely sure this is why Lavelle can’t touch you. Have you ever stolen from anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you ever cheated someone in a financial transaction?”

“I’ve always looked out for my own interests, been aggressive in that regard, but I don’t believe I’ve ever cheated anyone.”