"You and your hobgoblins," she muttered as she cut.
"You wait and see," assured Horton. "Something bad's happening here."
"Something bad is happening everywhere."
"I don't like it," he said darkly. Tin thinking we should leave."
At the same moment the Thorns were on the patio. It was late now and Damien was asleep; the house was quiet and dark around them. Classical music was playing softly on the hi-fi, and they sat without speaking, gazing out into the night. Katherine's face was swollen and bruised, and she methodically bathed her injured eye with a cloth which she dipped from time to time into a bowl of warm water before her. They had not uttered a word since the events of the afternoon, but merely shared one another's presence. The fear that passed between them was a fear that other parents had known: the first realization that there was something wrong with their child. It crystallized in silence, but it was not real unless voiced.
Katherine tested the bowl of water with her hand, and, finding it cold, she wrung the cloth out, pushing it away. The movement caused Thorn to gaze at her, and he waited until she was aware of it.
"Sure you don't want to call a doctor?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
"Just a few scratches."
"I mean ... for Damien," said Thorn.
All she could offer was a helpless shrug.
"What would we tell him?" she whispered.
"We don't have to tell him anything. Just ... have him examine him."
"He had a checkup just last month. There's nothing wrong with him. He's never been sick a day in his life."
Thorn nodded, pondering it.
"He never has, has he?" he remarked curiously.
"No."
"That's strange, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"I think so."
His tone was odd and she turned to look at him. Their eyes held, Katherine waiting for him to continue.
"I mean ... no measles or mumps ... or chicken-pox. Not even a runny nose or a cough. Or a cold."
"So?" she asked defensively.
"I just. . . think it's unusual."
"I don't."
"I do."
"He comes from healthy stock."
Thorn was stopped, and a knot within him tightened. The secret was still there. Down in the pit of his stomach. It had never left him, in all these years, but mostly, he had felt justified about it; guilty for the deception, but soothed by all the happiness it had brought. When things were going well, it was easy to hold it down, keep it dormant. But now it was somehow becoming important, and he felt it burgeoning in him as though it would clog his throat.
"If your family or mine," continued Katherine, "had a history of ... psychosis, mental disorder . .. then frankly I'd worry about what happened today."
He looked at her, then averted his eyes.
"But I've been thinking about it," she continued, "and I know it's all right. He's a fine, healthy boy. Healthy ancestry right up and down both our family trees."
Unable to look at her, Thorn slowly nodded.
"He had a fright, that's all," added Katherine. "Just a . . . bad moment. Surely every child is entitled to that."
Thorn nodded again, and, with great fatigue, rubbed his forehead. Inside he longed to tell her, have it out in the open. But it was too late. The deception had gone on too long. She would hate him for it. She might even hate the child. It was too late. She must never know.
"I've been thinking about Mrs. Baylock," said Katherine.
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking we should keep her."
"She seemed very nice today," said Thorn quietly.
"Damien is having anxieties. Maybe because he heard us talking about her in the car."
"Yes," replied Thorn.
It made sense. It could have caused the fear in the car. They thought he wasn't listening, but obviously he was taking it all in. The thought of losing her had filled him with terror.
"Yes," Thorn said again, and his voice was filled with hope.
"I'd like to give her other duties," said Katherine. "So she'll be away from home for a while in the day. Maybe have her do the afternoon shopping so I can start spending more time with Daimen."
"Who does it now? The shopping."
"Mrs. Horton."
"Will she mind giving it up?"
"I don't know. But I want to spend more time with Damien."
"I think that's wise."
They fell silent again, and Katherine turned away.
"I think that's good," reiterated Thorn. "I think that's wise."
For an instant he felt that everything was going to be all right. And then he saw that Katherine was crying. It tore at him, and he watched, helpless to comfort her.
"You were right, Kathy," he whispered. "Damien heard us talking about firing her. That's all it was. It was as simple as that."
"I pray," she responded in a quivering voice.
"Of course . . ." he whispered. "That's all it was."
She nodded, and when the tears had subsided, she stood, looking up at the darkened house.
"Well," she said, "the best thing to do with a bad day is to end it. I'm going up to bed."
"I'll just sit out here for a while. I'll be up in a minute."
Her footsteps faded behind him, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
As he gazed out into the forest, he saw instead the hospital in Rome; saw himself there, standing before a window, agreeing to take the child. Why had he not asked more about the mother? Who was she? Where had she come from? Who was the father, and why was he not there? Over the years he had made certain assumptions and they had served to calm his fears. Damien's real mother was probably a peasant girl, a girl of the Church, therefore delivering her child in a Catholic hospital. It was an expensive hospital and she wouldn't have been there without that kind of connection. She was probably an orphan herself, thus no family, and the child was born out of wedlock, this the reason no father was on hand. What else was there to know? What else could have mattered? The child was beautiful and alert, described as "perfect in every way."
Thorn was unaccustomed to doubting himself, to accusing himself; his mind struggled for reassurance that what he had done was right. He had been confused and desperate at the time. He had been vulnerable, an easy prey to suggestion. Could it possibly have been wrong? Could there have been more he needed to know?
The answers to those questions would never be known to Thorn. Only a handful of people knew them and by now they were scattered across the globe. There was Sister Teresa, Father Spilletto, and Father Tassone. Only they knew. It was for their consciences alone. In darkness of that long-distant night they had worked in feverish silence, in the tension and honor of having been chosen. In all of earth's history it had been attempted just twice before, and they knew that, this time, it must not fail. It was all in their hands, just the three of them, and it had moved like clockwork, and no one had known. After the birth, it was Sister Teresa who prepared the impostor, depilitating his arms and forehead, powdering him dry so he would look presentable when Thorn was brought up to view. The hair on his head was thick, as they had hoped, and she used a hairdryer to fluff it, first checking the scalp to make sure the birthmark was there. Thorn would never see Sister Teresa, nor would he see the diminutive Father Tassone who was at work in the basement crating two bodies to be immediately shipped away. The first body was that of Thorn's child, silenced before it uttered its first cry; the second was that of the animal, the surrogate mother of the one who survived. Outside, a truck was waiting to carry the bodies to Cerveteri, where in the silence of Cimitero di Sant' Angelo, gravediggers waited beneath the shrine.
The plan had been born of diabolical communion, and Spilletto was in charge, having chosen his accomplices with the utmost care. He was satisfied with Sister Teresa, but in the final moments became concerned about Tassone. The diminutive scholar was devout, but his belief was born of fear, and on the last day
he demonstrated an instability that gave Spilletto pause. Tassone was eager, but his eagerness was self-oriented, a desperation to prove he was worthy of the job. He had lost sight of the significance of what they were doing, preoccupied instead with the importance of his own role. The self-consciousness led to anxiety, and Spilletto came close to dismissing Tassone. If one of them failed, all three would be held responsible. And more important, it could not be attempted again for another thousand years.
In the end, Tassone proved himself, performing his job with dedication and dispatch, even handling a crisis that none of them anticipated. The child was not yet dead and made a sound within his crate as it was being put onto the truck. Quickly removing the crate, Tassone returned with it to the hospital basement and himself made certain that no cry would ever come again. It had shaken him. Deeply. But he had done it, and that was all that mattered.
Around them that night in the hospital, all things appeared to be normal; doctors and nurses carrying on their routine without the slightest knowledge of what was happening in their midst. It had been performed with discretion and exactitude, and no one, especially not Thorn, had ever had a clue.
As he sat now on his patio, gazing out into the night, Thorn realized that the Pereford forest no longer was foreboding to him. He did not have the feeling, as before, that there was something watching him from within. It was peaceful now, the crickets and frogs creating their din. And it was relaxing, somehow reassuring, that life around him was normal. His eyes shifted toward the house, traveling upward to Damien's window. It was illuminated by a nightlight, and Thorn speculated on the child's face in the peacefulness of sleep. It would be the right vision to end this frightening day with, and he rose, switching off a lamp and moving into the darkened house.
It was pitch black inside and the air seemed to ring with silence. Thorn felt his way toward the stairs. There, he groped for a lightswitch, and finding none, proceeded silently upward, until he had reached the landing. He had never seen the house this dark, and realized he must have been outside, lost in thought, for a considerable time. Around him, he could hear the sound of slumbered breathing, and he walked quietly, feeling his way along the wall. His hand hit a light-switch and he flicked it, but it did not work; he continued on, turning a bend in the long, angular hall. Ahead he could see Damien's room, a faint shaft of light coming from under the door. But he suddenly froze, for he thought he heard a sound. It was a kind of vibration, a low rumble, gone before he could identify it, replaced only by the silent atmosphere of the hall. He prepared to step forward, but the sound came again, louder this time, causing his heart to start pounding. Then he looked down and saw the eyes. With a sudden gasp, he flattened himself against the wall, the growl rising in intensity as a dog materialized from the darkness and stood guard before the child's door. With his breath coming shallow, Thorn stood petrified, the gutteral sound rising, the eyes glaring back.
"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.
Chapter Five
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 . . ."