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the home he'd been living in the past forty years. The oak shelves covering two
walls of the room were lined with hundreds of books by masters of literature,
including Bronte, Melville, Boccaccio, and Dickens. Stephen had read them all,
many more than once. The thick, musty smell of aging pages and old volumes
gave him a feeling of security. There was comfort sitting among the knowledge
of the ages.
His family had been raised in this sturdy home sitting just outside Nashua, New
Hampshire, at the base of Jeremy Mountain. His children grew up here, his wife
died here, he became an Episcopal priest here, giving up a career as an
investment counselor to counsel on a higher plane than Dow Jones averages and
GNPs.
While being a priest was hardly a moneymaking venture, Stephen was no fool
when he made the career switch. God may pay the bills of the soul, he knew, but
He's never been big on paying for new cars or kids' braces. During the four years
he spent studying to be a minister, Stephen kept his investment job, working
three times as hard. He intended to build a tidy portfolio to carry him and his
family through the rest of their lives. But his plans bore more fruit than he
anticipated. Not only was there enough money for one lifetime, there was
enough for two or three, and the interest kept adding more. Stephen found the
task of soothing troubled souls was easier when your own wasn't troubled by
monetary headaches.
Tonight, though, it was something not of this earth, nor of God's heaven,
pricking his senses.
Sighing deeply, he lifted the brandy snifter on the table and cradled it in the
palms of his hands. Warmth seeped into the Courvoisier and he drained the last
mouthful. Flicking off the reading lamp, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.
Once upstairs, Stephen took a quick, hot shower, then rolled back the covers of
his bed and stuffed himself under.
Mrs. McCrady changed the sheets every day and it was always a pleasure to
slide into a freshly made bed.
Staring out the window into the New England night, Stephen's thoughts turned to
Jason and their conversation a few weeks before. It had been on his mind almost
constantly. The story about Claire's stuffed frog unnerved him. It reeked of a
familiar touch, one he hadn't experienced in twenty-five years. Stephen still
questioned his suspicions, but a feeling in his bones told him his doubts were
related more to desperate hope than reality. What was happening to Jason was
too similar to what had happened in his own life twenty-five years ago. It wasn't
just coincidence, it was heredity.
"God, I just hope I haven't waited too long," Stephen said.
But he knew that in some ways he already had. It was irresponsible of him never
to have told Jason about his heritage. Oh, he had reasons. They seemed like good
ones at the time. But now that the horror was beginning again, reasons lost their
power and became nothing but excuses.
And what if you died? Stephen asked himself. Jason would be left alone with
absolutely no knowledge. You might as well shoot your son in the back, old man.
Jason was his first child and his only son. In the Medlocke family, the father-son
connection ran deep, back through generations, across the sea to the dark days in
Scotland. Sons, especially first sons, were special in the Medlockes. They were
cast into a harder life just by being born.
But until her death, his wife, Maureen, was adamant about not telling Jason the
truth.
"You yourself said it sometimes skips generations," she argued. "Why saddle
him with such a load if it's not necessary?"
"Because of the chance that it might be necessary," he answered. "And if it is, he
damn well better be prepared. When the time comes, it's not going to wait for
him to get ready."
In the end, however, Maureen always won the argument and Stephen hid the
Medlocke heritage from his son. Even after Maureen died, Stephen kept the
secret. During the first two years following her death, there was a dagger in his
heart and he simply didn't have the energy to talk about her or anything
connected with her. After the pain subsided it never faded he convinced
himself that, as she had said, it wasn't necessary.
Now the time had come and Stephen wondered how Jason would handle the
news. How does a father explain such an inheritance? How does he tell his son
that he's capable of feats that once had people burned at the stake? How does he
tell him that he's in life-threatening danger? How does he cushion the blow?
The answer was: He couldn't. He couldn't soften something that was going to
irrevocably change the rest of his son's life.
Turning off the bedside light, Stephen ran his hand through his thick, white hair.
Locking his fingers behind his head, he lay back on the goosedown pillow and
stared at the ceiling.
He knew he was a strong man for sixty-four. Each morning when he shaved, he
saw a face that was heavily lined, but with creases that revealed knowledge and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]