The man with the scarred cheeks looked at the manuscripts he had laid out on the table in the underground chamber. Maybe he should see it as a crypt after all-the word meant ‘hidden,’ and there was nothing more hidden than the original Antigospel, written by its founders’ own hands. But it wouldn’t be a crypt for long. Soon the Antichurch and its primary lessons, that death governed all things and that human beings were naturally violent, would be known across the world.
But something was missing. The Master corrected himself-not something, but someone. He needed a senior disciple, a helper he could depend on. People capable of what the Antigospel required were very rare-even fully coffined subjects could not be relied upon in the most testing circumstances. He had encountered one with true potential, though: the Englishman, Matt Wells. The Master now understood that blaming Wells for killing his sister was a mistake. By that act, the crime writer, who had immersed himself deep in death’s philosophies and experienced the persecution of merciless killers, was the ally he needed. The problem was, Wells was nowhere to be found.
But that would soon change, he was certain. The murders in the northern cities would see to that. Matt Wells would become one of the nameless, as had the Master. And then the will of Lucifer would sweep across the land like the flames of hell itself.
Eleven
I was checking reports of the Hitler’s Hitman murders on the internet, when I heard Karen groan.
‘What is it, my love?’ I asked, going over to the sofa.
‘I don’t know, Matt. Help me up.’
I got her into a sitting position.
‘I have to go to the bathroom.’
After she was on her feet, I took her arm.
‘No, I’m all right,’ she said, gently pulling free. She stopped before she reached the door. ‘Oh, Matt.’
I was over there immediately.
‘I think…’ She moved a hand to her nether regions. ‘No, it’s all right. I thought my waters had broken.’
I took a couple of deep breaths and watched her walk on slowly. Then I called the midwife, who cheerfully told us to hang in there. I could cheerfully have throttled her, but Karen just laughed when she reappeared in the cream nightgown that she’d obtained through Julie Simms.
‘Let’s listen to more of that nice music,’ she said.
I put the second Monteverdi disk on and went over to join her on the sofa. We held hands until the music stopped. Karen asked me to put the first one on again, saying that Orfeo would always remind her of this time.
Later in the evening, after I’d made us toasted sandwiches, she dropped into an uneasy sleep. I turned the TV on, but it was too late for any fresh news. I leaned my back against the sofa and followed Karen into the land of dreams.
Not for long. Her stifled scream woke me.
‘Ah!’ she gasped. ‘The contractions are starting, Matt.’ Her face constricted and I felt nauseous. The sight of the woman I loved in pain was hard to bear.
I called the medical center and was told to calm down and wait until the contractions became more regular. All I could do was hold Karen’s hand and occasionally mop her brow with a damp towel. I lost track of time and my mind seemed to go into some kind of primitive passive mode to cope with the waiting and the uncertainty. I couldn’t remember much about my daughter’s birth.
Eventually I managed to get the midwife to send a car over. When we arrived at the medical center, it was quiet, being that it was now five in the morning. The rooms that had been set up as a temporary delivery and neonatal ward were empty and cold. I asked for the heating to be turned up.
The midwife was a jovial Latina woman. ‘Don’t you worry, Mr. Wells,’ she said. ‘We’ll take good care of your wife.’
‘Partner,’ I corrected. ‘Wife-to-be.’ When she took off her tunic to change into surgical scrubs, I saw she was wearing a green army shirt. I wondered how many midwives the U.S. military had on its books.
‘Whatever,’ she said, with a smile that displayed gleaming teeth. ‘We don’t discriminate. My name’s Angela, by the way. You can call me Angel.’ At least she wasn’t hung up on formality like the psychologists.
We sat on either side of Karen’s bed. She was mostly in control, but the layer of sweat on her forehead was a giveaway. Angel kept an eye on the monitors and from time to time ran her hands over Karen’s belly and below. The hours passed. The obstetrician, a Japanese-American called Kitano, looked in around 8:00 a.m. He was in uniform and bore the insignia of a lieutenant colonel. I’d got pretty good at recognizing people’s ranks since we’d been in the camp.
‘Everything good, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Angel confirmed. ‘Contractions are every two minutes, nil dilation so far.’
‘Very well. You know where to find me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Angel acknowledged. ‘Reading medical journals in the colonel’s office, sir,’ she added, after he’d gone.
That didn’t reassure me. Kitano had been brought in from an army hospital in Chicago and I could have done with more signs of his commitment to Karen’s case.
I tried to take Karen’s mind off the pain by talking. She answered briefly, but her mind wasn’t engaged so I let her be. I even dropped off for a couple of hours, my head resting on the foot of her bed. It wasn’t quality sleep, though at least I didn’t dream. No nocturnal journeys through the underworld-the pale-faced Dr. Brown would have been disappointed.
The contractions eventually got more frequent and Angel’s eyes and hands busier. Kitano came in a couple of times and examined Karen. He made no comment, which irritated me.
‘Don’t worry, Matt,’ Angel said. ‘Your lady’s doing real well.’
I smiled at Karen. She looked like she had run a marathon, her blond hair damp and lank, her face lined. But she smiled at me bravely.
‘Well done, my darling.’ I kissed her on the cheek.
‘What, nil by mouth?’ she quipped, then gasped as another wave of pain broke over her.
I put my lips to hers. ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Not long now.’ I sat back, holding her hand. It went limp when the contraction passed. She was exhausted. How much longer was this going to last?
When it happened, there was no warning. Angel had checked Karen’s dilation and had her hands on the bump. Then her eyes opened wide when she took in the monitors. She immediately hit the panic button and a loud alarm started to sound every few seconds. Karen moaned and her hand reached for mine. Angel was pressing buttons and unhooking cables.
‘What is it?’ the obstetrician demanded, arriving at speed. There were two auxiliaries with him, big guys.
‘No heartbeat from the fetus in the last thirty seconds,’ Angel said.
‘O.R.,’ Kitano ordered. ‘Now!’
The auxiliaries laid hands on Karen’s bed and pushed it toward the door.
‘Matt!’ she said, as my hand came away from hers. ‘What’s happening?’
I followed them down the corridor. Kitano took a set of scrubs from a nurse and pulled his white coat off, dropping it on the floor.
‘What’s happening?’ I repeated, my heart thundering.
‘Don’t worry,’ Angel said. ‘We know what we’re doing.’
‘Matt!’ Karen wailed. ‘Help me!’
The big man at the front of the bed crashed through the doors to the operating room and the others followed. I was stopped by a male nurse.
‘Sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait outside.’
I had no option-wait was all I could do. I strode up and down the corridor, never going too far from the doors to the theater. My mind was bucking like a mustang stung by a horsefly. I couldn’t hold on to any thought for more than a few seconds. Was Karen in pain? What were they doing to her? Why had the baby’s heart stopped? Would he be harmed? Would his brain be damaged? Eventually I realized I was panting. I stopped walking to get my breathing under control.