"Please, Aunt Grace!" she cried, sobbing in her helplessness. "Please! Don't do this to me!"
Grace wouldn't look at her. She walked ahead, carrying a Gristede's grocery bag. Carol could see swollen purple marks on her neck. Her voice when she spoke sounded hoarse and wheezy.
"It's God's will."
"But it's my baby! Mine and Jim's! It's all I have left of him! Please don't take that from me!"
"God's will," Grace said. "Not mine."
As they entered the kitchen, Grace glanced at the women holding Carol and pointed to the rectangular, paw-footed kitchen table.
"Put her there."
Carol screamed and struggled more violently than ever. For a moment she twisted one hand free and flailed at the women, but they soon trapped it again and subdued her. She used up what little of her strength remained to twist and writhe in their grasp as they each took a limb and lifted her into the air.
Loss of contact with the floor loosed the floodgates of panic and she unashamedly wailed out her fear. She called out to God to save her, to come and tell these maniacs that they weren't doing His will, to strike them dead on the spot for doing this to her.
The women ignored her. They might as well have been deaf. And Grace—Grace stood at the sink, washing her hands and working at something on the counter that was hidden by her bulk.
Then Carol felt the tabletop against her back. She lay pinned and helpless while Grace finished at the counter. When Grace turned, her face was a mask, eyes blood-shot, her skin still mottled from the near strangulation. She was holding a wad of gauze in one of her gloved hands.
"Oh, please, Aunt Grace! Please!"
Her aunt pressed the gauze over her mouth and nose. It was wet and freezing cold, and the cloyingly sweet smell made her want to gag. The fumes stung her throat. Carol struggled but couldn't shake free for a clean breath.
Gradually, despite her fiercest efforts, a tingling, seductive lethargy crept up her limbs and claimed her.
16
Grace sobbed as she held the chloroform over Carol's nose and mouth.
I know you'll never forgive me, dear. But someday I hope you'll understand.
Finally Carol's violent struggles eased. In pairs, first the arms, and then the legs, her limbs went slack. When Grace was satisfied that her niece was unconscious, she removed the gauze and watched a moment to make sure she was still breathing regularly. She didn't want to put her too far under. Too much chloroform risked liver damage, and even respiratory arrest. Grace wanted her to have just enough to block the pain and relax the muscles so that she could do what had to be done.
"Carol?" she said, looking for a response. There was none. She brushed her fingertip over her niece's eyelashes, but the wink reflex was gone.
Good. She was under.
She smoothed the hair back from Carol's perspiring brow and looked into her eyes between the half-open lids.
"You're going to be all right," she whispered. "You must believe what I am telling you, dear. The Satan-child inside you will be gone, but you're going to be all right."
She straightened up and turned to the women.
"Okay," she said. "You can relax now, but don't move out of position."
She didn't want Carol to come to and roll off the table and hurt herself. She watched the women release Carol's limbs and noticed the blue-red marks where they had gripped her during her struggles. Each bruise was a tiny stab through the walls of her heart.
She pointed to the two women by Carol's legs.
"Undress her."
They hesitated a moment, glancing at each other—Grace sensed that they were as uncomfortable with this nightmare as she.
"From the waist down," Grace said, prompting them. "We can leave the dress on."
As the two women began lifting the skirt of Carol's sundress, Grace stepped over to the kitchen door and closed it. It shut out the sound of the prayers being said in the parlor. But that was not the reason she closed it. Although they were all here on a holy mission, she would not expose her niece's nakedness even accidentally to the male Chosen.
The women pulled the hem of the skirt up to Carol's neck and tucked the rest of it under her, then they slipped the beige cotton panties down past her ankles, revealing a tangle of light brown pubic hair. There was a sanitary napkin in place over the vaginal area. This too was removed but showed no trace of blood.
Grace stared wistfully at the unblemished napkin.
If only you'd lost the baby two days ago, none of this would be necessary.
Grace adjusted her surgical gloves and spread the sterile instruments out on their autoclave wrappers. She showed the two women by Carol's lower body how to position her legs—by grasping each behind the knee and flexing it up and back until the top of the thigh was almost touching the abdomen, then rotating it out to the side a few inches and holding it there.
The lithotomy position.
Grace had to look away from Carol's exposed perineum for a moment. It pained her to see her so helpless and vulnerable. But she steeled herself with the thought that it made the Antichrist vulnerable too. That was all that—
Something moved on the floor near her feet. Grace looked down and stifled a cry. An infant, a naked nine-month-old, was crawling toward her from beneath the table. It gripped her leg and pulled itself to a standing position. She could see now that the baby was a male. He looked up at her with wide, guileless blue eyes.
"Don't do it," the child said in the voice of a five-year-old. "Please don't kill another helpless baby!"
Grace bit down on her lower lip to keep from screaming. This must have been what Mr. Veilleur had warned her about. Her worst fear, her deepest guilt. She looked away.
Another infant, a female, was sitting atop Carol's abdomen, staring at Grace, a reproachful look on her chubby face. She spoke in the same voice.
"Haven't you killed enough of us already? Must you add one more innocent life to your long list of victims?"
Grace closed her eyes and felt the room begin to sway.
"You can't hide from us!" the voice continued, rising in volume. "We are always with you. Everywhere you go, we are there, watching. Open your eyes, Grace Nevins. My friends are all here now. Open your eyes and see what you did to them!"
Grace had to look. She blinked her eyes open for half a heartbeat and then squeezed them shut again, fighting back the vomit that surged into her throat, clutching the table edge to keep from falling.
Blood. The kitchen was awash with it. And everywhere were torn and mangled infants—ripped limbs, gouged faces, eviscerated torsos. And they were moving!
The child's voice never stopped.
"See what your instruments did to them? They'd be whole now, alive, working, loving, having babies of their own—if not for you. Please don't hurt another one of us. Please!"
Grace refused to break down. She straightened her back. This was Satan's work. This wasn't real. The demon wins by deceit and confusion. She would draw on the strength of the Lord to overcome him.
She opened her eyes and forced herself to stare at the bloody carnage. Of course it wasn't real. The other women still stood where she had placed them, oblivious to the charnel house around them.
"Murderess!" screamed the infant on Carol's abdomen, but Grace only smiled at it.
And then the gore and the mangled corpses and the accusatory infants began to fade. In seconds they were gone as if they had never been.
Grace realized she had been holding her breath. She shuddered and let it out, then forced herself back to the task before her. With a trembling hand she rubbed a Betadine-soaked gauze pad over Carol's pubic area, then dipped a large, cotton-tipped applicator in the brown antiseptic and swabbed the inside of the vaginal canal. She felt perverse, as if she were violating her own niece, but it was for Carol's protection, to prevent infection. Only the Satan-child would be harmed.