"Don't run . . . they just want ... the corpses . . ."
But as they passed to two opened graves, the dogs kept coming; their advance unceasing, eyes riveted only on the men. They were closing the gap now, their fluid motion bringing them closer, while Jennings desperately searched for the fence, seeing it was still a hundred yards away. Thorn stumbled again and clung tightly to Jennings, both men shaking as they struggled to back away. Then their backs hit something solid and Thorn shuddered. They were at the base of the great stone idol, trapped there as the dogs spread slowly around them, blocking any chance of escape. For an. awful moment all remained frozen, predators and prey, the circle of dripping teeth holding them at bay. The sun was out now, casting a reddish glow upon the headstones; the dogs and men were held in place as though awaiting a signal to set them into motion. The seconds passed and they coiled tighter; the men rigid, the dogs crouched, ready to spring.
Emitting a shrill war cry, Jennings hurled his tire iron at the lead dog as the entire pack exploded into motion. The dogs sprang into the air, hurling themselves on the men as they turned to run; Jennings was brought down immediately as the animals lunged for his neck. He rolled as they attacked him, his camera straps wrapping tightly about his neck, tearing into it, as the animals danced around him, trying to reach the flesh below. Flailing helplessly against them, he felt his camera beneath his chin, its lens shattering as teeth viciously slashed at it, trying to rip it away.
They had let Thorn run farther, but as he neared the fence a large animal leapt upon him, its jaws connecting squarely with the flesh of his back. Thorn struggled to continue, but the animal hung on, its front legs dangling in the air. Thorn fell to his knees, straining to pull himself forward, while others descended upon him, blocking his view. Teeth flashed and saliva spewed into the air, Thorn crying out as he fought desperately against them, still trying to make it to the fence. But it was no use. He rolled into a ball; feeling hot, stinging pains as their teeth sank into his back. For a moment, he saw Jennings, spinning and rolling, the dogs repeatedly lunging for his neck. Thorn no longer felt pain, only the fierce need to escape. He raised himself on all fours again, the dogs hanging onto his back as he inched his way toward the fence. His hand came down on something cold. It was the tire iron that Jennings had thrown; he gripped it tightly, jamming it down behind him toward the animals tearing his back. From the wail of agony he knew he'd hit a mark, a gush of blood spurting over his head as a dog spun before him, its eyeball hanging by bloody threads from the socket. It gave Thorn courage; he jabbed hard again, then began swinging the tire iron with both hands as he struggled to regain his footing.
Jennings rolled over and over until he reached the base of a tree, fighting to pull himself upward as the dogs raged about him, still striking at the camera and straps wound about his neck. As he fought them, the flash attachment went off, and the animals cowered before the blinding spark of light.
Thorn was on his feet now, swinging wildly with the tire iron, connecting with heads and muzzles as he staggered backward toward the fence. Jennings had leapt from the tree, holding the flash attachment in front of him, triggering it each time the dogs advanced, driving them back until he too had made it to the fence.
He moved quickly to Thorn, keeping the dogs at bay while Thorn began to climb over. His clothes torn, his face bloodied, Thorn struggled upward on the fence, suddenly falling hard upon the top of it, and impaling himself through the armpit with one of the rusted spikes. Crying out in pain, he forced himself upward and fell hard to the earth on the other side. Jennings followed, triggering his flash as he went, then throwing it at the howling dogs as he jumped down on the other side. Thorn was staggering as Jennings crabbed him, half carrying him toward the cab, the cabdriver gazed groggily out at them, then gave of moan of horror. He reached for the ignition, but the keys were gone. He raced out, helping Jennings load Thorn into the back seat of the car. As Jennings ran to the trunk to retrieve the car keys, he glanced back at the dogs, which were now going wild. They were smashing themselves into the fence, howling with anger; one of them tried to leap over and almost made it, but was impaled by the neck, blood shooting out like a fountain. In their frenzy the other dogs leapt upon him, eating him alive as his legs kicked wildly and his voice wailed with rage.
The cab sped away with its back door flapping open, the driver shocked as he gazed into his mirror at the two men in the back. They no longer looked like men, but tangled masses of blood and clothing. And they clung to each other, weeping like children.
Chapter Eleven
The cabdriver had taken them to a hospital emergency room, removed their baggage from the car, and then sped away. Thorn was dazed so Jennings answered all questions, giving false identities and a story that seemingly satisfied the hospital authorities. They had been drunk, he said, and wandered onto private property marked with warning notices that the premises were patrolled by dogs. It was on the outskirts of Rome, but he could not remember where; just that there was a high fence with spikes that his friend had fallen upon. Both were treated for puncture wounds and given tetanus shots, then told to return in a week for blood tests to make sure the injections had done the job. They changed their clothing and left, finding their way to a small hotel and signing in under false names; the concierge insisted they pay in advance and gave them the key to a single room.
Thorn was on the phone now, desperately trying to reach Katherine, as Jennings paced the room.
"They could have killed you, and they didn't," Jennings said fearfully. "It was me they were after, they kept going for my neck."
Thorn lifted his arm to silence Jennings; a dark stain of blood showed through his shirt.
"Do you hear what I'm telling you, Thorn?! They were going for my neck"
"Is this the hospital?" Thorn asked into the phone. "Yes, she's in room 4A."
"My God, if I hadn't had these cameras . . ." Jennings continued.
"Would you interrupt please? This is an emergency."
"We've got to do something, Thorn. Do you hear me?"
Thorn turned to Jennings, eyeing the strap marks on his neck.
"Find the town of Meggido," he said softly.
"How the hell am I going to find ..."
"I don't know. Go to a library."
"A library! Jesus Christ!"
"Hello?" Thorn asked into the phone. "Katherine?"
In her hospital bed, Katherine moved to an upright position, concerned by the urgency in her husband's voice. She held the phone with her good hand, the other immobilized by the angular cast.
"Are you all right?" Thorn asked desperately.
"Yes. Are you?"
"Yes. I just wanted to make sure..."
"Where are you?"
"I'm in Rome. A hotel called the Imperatore."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Are you ill?"
"No, I was worried ..."
"Come back, Jerry."
"I can't come back right now."
"I'm frightened."
"There's nothing to be frightened of."
"I've been calling the house and there's no answer."
In his hotel room, Thorn looked at Jennings who was changing his shirt, preparing to go out.
"Jerry?" said Katherine. "I think I'd better go home."
"Stay where you are." Thorn warned.
"I'm worried about Damien."
"Don't go near the house, Katherine.
"I have to . . ."
"Listen to me, Katherine. Don't go near the house."
Katherine stopped, alarmed by his tone.
"If you're worried about my doing something," she said, "you don't have to be. I've been talking to the psychiatrist, and I see things more clearly now. It isn't Damien that's causing any of this, it's me."
"Katharine . . ."
"Listen to me. I'm taking a drug called Lithium. It's a drug for depression. And it works. I want to go home. And I want you to come back." She
paused, her voice thickening. "And I want everything to be all right."
"Who gave you the drug?" asked Thorn.
"Dr. Greer."
"Stay in that hospital, Katherine. Don't leave until I come for you."
"I want to go home, Jerry."
"For God's sake . . ."
"I'm all right"
"You're not all right!"
"Don't worry."
"Katherine!"
"I'm going home, Jerry."
"Don't! I'll come back."
"When?"
"In the morning."
"But what if something's wrong at home? I've called there . . ."
"Something is wrong at home, Katherine."
She paused, chilled by his words.
"Jerry?" she asked quietly. "What's wrong?"
"Not over the phone," Thorn agonized.
"What's happening? What's wrong at home?"
"Just wait for me there. Just don't move from the hospital. I'll be home in the morning and explain it all."
"Please don't do this to me . . ."
"It's not you, Katherine. There's nothing wrong with you."
"What are you saying?"
In the hotel room, Jennings shot Thorn a look and gravely shook his head.
"Jerry?"
"He's not our child, Katherine. Damien belongs to someone else."
"What?"
"Don't go home," warned Thorn. "Just wait for me there."
He hung up and Katherine sat in stunned silence, unmoving until the receiver began to buzz in her ear. Slowly returning it to the cradle, she stared at the shadows playing on the walls, a tree outside her sixth-floor room swaying gently in the summer breeze. She was frightened but aware that the feeling of panic that always accompanied her fright was gone. The drug was doing its job, she was able to keep her head clear. Lifting the phone again, she dialed her home number. Again, no answer. She then turned to the intercom above her bed and struggled to push its button.
"Yes, ma'am?" replied a voice.
"I have to leave the hospital. Is there someone I should talk to?"
"You'll have to have your doctor's permission."
"Can you find him for me, please?"
"I'll try."
The voice clicked off and Katherine sat in silence. A nurse brought her lunch in but she had no appetite. There was a small plate of Jell-O on the tray. She found herself touching it; it felt cool and calming, and she kneaded it between her fingers.
Several hundred miles away, in the graveyard of Cerveteri, all was silent, the sky overcast, the stillness broken only by the barely audible sound of digging. At the two despoiled gravesites, two dogs pawed the dirt, their limbs moving mechanically as they refilled the opened crypts, dirt sprinkling gently down on the skeletal remains of the jackal and the child. Far behind them the disemboweled remains of a dog hung lifeless on an iron fence, while a lonely compatriot lifted its head and uttered a low and mournful sound. The cry rang throughout the cemetery, slowly rising in intensity; other animals joined in until the air was filled with the discordant chorus of doom.
In her hospital room, Katherine reached for the intercom, her voice edged with impatience.
"Is anyone there?" she asked.
"Yes?" a voice answered.
"I asked you to locate my doctor."
"I'm afraid I can't. He might be in surgery."
Katherine's face was taut with irritation.
"Could you come in here and help me, please?"
"I'll try to send somebody in."
"Please hurry."
"I'll do my best."
She struggled to get out of bed, moving to the wardrobe where she quickly found her clothes. The dress was like a smock and would be easy to get on, but the nightgown she was wearing buttoned high at the neck and she looked at herself in the mirror wondering how, with the cast, she could get it off. It was purple gossamer, a ridiculous sight on a woman with her arm in stiff plaster. Katherine pulled at the buttons, her frustration growing as they refused to come undone. In a sudden motion, the buttons popped and Katherine struggled to lift the gown over her head, but she became ensnared in a tangle of purple haze.
In the graveyard the air rang with growing rage; in her hospital room, Katherine fought against the net of gossamer, winding it tighter around her head and neck. She felt an instant of panic and began to breath heavily, but then a door opened and she relaxed, knowing that help had finally come.
The graveyard of Cimitero di Sant'Angelo reverberated with sound, the wailing growing to even greater heights.
"Hello?" asked Katherine, trying to see who had come in.
But there was no answer and she spun around, searching the room through her gossamer veil.
"Is someone here?"
And then she stopped.
It was Mrs. Baylock; her face powered white, her mouth set in a lipstick-painted grin. Speechless, Katherine watched as the woman walked slowly past her and threw open the window, gazing down into the street below.
"Could you help me . . . ?" Katherine whispered. "I seem ... to be stuck in here."
Mrs. Baylock merely grinned; Katherine weakened at the sight of her face.
"It's a beautiful day, Katherine," the woman said. "A beautiful day for flying."
And she moved forward, gripping the nightgown tightly in her fists.
"Please..." Katherine pleaded.
Their eyes held for one long, last moment.
"You look so beautiful," Mrs. Baylock said. "Give us a kiss."
She leaned forward and Katherine lurched back, the woman spinning her violently toward the window.
In the hospital emergency entrance, an ambulance screeched in, its siren screaming and red light twirling, as high above in a sixth-story window the figure of a woman with a purple nightgown wrapped about her face gracefully took flight. The figure revolved slowly in its long descent, the movement of its cast forming a design in the air. No one saw it until the body hit the roof of the ambulance, bouncing upward for a final flight before coming to rest, dead, in the emergency entrance driveway.
There was silence now at Cerveteri; the graves covered, the dogs vanished into the thicket.
Thorn, fallen into an exhausted sleep, was awakened by the phone. It was dark now, and Jennings was gone.
"Yes?" Thorn answered groggily.
It was Dr. Becker; the tone of his voice betrayed the news to come.
"I'm glad I found you," he said. "The name of the hotel was written on Katherine's night table, but I had trouble locating..."
"What's wrong?" asked Thorn.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this over long distance."
"What happened?"
"Katherine jumped from her hospital window."
". . . What . . . ?" gasped Thorn.
"She's dead, Mr. Thorn. We did everything we could."
A knot formed in Thorn's throat; he was unable to speak.
"We don't know what happened exactly. She'd asked to leave the hospital and then we found her outside."
"She's dead . . . ?" whimpered Thorn.
"She died instantly. Her skull was crushed on impact."
Thorn began to moan and held the receiver against his chest.
"Mr. Thorn?" the doctor asked.
But he was answered with the sound of a disconnect. In the darkness of his room Thorn wept, his sobs echoing down the corridor outside. A night porter hurried to his room and knocked, but all went silent within and stayed that way for hours.
At midnight Jennings returned, his gangly form bent with exhaustion as he entered the room and looked at Thorn's figure lying on the bed. "Thorn?" "Yes," Thorn whispered.
"I went to the library, then the auto club, then called the Royal Geographic Society."
Thorn didn't answer and Jennings sat heavily on the opposite side of the bed. He could see that the bloodstain on Thorn's shirt had widened, the area beneath his armpit dark and wet.
"I found out about the town of Meggido. It's taken
from the word 'Armageddon.' The end of the world."
"Where is it?" Thorn asked without expression.
"About fifty feet underground, I'm afraid. Outside the city of Jerusalem. There's an excavation going on there. Some American university."
There was no reply and Jennings moved to his own bed where he lay down, limp with exhaustion.
"I want to go there," whispered Thorn. *
Jennings nodded, emitting a long sigh. "If you could only remember the name of the old man ..."
"Bugenhagen."
Jennings glanced at him, still unable to see Thorn's eyes.
"Bugenhagen?"
"Yes. I've remembered the poem, too."
Jennings' face was filled with confusion.
"The name of the man you're supposed to see is Bugenhagen?"
"Yes."
"Bugenhagen was a seventeenth-century exorcist. He was mentioned in one of those books we've got."
"That was the name," replied Thorn without expression. "I've remembered it all. Everything he said."
"Hallelujah," Jennings muttered.
"When the Jews return to Zion .. ." Thorn recited in a near whisper, ". . . And a comet fills the sky . . . and the Holy Roman Empire rises . . . then all of us will die."
Jennings listened intently in the darkness; finally, alerted by the lifeless tone, he knew something in Thorn had changed.
"From the eternal sea he rises . .." Thorn continued, ". . . with armies on either shore . . . turning man against his brother . . . until man exists no more."
He fell silent; Jennings waited while the sound of a police car sped toward them, and passed on by the window.
"Has something happened?" he asked.
"Katherine's dead," replied Thorn without emotion. "I want the child to die, too."
They listened to the sounds of the streets outside and both were still awake at dawn when the sounds had fallen to silence. At eight o'clock Jennings dialed El-Al and booked the noon flight to Israel.
In all of his travels, Thorn had never been to Israel; his knowledge of the land came from newspaper accounts of strife and his recent research into the Bible. He was struck by its modernity. A country that was conceived in the time of the Pharaohs but born in the age of asphalt and concrete, it was like a dollop of plaster dropped in the middle of an arid desert. The sky that had watched over exodus on camel back was punctured now with high-rise buildings and towering hotels, the sound of construction booming everywhere. Giant cranes lumbered like mechanical elephants, swinging their trunkloads of building materials ever upward, the city seemingly determined to spread in whatever direction it could. Jackhammers tore up sidewalks and streets already obsolete after so few years; signs hung everywhere offering excursions to the Holy Land. Police too were much in evidence, checking luggage and handbags, their eyes constantly on the watch for potential saboteurs.