The Omen

  Jennings' eyes settled upon a darkened cavern behind them, and Bugenhagen followed his gaze.

  "The whole city's here," he said. "Thirty-five kilometers north to south. Most of it passable except for recent cave-ins. They keep digging up there, creating cave-ins down here. By the time they get here, it will all be rubble." He paused, pondering it sadly. "But that's the way of man, isn't it?" he asked. "Assume that everything to be seen is visible on top?"

  Thorn and Jennings stood silent, attempting to digest all they were seeing and hearing.

  "The little priest," said Bugenhagen. "Is he dead yet?"

  Thorn turned to him, jarred by the memory of Tassone.

  "Yes," he replied.

  "Then sit down, Mr. Thorn. We'd better get to work."

  Thorn was reluctant and held his place; the old man's eyes moved to Jennings.

  "You'll excuse us. This is for Mr. Thorn alone."

  "I'm in this with him," replied Jennings.

  "I fear not."

  "I brought him here."

  "I'm sure he's grateful."

  "Thorn . . . ?"

  "Do as he says," replied Thorn.

  Jennings stiffened with insult.

  "Where the hell am I supposed to go?"

  "Take one of the lamps," said Bugenhagen.

  Jennings reluctantly did as told. Glancing angrily at Thorn, he lifted a lamp from its ledge on the wall and moved off into the darkness.

  An uncomfortable silence passed, the old man rising from behind his desk and waiting until the shuffling sounds of Jennings' footsteps had faded.

  "Do you trust him?" Bugenhagen asked.

  "Yes."

  "Trust no one."

  He turned and rummaged through a cupboard cut into the rock, withdrawing a package wrapped in cloth.

  "Should I trust you?" Thorn asked.

  In answer the old man returned to the table and opened his package, revealing seven stilettos that glinted against the light. They were thin and ivory-handled; each handle was carved into the form of Christ on the cross.

  "Trust these," he said. "These are all that can save you."

  In the caverns behind them, the air was still; Jennings moved through in a half-crouch beneath the low and uneven rock ceiling, gazing with awe into the circle of light shed by the lantern he held in his hand. Within his view were artifacts embedded in the hard-packed walls, skeletons half buried in rock that seemed to reach out from the outlines of gutters and steps that once fronted the ancient street. He moved onward, drawn deeper into the gradually narrowing tunnel.

  In the cubicle far behind him, the lights had dimmed; Thorn's eyes were filled with fear as he stared down at the table. Before him the seven stilettos were planted firmly upright, forming the sign of the cross.

  "It must be done on hallowed ground," whispered the old man. "The grounds of a church. His blood must be spilled on the altar of God."

  His words were punctuated with silence as he studied Thorn, making certain he understood.

  "Each knife must be buried to the hilt. To the feet of the Christ figure on each handle . . . planted this way, to form the sign of the cross."

  The old man's gnarled hand reached in and, with effort, unstuck the knife in the center.

  "The first dagger is the most important. It extinguishes physical life and forms the center of the cross. The subsequent placements extinguish spiritual life, and should radiate outward, like this . . ."

  He paused, assessing Thorn's expression.

  "You must be devoid of sympathy," he instructed. "This is not a human child."

  Thorn struggled to find his voice. When it came, it sounded alien, hoarse and uneven, reflecting his distress.

  "What if you're wrong?" he asked. "What if he's not. . ."

  "Make no mistake."

  "There must be some proof . .."

  "He bears a birthmark. A sequence of sixes."

  Thorn's breath quickened.

  "No." he said.

  "So says the Bible, do all the apostles of Satan."

  "He doesn't have it."

  "Psalm Twelve, Verse Six. 'Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the Beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred sixty-six.' "

  "He doesn't have it, I tell you."

  "He must have it."

  "I've bathed him. I've studied every inch of him."

  "If it is not visible on the body, you'll find it beneath the hair. Was he not born with a great deal of hair?"

  Thorn recalled the first time he ever saw the child. He remembered being struck with the sight of its thick, glorious hair.

  "Remove it," instructed Bugenhagen. "You'll find the mark hidden beneath."

  Thorn closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands.

  "Once you begin, do not hesitate."

  Thorn shook his head, unable to accept it.

  "Do you doubt me?" asked Bugenhagen.

  "I don't know," Thorn sighed.

  The old man sat back and studied him.

  "Your unborn child was killed as predicted. Your wife is dead . . ."

  "This is a child"

  "You need more evidence?"

  "Yes."

  "Then wait for it," said Bugenhagen. "Be satisfied that what you are doing must be done. Or else you will do it badly. If you are uncertain, they will defeat you."

  "They. . . ?"

  "You said there was a woman. A woman who cares for the child."

  "Mrs. Baylock . .."

  The old man sat back, nodding with recognition.

  "Her name is B'aalock. She is an apostate of the Devil and will die before permitting this."

  They fell silent; footsteps were heard in the cavern behind them. Jennings gradually materialized from the darkness, his face filled with bewilderment.

  ". . . Thousands of skeletons . . ." he whispered.

  "Seven thousand," Bugenhagen responded.

  "What happened?"

  "Meggido was Armageddon. The end of the world."

  Jennings walked forward, shaken by what he had seen.

  "You mean . . . 'Armageddon' has already been?"

  "Oh, yes," replied Bugenhagen. "As it will be many times again."

  He unstuck the knives and meticulously wrapped them, handing the package to Thorn. Thorn wanted to refuse, but Bugenhagen thrust them upon him, their eyes locking as Thorn rose.

  "I have lived long," said Bugenhagen on a trembling voice. "I pray I will not have lived in vain."

  Thorn turned away and followed Jennings into the darkness where they had entered. He moved forward in silence, turning back only once to see the distant chamber. It was gone. The lights had been extinguished and it had melted into darkness.

  On the streets of Jerusalem, they moved in silence, Thorn gripping the cloth package tightly in his hand. His mood was dark and he walked like an automaton, oblivious to his surroundings, his eyes fixed rigidly ahead. Jennings had tried to question him, but Thorn refused to speak. Now, as they entered the narrowed sidewalk of a construction area, the photographer hurried to keep up behind him, having to shout over jack-hammers as his frustration grew.

  "Look! All I want to know is what he said! I've got a right to know, don't I?"

  But Thorn continued doggedly forward, his pace quickening as though trying to outdistance him.

  "Thorn! I want to know what he said!"

  Jennings moved into the street, grabbing Thorn by the arm.

  "Hey! I'm not just some bystander! I'm the one who found him."

  Thorn stopped, glaring into Jennings* eyes.

  "Yes. You are, aren't you? You're the one who's been finding all of this."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You're the one who's been insisting on all of this! You're the one who's been feeding this into my brain. . . !"

  "Now wait a minute ..."

  "You're the one who took those photographs ..."

  "Hold on . . ."

  "You're the one who brought me here
..."

  "What's going on."

  "I don't even know who you are"

  He wrested his arm from Jennings' grip and turned; Jennings grabbed him again.

  "You're going to wait a minute and listen to what I have to say."

  "I've listened to enough."

  "I'm trying to help you."

  "No more!"

  They glared into each other's eyes, Thorn shaking with rage.

  "To think I've actually been listening to this! Believing this!"

  "Thorn . . ."

  "For all I know, that old man is just some 'fakir' peddling his knives!"

  "What are you talking about?!"

  Thorn held up the package in his trembling hands.

  "These are knives! Weapons! He wants me to stab him! He expects me to murder that child!"

  "It's not a child!"

  "It is a child!"

  "For God's sake, what more proof . . ."

  "What kind of a man do you think I am?!"

  "Just cool off."

  "No!" Thorn shouted. "I won't do it! I won't have any part of it! Murder a child? What kind of a man do you think I am?"

  In an explosion of anger he whirled, hurling the package of knives far beyond him where it hit a wall and bounced into an alley. Jennings paused for an instant, looking hard into Thorn's raging eyes.

  "Maybe you won't," he growled, "but I will."

  He turned and Thorn stopped him.

  "Jennings."

  "Sir."

  "I never want to see you again. I disassociate myself from all of it."

  With his lip curled, Jennings moved quickly into the alley, searching for the package of knives. The ground

  was filled with litter, the air ringing with jackhammers and heavy machinery as he kicked rubble aside, spotting the small package at the base of a garbage pail ahead. Hurrying to it, he quickly bent over, failing to see the arm of a huge crane as it swung high overhead, pausing for just an instant before letting loose the huge pane of glass held tightly in its grip. It sliced downward with the finality of a guillotine, catching Jennings just above the collar, neatly severing his head from his body before exploding into a million flying pieces.

  Thorn heard the impact, then the sounds of screaming, as pedestrians ran from all directions toward the alley where Jennings had disappeared. Following them, he pushed through the crowd to where the body lay. It was decapitated, blood pumping outward in a weak, pulsating movement as though the heart were beating still. A woman standing on a veranda overhead pointed downward and screamed. The head was in a garbage pail, staring upward to the sky.

  Forcing himself to move, Thorn walked stiffly forward, picking up the package of knives that lay in the rubble just beyond Jennings' lifeless hand. With glazed eyes, he moved out of the alley, finding his way back to the hotel.

  Chapter Twelve

  The return flight to London had taken eight hours; Thorn sat in dazed silence, his mind refusing to function. The fires that had once sparked thought—speculation, imagination, doubt—had now been extinguished. There was no more fear, no more grief, no more confusion; only the mindless knowledge of what had to be done.

  At the London airport his package of knives was returned by a stewardess who had, according to anti-hi-jack precautions, held them until the flight had terminated. She remarked on how beautiful they were and asked where Thorn had purchased them. He answered in monosyllables, stuffing the package inside his jacket, and entered the near-empty terminal. It was after midnight and the airport had closed down; his was the last flight allowed in due to substandard visibility on the runways. The city was buried in fog, even the cabdrivers balking at his request to take him all the way to Pereford. It was disorienting to return to London this way, with no one to meet him, no one to drive him, and he was stung by the recollection of how it used to be. There was always Horton waiting with news of the weather; Katherine at home, with a welcoming smile.

  Now, as he stood in the cold night air waiting for a private limousine service to pick him up, loneliness swept over him and chilled him to the bone.

  When the car finally came, they moved out at a snail's pace, the inability to see anything passing by creating the sensation that they were not moving at all. It was as though the car were merely hanging in space, and it helped Thorn to resist the temptation to think about anything that lay ahead. The past was gone, the future unforseeable. There was only this moment, lasting an eternity until Pereford finally came into view.

  It too was smothered in haze; fog swirled about the car as it came to a stop, depositing Thorn and his luggage in the driveway in front of the house, which was quiet and dark. Thorn remained for a few minutes after the car had left, staring up in silence at the house that once contained the people he loved. There was not a single light within, not a sound, and Thorn's mind tortured him with fleeting images of the events that had once gone on here. He saw Katherine in the garden, playing with her child, Chessa laughing as she watched. He saw the veranda filled with people and the sound of laughter, the driveway packed with chauffeured limousines belonging to the most important people in the Commonwealth. Mercifully, the visions faded and he became aware only of his own heartbeat, the sensation of blood coursing through his veins.

  Steeling his courage he moved to the front door and, with cold-stiffened hands, inserted the key. From behind him he heard a sound. It was a movement, as though something were running hard toward him through the Pereford forest, and Thorn's breath quickened as he opened the door and entered, closing it fast behind him. He had the sensation he was being pursued, but as he looked out through the leaded-glass window of the closed door, he saw nothing but fog. The momentary fright had been born of fantasy. He knew he must keep it from happening again.

  Bolting the door behind him, he stood for a moment in the darkness, tuning his ears to the sounds of the house. The heating system was on, rattling the aluminum ducts, the grandfather clock was ticking, punctuating the seconds that passed. Thorn moved slowly through the living room into the kitchen, there opening the door to the garage. Their two cars were parked side by side, Katherine's station wagon and his Mercedes. He went to the Mercedes, opened the driver's door, and inserted his keys in the ignition. The gas tank was a quarter full; enough to get back to London. Leaving the driver's door open and his keys within, he walked back to the kitchen door, pausing to flick the switch that automatically raised the doors leading to the driveway. Fog swirled in and for a moment Thorn again thought he heard a sound. Stepping inside he closed the door and listened. There was nothing. His mind was playing tricks.

  Switching on the light, he observed his surroundings. It was all as he left it, as though the housekeeper had retired for the night, and all was well. There was even a crock-pot of hot cereal incubating on the stove to be ready by morning. It shook Thorn. It was all so normal, so inconsistent with what he knew to be true.

  Moving to the counter, he removed the cloth package from his coat, laying out the contents before him. All seven knives were there, looking freshly sharpened, the blades reflecting portions of his face as he examined them from above. He saw his eyes, deadened and resolute, but he was aware of a sudden perspiration that came on with the sight of the knives. A weakness began to sweep upward through his legs and he fought it off, rewrapping the knives with trembling hands, tucking the package back inside his coat.

  He entered the pantry, moving up a narrow wooden stairwell, bending low to avoid hitting the bare bulb that illuminated it, suspended by a shredded wire from above. It was the servants' stairwell and he had used it only once before while playing a game of hide-and-seek with Damien. He remembered at the time making a mental note to do something about the shredded wire, fearing the child might one day reach up and touch it. It was just one of many hazards in the old, obsolete house. There were windows on the upper floors that opened too easily, leading to sheer drop-offs, and balconies that were unsteady, their railings in disrepair.

  As Thorn trudged upward
on the narrow backstairs, he had the sensation he was living a dream, that at any moment he would awaken beside Katherine and recount the terrible fantasy that had played in his mind. She would show concern and reassure him with her touch, and the child would toddle into their room, his face fresh and pink from slumber.

  Thorn reached the first-floor landing and stepped out into the darkened hall, as the confusion that had torn into him before Jennings' death swept over him once again. He prayed he would go into the child's room and find it empty, that the house was silent and dark because the woman had taken him away. But he could hear the sounds of their breathing, and his heart throbbed with anguish and despair. They were there, both of them, asleep; the woman's snoring punctuated by the lighter intake of the child. Thorn had always felt that in this hall their lives somehow intermingled while they slept; their breath meeting and fusing in the darkness, creating a oneness they never know in their waking hours. He leaned against the wall, listening, then moved quietly into his own room and turned on the light.

  His bed was turned down as though he were expected, and he went to it and sat heavily, his eyes falling on the framed photograph of himself and Katherine on the night table. How young they looked, how full of promise. Thorn lay back on the bed and felt tears tracing a path from the corners of his eyes. They had come without warning, and he gave in to them, allowing them to flow. Downstairs a clock chimed twice and he rose, moving to the bathroom where he turned on the light and recoiled in horror. Katherine's bathroom was in a state of total disarray, makeup broken and spilled everywhere as though some macabre celebration had taken place there. Jars of powder and face creams were smashed on the floor, lipstick smeared aimlessly across the tiles, the toilet stuffed with hairbrushes and curlers as though someone had tried to flush them down. The scene rang with vicious anger, and though Thorn could in no way comprehend it, he saw clearly that it was directed at Katherine. It was done by an adult; the jars smashed with decisive power, the smears bold and far-reaching. It was the work of a lunatic. A lunatic filled with hate. He was numbed by it and looked up to see his reflection in a broken mirror. He saw his face harden and then he reached down, opening a drawer. What he sought was not there, and he opened a cabinet, rummaging around until his hands came upon what they were searching for. It was an electric razor. Thorn flicked it to A.C., then snapped its switch, the small object humming in his hand. As he flicked it off, he thought he heard a sound. It was a creaking on the floorboards overhead. He stood in silence, barely breathing, until it stopped. It did not come again.