Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) (5 page)

“You said these things would help heal us, keep us young and healthy, but I never—”

Unease tugged at her. “They don’t work like this. They’ve never worked like this.”

The necklace could heal illnesses, prolong life, stave off death from all but the most catastrophic injuries. But it worked slowly, subtly. The healing of Moki’s hand was crude, garish, like a sideshow trick.

Something was wrong.

“But they work like this now,” Moki said, a wild light in his eyes. “Watch.”

That was when she saw the wood knife in his other hand. He jabbed it through the skin on the underside of his left forearm and into the tissues beneath.

“No! Moki, don’t!”

“It’s all right. Just wait a minute and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Wincing with the pain, he dragged the blade upward until a four-inch wound gaped open. He watched the blood spurt for an instant, then squeezed it shut. He smiled crazily at her for a moment or two as he pressed the skin edges together, then he released it.

The wound had stopped bleeding. The edges were adhering as if they’d been sutured. And the wild light in his eyes had brightened.

“See? The necklace has made me almost indestructible. Maybe immortal. I feel like a god—like Maui himself!”

Kolabati watched in horror as Moki cavorted about the great room. First the sun, then the wind, and now this. She could not fend off the feeling of impending doom. Something was happening, something had gone terribly awry, and the necklaces were responding. Their powers were increasing, as if in preparation for … what?

And then she heard it—the ceramic tinkling of the wind chimes on the lanai. She turned and hurried to the railing. Thank the gods! The wind! The wind was back!

But the wrong wind. This blew from the west. The trade winds came from the east, always from the east. Where did this wind come from? And where was it blowing?

At that moment Kolabati knew beyond a doubt that the world was beginning a change. But how? And why?

Then she felt rather than heard a deep seismic rumble. The lanai seemed to shudder beneath her feet.

Haleakala?

Could the old volcano be coming to life?

THURSDAY

WFPW-FM

FREDDY: Hey! What’s going on up there, man? It says here sunrise was late again this morning. C’mon, sun! Get your act together. You were fifteen minutes late this morning. Get a new alarm clock already!

The Village of Monroe

Bill barely recognized his hometown.

He stared in awe as he cruised Monroe’s morning-lit harbor front behind the wheel of Jack’s Crown Victoria, borrowed for the trip. New condos crowded the east end, the trolley tracks had been paved over, and all the old Main Street buildings had been refurbished with nineteenth-century clapboard façades.

“This is awful,” he said aloud.

In the passenger seat, Glaeken straightened and looked around.

“The traffic? It doesn’t look so bad.”

“Not the traffic—the town. What did they do to it?”

“I hear lots of towns are trying to attract tourists these days.”

“But this is where I grew up. My home. And now it looks like a theme park … like someone’s idea of an old whaling village.”

“I never saw a whaling village that looked like this.”

Bill glanced at Glaeken. “I guess you’d know, wouldn’t you.”

Glaeken said nothing.

Bill drove on, shaking his head in dismay at the changes. At least they’d left the old bricks on Town Hall, and hadn’t changed the high white steeple of the Presbyterian church. He noticed with relief that Crosby’s Marina was still there, and Memison’s was still in business.
Some
of the old town was left, so he didn’t feel completely lost.

But he’d come here today hoping for a burst of warmth, for a sense of belonging, a place to call home. He knew now he wasn’t going to find it in Monroe.

Still, better than sitting around waiting, letting the unease within bubble and stew. Probably nothing he could do would block out the growing dread, especially after hearing that sunrise had been even later this morning.

“I still don’t know why you need me along, other than as a driver.”

He was uncomfortable wearing a cassock and collar again. The clothing fit, but only physically. He no longer considered himself a priest, not in his mind, not in his heart, not in his soul.

“Your mere presence will help me.”

“But you’re going to do all the talking and what am I going to do? Stand around and look holy?”

“You may say anything you wish.”

“Thanks loads. But I’ll be afraid to open my mouth because I don’t know what’s going on. You’re playing this too close to the vest, Glaeken. You ought to know by now you can trust me. And maybe if I knew a little bit more about what we’re doing here, I might be able to help.”

Glaeken sighed. “You’re right, of course. I don’t mean to keep you in the dark. It’s just habit. I’ve kept so many secrets for so long…” His voice trailed off.

“Well?”

“We’ve come to Monroe for the
Dat-tay-vao.
”

Bill had to laugh. “Well! That clears up everything!”

“The name is Vietnamese. In truth, the
Dat-tay-vao
has no name. It is an elemental force, but it has wandered around Southeast Asia for so long that it’s convenient to refer to it by the name the locals have used for centuries.”

“
Dat-tay-vao.
” Bill rolled the alien syllables over his tongue. “What’s it mean?”

“Loosely translated, ‘to lay a hand on.’ There’s an old Vietnamese folk song about it:

It seeks but will not be sought.

It finds but will not be found.

It holds the one who would touch,

Who would cut away pain and ill.

But its blade cuts two ways

And will not be turned.

If you value your well-being,

Impede not its way.

Treat the Toucher doubly well,

For he bears the weight

Of the balance that must be struck.

It has better meter in the original language.”

“A bit ominous, don’t you think?”

“The song is a celebration and a warning. Twice a day, for an hour or so at a time, the one who possesses the
Dat-tay-vao
—or is possessed by the
Dat-tay-vao,
depending on how you look at it—can heal wounds, clear cancers, and cure illnesses with a touch.”

Not too long ago, Bill would have scoffed. Today he remained silent, listening. His scoffing days were over.

“The
Dat-tay-vao
came to Monroe last year and became one with a local physician, Alan Bulmer.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar. Wasn’t he associated with Doc Alberts for a while?”

“Possibly. He’s on his own now. Out of practice since the
Dat-tay-vao
enabled him to heal with a touch.”

“That’s it—
People
did an article on him last summer.” He remembered leafing through the issue during a work break at Darnell U. “Hinted that he was a charlatan.”

“He wasn’t. And isn’t. His cures were very real. He lives now with Sylvia Nash and her adopted son.”

“Out on Shore Drive, you said?

Glaeken nodded. “Two ninety-seven.”

“The high-rent district.”

The old Hanley mansion was out on Shore Drive too. Bill repressed a shudder as memories of the horrors he’d witnessed there in 1968 flashed within his brain like distant lightning.

“The estate is called Toad Hall.”

“Never heard of it. Must be new.”

But as soon as he saw Toad Hall, Bill knew that it wasn’t. Only the brass plaque on the right-hand brick gatepost was new. He recognized the place as one of the Preferred North Shore’s most venerable mansions: the old Borg Estate. Three acres on the Long Island Sound surrounded by a stone wall and dense, insulating stands of white pine.

He turned into the driveway. The house itself was set far back, close to the water; a many-gabled affair, flanked by weeping willows. He hated the thought of someone renaming the old Borg place, but as he turned off the ignition and heard the briny breeze whisper through the swaying willow branches, he conceded that the new name might be right on target.

He accompanied Glaeken to the front door.

“It’s a household of four,” the old man said as they walked. “Mrs. Nash, Doctor Bulmer, a Vietnamese houseman named Ba Thuy Nguyen, and Jeffrey, Mrs. Nash’s adopted son.”

“You said yesterday we’re looking for a boy. Is he the one?”

Glaeken nodded. “He is. And his mother is not going to like what I have to tell her.”

“Why? What’s he got that—?”

The front door opened as they stepped onto the porch. A tall, gaunt Asian towered in the doorway. This had to be Ba. His age was hard to judge: might be fifty, sixty, maybe older. His high-cheekboned face was expressionless, but his eyes were alert, active, darting back and forth between Glaeken and Bill, picking up details, assessing, measuring, categorizing. Bill knew someone else with eyes like that: Glaeken.

“Yes, sirs.” His voice was thickly accented. “May I be of service?”

“Yes, you may.” Glaeken fished a card out of his pocket. “My name is Veilleur. I believe Mrs. Nash is expecting me.”

Ba stepped aside and ushered them through a marble-tiled foyer and into the living room. Doo-wop was playing softly through hidden speakers. A wave of nostalgia swept Bill away as he recognized “Story Untold” by the Nutmegs. He and Carol had danced to that song at CYO dances in the gym of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, not a mile from here.

Ba’s voice yanked him back to the present.

“I will tell the Missus that you are here. Do you wish coffee?”

They both agreed and remained standing by the cold fireplace as Ba turned and left them alone.

“That’s one powerful-looking fellow,” Bill said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Vietnamese that tall.”

Glaeken nodded. “A one-man security force, I would say.”

A slender woman with short black hair, blue eyes, and finely chiseled features strode into the room. She wore loose black slacks and a white blouse buttoned all the way to her throat. She moved with complete self-confidence.

“I’m Sylvia Nash. Which one of you is—?”

“I’m Veilleur,” Glaeken said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “And this is Father William Ryan.”

Her handshake was as cool as the rest of her. A striking woman.

Bill was making connections now. He’d heard of her. Greg Nash’s widow. Bill had gone to high school with Pete Nash, Greg’s older brother. Greg had been in the Gulf War. He’d come back in one piece, but then he’d been killed trying to break up a convenience store robbery. Sylvia had become a renowned sculptress. And obviously a very successful one if she could afford this place.

“Please sit down,” she said, gesturing to the couch. She seated herself across from them. “You said you had something of a personal nature to discuss with me. I hope that wasn’t a scam to get in here and try to sell me something.”

Bill glanced up at Ba as he returned with a silver coffee service set on a huge silver tray; he pitied anyone who tried any tricks in this house.

“I assure you I have nothing to sell,” Glaeken said. “I’ve come to talk to you about the
Dat-tay-vao.
”

The big Vietnamese started as he was setting down the silver tray. He almost spilled the coffeepot but righted it in time. He stared at Glaeken but his eyes were unreadable. Bill glanced at Sylvia. Her face was ashen.

“Ba,” she said in a shaky voice. “Please get Alan.”

“Yes, Missus.”

Ba turned to go but at that moment a man in a wheelchair rolled into the room. He looked lean, pale, with gray-flecked brown hair and gentle brown eyes. He paused on the threshold, staring at Glaeken, a puzzled look on his face, then he came the rest of the way in. As the wheelchair rolled to a stop beside her chair, Sylvia reached over and grasped the man’s hand. They shared a smile. Bill immediately sensed a powerful bond between these two. Sylvia introduced him as Dr. Alan Bulmer.