The Chosen broke out in cries of astonishment and concern. Grace kept to herself. She wrapped her arms around her against the chill that was slowly seeping through her body.
"Consider carefully," Brother Robert went on. "The Spirit has made us aware of the Antichrist during the past month. We have felt its loathsome presence. According to this article, it was four weeks ago today that this scientist died in a plane crash."
A month ago today? In a plane crash? That had a familiar ring to it. Grace's chill deepened.
"When his will was read, it was discovered that the scientist had left his entire fortune—many millions of dollars—to a young stranger who looks exactly like he looked in his younger days. A record of the scientist's blasphemous experiments was found among his papers. They tell the whole hideous story."
Grace was becoming more and more uncomfortable with the scenario Brother Robert was outlining. It sounded too much like…
"And doesn't it strike you as strange, and so very convenient for the Heir—for that is what I call him—the Heir to Evil. Wasn't it convenient for the Heir that his creator died just as we were becoming aware of the menace of the Antichrist? Wasn't it convenient that this soulless creature suddenly became wealthy beyond one's wildest dreams? That suddenly he possessed financial power that could soon be parlayed into greater wealth and influence, influence that could be brought to bear on mankind?
"Am I the only one who sees something more than mere chance at work here?"
There was a chorus of nos from the Chosen. Grace glanced at Mr. Veilleur and found him looking her way. His expression was grave.
"I fear your Brother Robert may be right," he said to Grace in a low voice. "Righter than he knows."
Brother Robert went on. "Who knows what plans the Evil One has to destroy the work of the Son of God and His followers? I'm sure none of our most deranged nightmares can touch the hem of the foulness he has in store for us.
"But there is another hand at work here. One that has singled us out as leaders in the fight against this abomination. Soon the world will know him as the clone of a dead scientist. But we know that he is more—much more. We know him as the Antichrist, and it is our task to stop him!"
"But how?" said Martin from the front row.
"Expose him!" Brother Robert cried, rapping the lectern with the rolled tabloid. "Let the world know who he is! Forewarned is forearmed! The truth and the power of the Son of God, the True Christ, will be our weapon against him!"
"But how?" another voice said.
"We'll confront him where he lives! We'll put on a demonstration. The Negroes in your country demonstrate for civil rights, the ones called Hippies demonstrate for peace. The Chosen shall demonstrate for Christ. The story in The Light will bring him much publicity—perhaps the Antichrist wants that. We, however, will guarantee that he gets exactly the type of publicity he does not want. Wherever he goes, some of us will be there with signs exposing him as a spawn of blasphemy, a vehicle for Satan. Whenever the TV cameras and newspaper photographers capture him on film, our message—God's message—will be visible in the background."
"Amen!" Martin cried. It was echoed by another, and another. Members of the Chosen began to rise to their feet.
Even Grace could feel herself getting caught up in the fire. The frissons of unease were burned away by the passion of Brother Robert's conviction as he strode back and forth across the front of the room, brandishing the rolled tabloid like a sword.
"Some people will laugh at us, but many more will not. And when the Antichrist tries to exert his influence over the world, our message will be remembered, and a question will linger, even in the hearts of nonbelievers. We can foil his plans, friends! With the help of the Spirit we can defeat him! We can! And we'll start now! Today!"
They were all on their feet—all except for Mr. Veilleur— and cheering, praising the Lord, many speaking in tongues.
"Where do we find him?" Martin cried when the room began to quiet.
"Not far from here," Brother Robert said. "Which is why I believe we were chosen by the Spirit. He lives a short way out on Long Island, near Glen Cove. A place called Monroe."
Suddenly all Grace's previous creeping anxieties crashed back in on her with the force of a blow.
Monroe! No, it can't be Monroe!
"What's his name?" Martin called out.
Grace wanted to shut the answer from her ears, did not want to hear the name she already knew.
"James Stevens," Brother Robert said. "A creature who calls himself James Stevens is the Antichrist!"
No! It can't be! Not Carol's husband!
The room spun once around Grace, then went black.
5
Carol had talked to a couple of the reporters who had called—the Times and the Post, specifically. Then she took the phone off the hook. She was now able to paint a pretty clear picture of how the story had leaked out. Both had told her that Gerry Becker had approached their papers, and the News as well, with the story. None of them was interested. They'd thought he was a kook and that the journals he claimed belonged to Hanley were fakes.
That weasel Becker had stolen the journals from the crawl space! That was the only explanation. Carol couldn't imagine how he had found them there, and it really didn't matter now. Eventually she hoped Jim charged Becker with theft and breaking and entering, but right now all that interested her was Jim's state of mind. He had looked ready to crack this morning—and the worst was yet to come.
Carol wandered through the house, raging at herself. She had made some terrible errors. In fact, most of this awful mess was her fault. If she hadn't been so damn indecisive, none of this would have happened. She simply should have thrown the journals out as she had originally planned. Or better yet, taken them out into the backyard, poured gasoline on them, and set them afire. That would have put them out of the reach of both Jim and Gerry Becker.
If only—
She heard a frantic knocking on the door and hurried to it, praying it was Jim but knowing it wasn't.
It was Jim's mother. Her face was drawn and white. She held a folded newspaper in her hand.
"Where's Jimmy?" Emma Stevens asked.
"He's not here. He's—"
"Have you seen this?" she said, her voice cracking and her lips quivering as she held up the paper. "Ann Guthrie showed it to me. How can they say such things? How can they print such lies and get away with it? It's so unfair! Where is he?"
"Over at the mansion."
"Oh, that damn mansion! I wished he'd never inherited it or anything else from that man! I knew it would come to no good! The whole thing makes me nauseous to my stomach!"
Carol was wondering where else you could be nauseated when there was another knock on the door. She was shocked to see Bill Ryan standing on the other side of the glass.
"Carol!" he said as she let him in. "I read that article on Jim. I tried to call but couldn't get through, so I came out. Is there anything I can do?"
Without thinking, Carol threw her arms around him.
"God, am I glad to see you!"
She felt Bill stiffen and quickly released him. His face was scarlet. Had she embarrassed him?
"A priest?" she heard Emma say behind her.
"Hi, Mrs. Stevens," Bill said in a husky voice. He smiled disarmingly as he stepped around Carol and extended his hand. "Remember me? I'm Bill Ryan. Jim and I were friends in high school."