The Omen (18 page)

Forcing himself to move, Thorn walked stiffly forward, picking up the package of knives that lay in the rubble just beyond Jennings' lifeless hand. With glazed eyes, he moved out of the alley, finding his way back to the hotel.

The return flight to London had taken eight hours; Thorn sat in dazed silence, his mind refusing to function. The fires that had once sparked thought—speculation, imagination, doubt—had now been extinguished. There was no more fear, no more grief, no more confusion; only the mindless knowledge of what had to be done.

At the London airport his package of knives was returned by a stewardess who had, according to anti-hi-jack precautions, held them until the flight had terminated. She remarked on how beautiful they were and asked where Thorn had purchased them. He answered in monosyllables, stuffing the package inside his jacket, and entered the near-empty terminal. It was after midnight and the airport had closed down; his was the last flight allowed in due to substandard visibility on the runways. The city was buried in fog, even the cabdrivers balking at his request to take him all the way to Pereford. It was disorienting to return to London this way, with no one to meet him, no one to drive him, and he was stung by the recollection of how it used to be. There was always Horton waiting with news of the weather; Katherine at home, with a welcoming smile.

Now, as he stood in the cold night air waiting for a private limousine service to pick him up, loneliness swept over him and chilled him to the bone.

When the car finally came, they moved out at a snail's pace, the inability to see anything passing by creating the sensation that they were not moving at all. It was as though the car were merely hanging in space, and it helped Thorn to resist the temptation to think about anything that lay ahead. The past was gone, the future unforseeable. There was only this moment, lasting an eternity until Pereford finally came into view.

It too was smothered in haze; fog swirled about the car as it came to a stop, depositing Thorn and his luggage in the driveway in front of the house, which was quiet and dark. Thorn remained for a few minutes after the car had left, staring up in silence at the house that once contained the people he loved. There was not a single light within, not a sound, and Thorn's mind tortured him with fleeting images of the events that had once gone on here. He saw Katherine in the garden, playing with her child, Chessa laughing as she watched. He saw the veranda filled with people and the sound of laughter, the driveway packed with chauffeured limousines belonging to the most important people in the Commonwealth. Mercifully, the visions faded and he became aware only of his own heartbeat, the sensation of blood coursing through his veins.

Steeling his courage he moved to the front door and, with cold-stiffened hands, inserted the key. From behind him he heard a sound. It was a movement, as though something were running hard toward him through the Pereford forest, and Thorn's breath quickened as he opened the door and entered, closing it fast behind him. He had the sensation he was being pursued, but as he looked out through the leaded-glass window of the closed door, he saw nothing but fog. The momentary fright had been born of fantasy. He knew he must keep it from happening again.

Bolting the door behind him, he stood for a moment in the darkness, tuning his ears to the sounds of the house. The heating system was on, rattling the aluminum ducts, the grandfather clock was ticking, punctuating the seconds that passed. Thorn moved slowly through the living room into the kitchen, there opening the door to the garage. Their two cars were parked side by side, Katherine's station wagon and his Mercedes. He went to the Mercedes, opened the driver's door, and inserted his keys in the ignition. The gas tank was a quarter full; enough to get back to London. Leaving the driver's door open and his keys within, he walked back to the kitchen door, pausing to flick the switch that automatically raised the doors leading to the driveway. Fog swirled in and for a moment Thorn again thought he heard a sound. Stepping inside he closed the door and listened. There was nothing. His mind was playing tricks.

Switching on the light, he observed his surroundings. It was all as he left it, as though the housekeeper had retired for the night, and all was well. There was even a crock-pot of hot cereal incubating on the stove to be ready by morning. It shook Thorn. It was all so normal, so inconsistent with what he knew to be true.

Moving to the counter, he removed the cloth package from his coat, laying out the contents before him. All seven knives were there, looking freshly sharpened, the blades reflecting portions of his face as he examined them from above. He saw his eyes, deadened and resolute, but he was aware of a sudden perspiration that came on with the sight of the knives. A weakness began to sweep upward through his legs and he fought it off, rewrapping the knives with trembling hands, tucking the package back inside his coat.

He entered the pantry, moving up a narrow wooden stairwell, bending low to avoid hitting the bare bulb that illuminated it, suspended by a shredded wire from above. It was the servants' stairwell and he had used it only once before while playing a game of hide-and-seek with Damien. He remembered at the time making a mental note to do something about the shredded wire, fearing the child might one day reach up and touch it. It was just one of many hazards in the old, obsolete house. There were windows on the upper floors that opened too easily, leading to sheer drop-offs, and balconies that were unsteady, their railings in disrepair.

As Thorn trudged upward on the narrow backstairs, he had the sensation he was living a dream, that at any moment he would awaken beside Katherine and recount the terrible fantasy that had played in his mind. She would show concern and reassure him with her touch, and the child would toddle into their room, his face fresh and pink from slumber.

Thorn reached the first-floor landing and stepped out into the darkened hall, as the confusion that had torn into him before Jennings' death swept over him once again. He prayed he would go into the child's room and find it empty, that the house was silent and dark because the woman had taken him away. But he could hear the sounds of their breathing, and his heart throbbed with anguish and despair. They were there, both of them, asleep; the woman's snoring punctuated by the lighter intake of the child. Thorn had always felt that in this hall their lives somehow intermingled while they slept; their breath meeting and fusing in the darkness, creating a oneness they never know in their waking hours. He leaned against the wall, listening, then moved quietly into his own room and turned on the light.

His bed was turned down as though he were expected, and he went to it and sat heavily, his eyes falling on the framed photograph of himself and Katherine on the night table. How young they looked, how full of promise. Thorn lay back on the bed and felt tears tracing a path from the corners of his eyes. They had come without warning, and he gave in to them, allowing them to flow. Downstairs a clock chimed twice and he rose, moving to the bathroom where he turned on the light and recoiled in horror. Katherine's bathroom was in a state of total disarray, makeup broken and spilled everywhere as though some macabre celebration had taken place there. Jars of powder and face creams were smashed on the floor, lipstick smeared aimlessly across the tiles, the toilet stuffed with hairbrushes and curlers as though someone had tried to flush them down. The scene rang with vicious anger, and though Thorn could in no way comprehend it, he saw clearly that it was directed at Katherine. It was done by an adult; the jars smashed with decisive power, the smears bold and far-reaching. It was the work of a lunatic. A lunatic filled with hate. He was numbed by it and looked up to see his reflection in a broken mirror. He saw his face harden and then he reached down, opening a drawer. What he sought was not there, and he opened a cabinet, rummaging around until his hands came upon what they were searching for. It was an electric razor. Thorn flicked it to A.C., then snapped its switch, the small object humming in his hand. As he flicked it off, he thought he heard a sound. It was a creaking on the floorboards overhead. He stood in silence, barely breathing, until it stopped. It did not come again.

Perspiration had formed on Thorn's upper lip and he wiped it off with a shaking hand, then moved from the bathroom and stood in the darkened hall. As he walked forward, the floorboards groaned beneath his feet. The child's room was beyond Mrs. Baylock's, and as Thorn passed her door he stopped. It was slightly open and he could see her within. She lay on her back with one arm dangling downward, the fingernails painted a shade of bright red. Her face, too, was made up as he had seen it before; whorelike, with heavy lipstick and powder, and now she'd added eyeshadow and rouge as well. She lay still and snoring, her mountainous stomach rising and falling, casting a shadow across the floor.

With quivering fingers, Thorn closed the door, then forced himself to continue, moving quietly to the door at the end of the hall. It too was slightly ajar. Thorn pushed it open and stepped in, then closed it behind him and stood motionless against it, gazing across the room at his son. The child was asleep, his face peaceful and innocent, and Thorn averted his eyes, not daring to look at him again. He tightened his muscles and drew in his breath, then moved forward, the razor clutched tightly in his hand. Standing over the boy, he clicked on the razor. It hummed loudly, seeming to fill the room. The child slept, unnoticing, and Thorn bent over him, his arms quivering as he raised the humming razor, touching it light to the boy's skin. A patch of hair immediately fell away and Thorn gasped at the defacement; white scalp showing like an ugly scar amid the dark, luxurious hair. He pressed the razor down again and it cleared a path behind it, hair wafting gently to the pillow as the child uttered a moan and began to stir. Panting with desperation, Thorn moved faster, more hair falling away as the child's eyelids fluttered and his head began to move, attempting to turn away. He was awakening now, groggily trying to raise his head, and Thorn felt a surge of panic, pushing the child's head hard toward the pillow. The terrified child tried to fight him off, but Thorn pushed harder, moaning with strain and revulsion as he forced the razor onward, shearing off more and more hair. Damien was twisting and turning now, the razor connecting in random hits, the child's muffled cries of terror becoming more and more desperate as Thorn struggled to hold him down. The scalp was coming clean, and Thorn sobbed as he bore down; the boy's small body kicking and lurching as he struggled for air. Suddenly Thorn's eyes went wide, and he applied the razor firmly, pressing down at a point at the back of the child's skull. It was there. The birthmark. Its scab like texture torn into by the razor and bleeding now, but clearly imprinted against the white scalp at the base of his head. They were sixes. Three of them, in a cloverleaf pattern with their curved tails touching in the center. Thorn reared back and the child sprang upward, sobbing and gasping for breath as he gazed at his father in terror. His small hands felt his denuded head and came away with blood on them, and he stared down at them, screaming in fear. He reached for his father and cried; Thorn was paralyzed by the helpless fear in his eyes. But he was unable to comfort him, instead beginning to sob as the bloodied hands stretched outward toward him, the child pleading for help. "Damien . . ." Thorn sobbed.

But at that moment the door behind him burst open and he turned to see the gargantuan form of Mrs. Bay-lock hurtling through the air, her reddened lips stretched wide in an unearthly cry of rage. Thorn grabbed for the child but the woman landed squarely upon him, knocking him to the floor. Damien screamed in terror and ran from the bed; Thorn rolled beneath the woman and grappled with her hands as they dug deep into his eyes and neck. He hit at her, but her weight was too much for him, her meaty hands finding his throat and pressing until his eyes began to bulge. Thorn desperately pushed at her face, her teeth sinking into his hand as a lamp tumbled from a table beside them; he reached for it, bringing it hard against her head. It shattered on contact and stunned her; the woman shuddered and reeled to one side. Thorn hit her again with the broken base, feeling her skull give way beneath it as blood streaked down through the white powder on her cheeks and chin. But still she clung to him; Thorn hit her a third time before she fell sideways and he struggled to his feet, staggering backward to the wall where the child stood, his eyes glazed with horror. Thorn grabbed him and lurched out the door, rebounding off the walls of the hallway as he made it to the back stairwell and slammed the door behind him. Damien clung to the doorknob, banging on the door, and Thorn wrenched him away; the child's hands clawed his face as they half-fell down the stairs together. In mid-stairwell the boy grabbed hold of the hanging light bulb and Thorn strained to pull him free; both suddenly were jarred by a jolt of electricity that knocked them over, throwing them downward to the bottom of the stairs.

Landing on the pantry floor, Thorn crawled on all fours, dazed, trying to get his bearings. Finding the child unconscious beside him, he tried to lift him but was unable, falling backward as he heard the sound of the kiteKr door opening and dizzily turned. It was Mrs. Baylock, staggering forward, her head a fountain of blood He struggled to regain his footing, but she caught him by the coat, spinning him as he desperately pulled at drawers that flew out of his grip, their contents spilling upon the floor. He too came crashing down, the woman flinging herself upon him, her bloodied hands digging viciously into his throat. Her face was pink from the mixture of powder and blood, her teeth caked with it as she snarled, her mouth opening wide with the full force of exertion. Thorn was helpless, choking, as he stared into her maniacal eyes, her face coming closer until her lips pressed hard upon his. The floor around them was littered with utensils spilled from the drawers and Thorn's hand> reaching desperately outward, found a pair of forks and gripped them tight in each fist. In a single violent motion they streaked upward, smacking hard into her head, implanting deeply in the temples on either side. She shrieked and fell backward; Thorn stumbled to his feet as the woman rose beside him, staggering about the room, trying in vain to pull out the forks that protruded from her head