Charlie had seen what had happened to Grace Spivey, yet he was not in the least afraid of Joey because, dammit, he could not just suddenly start believing in devils, demons, and the Antichrist. He'd always had a layman's interest in science, and he'd been an advocate of the space program from the time he was a kid himself; he always had believed that logic, reason, and science-the secular equivalent of Christianity's Holy Trinity-would one day solve all of mankind's problems and all the mysteries of existence, including the source and meaning of life. And science could probably explain what had happened here, too; a biologist or zoologist, with special knowledge of bats, would most likely find their behavior well within the range of normality.
As Joey continued to crouch over Chewbacca, petting him, weeping, the dog's tail stirred, then swished across the floor.
Joey cried, "Mom, look! He's alive!"
Christine saw Chewbacca roll off his side, get to his feet, shake himself. He had appeared to be dead. Now he was not even dizzy. He pranced up onto his hind feet, put his forepaws up on his young master's shoulders, and began licking Joey's face.
The boy giggled, ruffled the dog's fur." How ya doin', Chewbacca? Good dog. Good old Chewbacca."
Chewbacca? Christine wondered. Or Brandy?
Brandy had been decapitated by Spivey's people, had been buried with honors in a nice pet cemetery in Anaheim. But if they went back to that cemetery now and opened the grave, what would they find? Nothing? An empty wooden box? Had Brandy been resurrected and had he found his way to the pound just in time for Charlie and Joey to adopt him again?
Garbage, Christine told herself angrily. Junk thought. Stupid.
But she could not get those sick thoughts out of her head, and they led to other irrational considerations.
Seven years ago. the man on the cruise ship. Lucius Under. Luke.
Who had he really been?
What had he been?
No, no, no. Impossible.
She squeezed her eyes shut and put one hand to her head. She was so tired. Exhausted. She did not have the strength to resist those fevered speculations. She felt contaminated by Spivey's craziness, dizzy, disconnected, sort of the way victims of malaria must feel.
Luke. For years she had tried to forget him; now she tried to remember.
He'd been about thirty, lean, well muscled. Blond hair streak-bleached by the sun. Clear blue eyes. A bronze tan.
White, perfectly even teeth. An ingratiating smile, an easy manner. He had been a charming but not particularly original mix of sophistication and simplicity, worldiness and innocence, a smooth-talker who knew how to get what he wanted from women. She'd thought of him as a surfer, for God's sake; that's what he had seemed like, the epitome of the young California surfer.
Even with her strength draining away through her wound and leaving her increasingly light-headed, even though her exhaustion and loss of blood had put her in a feeble state of mind that left her highly susceptible to Spivey's insane accusations, she could not believe that Luke had been Satan. The devil in the guise of a surfer boy? It was too banal to be believable. If Satan were real, if he wanted a son, if he wanted her to bear that son, why wouldn't he simply have come to her in the night in his real form? She could not have resisted him. Why wouldn't he have taken her forthrightly, with much flapping of his wings and lashing of his tail?
Luke had drunk beer, and he'd had a passion for potato chips.
He had urinated and showered and brushed his teeth like any other human being. Sometimes his conversation had been downright tedious, dumb.
Wouldn't the devil at least have been unfailingly witty?
Surely, Luke had been Luke, nothing more, nothing less.
She opened her eyes.
Joey was giggling and hugging Chewbacca, so happy. So ordinary.
Of course, she thought, the devil might take a perverse pleasure in using me, particularly me, to carry his child.
After all, she was a former nun. Her brother had been a priest-and a martyr. She had fallen away from her faith. She had been a virgin when she'd given herself to the man on the cruise ship. Wasn't she a perfect means by which the devil could make a mockery of the first virgin birth?
Madness. She hated herself for doubting her child, for giving any credence whatsoever to Spivey's babbling.
And yet. hadn't her whole life changed for the better as soon as she had become pregnant with the boy? She had been uncommonly healthy-no colds, no headaches-and happy and successful in business. As if she were. blessed.
Finally satisfied that his dog was all right, Joey disentangled himself from Chewbacca and came to Christine. Rubbing at his red eyes, sniffling, he said, "Mom, is it over? Are we going to be okay? I'm still scared."
She didn't want to look into his eyes, but to her surprise she found nothing frightening in them, nothing to make her blood run cold.
Brandy. no, Chewbacca came to her and nuzzled her hand.
"Mommy," Joey said, kneeling beside her, "I'm scared.
What'd they do to you? Whatd they do? Are you going to die?
Don't die, please, don't die, Mommy, please."
She put a hand to his face.
He was afraid, trembling. But that was better than an autistic trance.
He slid against her, and after only a moment's hesitation, she held him with her good arm. Her Joey. Her son. Her child. The feel of him, snuggling against her, was marvelous, indescribably wonderful. The contact was better than any medicine could have been, for it revitalized her, cleared her head, and dissipated the sick images and insane fears that were Grace Spivey's perverse legacy. Hugging her child, feeling him cling to her in need of love and reassurance, she was cured of Spivey's mad contagion.
This boy was the fruit of her womb, a life she had given to the world, and nothing was more precious to her than he was-and always would be.
Kyle Barlowe had slid down to the floor, his back against the wall, and had buried his face in his hands to avoid staring at Mother Grace's hideous remains. But the dog came to Kyle, nuzzled him, and Kyle looked up. The mutt licked his face; its tongue was warm, its nose cold, like the tongue and nose of any dog. It had a clownish face. How could he ever have imagined that such a dog was a hound from Hell?
"I loved her like a mother, and she changed my life, so I stayed with her even when she went wrong, went bad, even when she started. to do really crazy things," Kyle said, startled by the sound of his own voice, surprised to hear himself explaining his actions to Christine Scavello and Charlie Harrison." She had. this power. No denying that. She was. like in the movies… clairvoyant. You know? Psychic. That's how she could follow you and the boy… not because God was guiding her. and not because the boy was the son of Satan… but because she was just
… clairvoyant." This was not something he had known until he heard himself speaking it. In fact, even now, he did not seem to know what he was going to say until the words came from him." She had visions. I guess they weren't religious like I thought. Not from God. Not really.
Maybe she knew that all along. Or maybe she misunderstood.
Maybe she actually believed she was talking with God. I don't think she meant to do bad, you know. She could've misinterpreted her visions, couldn't she? But there's a big difference between being psychic and being Joan of Are, huh? A big difference."
Charlie listened to Kyle Barlowe wrestle with his conscience, and he was curiously soothed by the ugly giant's deep, remorseful voice. The soothing effect was partly due to the fact that Barlowe was helping them understand these recent events in a light less fantastic than that shed by Armageddon; he was showing them how it might be paranormal without being supernatural or cataclysmic. But Charlie was also affected and relaxed by the odd, soft, rumbling tones and cadences of the big man's voice, by a slight smokiness in the air, and by some indefinable quality of light or heat that made him receptive to this message, as a hypnotist's subject is receptive to suggestions of all kinds.