Nightworld

1 • THE VILLAGE OF MONROE

Bill barely recognized his home town.

He stared in awe as he cruised the morning-lit Monroe harbor front in Glaeken's pristine old Mercedes 240D. There were new condos on the east end, the trolley tracks had been paved over, and all the old Main Street buildings had been refurbished with nineteenth century clapboard facades.

"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," Glaeken said.

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, it was better than sitting around waiting, letting the unease within him bubble and stew. Probably nothing he could do would block out completely the growing dread, especially after hearing that sunrise had been late again this morning.

"I still don't know why you need me along, other than as a driver," Bill said.

He was uncomfortable wearing a cassock and collar again. The clothing fit him fine, 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. He scoffed at nothing anymore.

"The Dat-tay-vao came to Monroe last year and became one with a local physician, Dr. Alan Buhner."

"Sounds vaguely familiar. Wasn't he associated with Dr. 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. Hinted that he was a charlatan."

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

"Out on Shore Drive, you said?

Glaeken nodded. "Two-ninety-seven."

"The high rent district."

The Hanley mansion was out on Shore Drive. 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," Glaeken said.

"Never heard of it. Must be new."

But as soon as he saw Toad Hall, Bill knew that it wasn't new. 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 pines. 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, Dr. Bulmer, a Vietnamese houseman named Ba, 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 Oriental towered in the doorway. This had to be Ba. 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 said, fishing 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 in her late thirties 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," she said. "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, Bill thought. A striking woman.

He 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 gone to Nam, come back in one piece, 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 almost 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 coffee pot 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 was lean, pale, in his mid-forties, 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 came to a stop beside her chair, Sylvia reached over and grasped the man's hand. They shared a smile. Bill immediately sensed the powerful bond between these two. Sylvia introduced him as Dr. Alan Bulmer.

"They want to talk about the Dat-tay-vao, Alan."

Bill felt the weight of Buhner's gaze as he stared at them.

"You'd better not be reporters." There was real loathing in his voice when he spoke the last word. The emotion seemed to arise from personal experience.

"I assure you, we're not."

Bulmer seemed to accept that. Glaeken had a way of speaking the truth in a way that sounded like the truth.

"What do you know—or think you know?" the doctor said.

"Everything."

"I doubt it."

"I know that your present condition is a direct result of your association with the Dat-tay-vao."

"Really."

"Yes. I know that the Dat-tay-vao left Viet Nam in late 1968 within a medic named Walter Erskine who couldn't handle the responsibility and became a derelict alcoholic—"

A flash of memory strobed Bill's brain. Five years ago…the parking lot of Downstate Medical Center…two winos, one was Martin Spano, the other a bearded stranger named Walter…"Walter was a medic once"…repeatedly asking, "Are you the one?" Could it have been…?

"—but before he died, Walter Erskine passed the Dat-tay-vao on to you; that you used the power of the Dat-tay-vao to cure a great number of people—too many people for your own good. As a result—"

Bulmer looked uncomfortable as he held up his hand.

"Okay. Score one for you."

"May I ask if you regret your time with the Dat-tay-vao?

Bulmer paused, then: "I've thought about that a lot, believe me. It left me half vegetable, but that appears to be only temporary. With therapy I'm working my way back to full function. My arms and hands are as good as they ever were, and my legs are starting to come around. The Dat-tay-vao helped me cure—cure—a hell of a lot of people with an incredible array of illnesses—acute, chronic, debilitating, life-threatening. And in the process Sylvia and I found each other. A year or two of rehab is a small price to pay for that."

Bill knew then and there that this man operated on a different plane than most people—and he liked him enormously for it.

"May I ask then—"

Glaeken stopped speaking and looked to his right.

A small boy stood in the living room entryway. He looked about nine; a round face, curly blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. He reminded Bill of another child from what seemed like another epoch…Danny.

The child's gaze roamed over the occupants of the room…and came to rest on Glaeken.

"Hello, Jeffy," Sylvia said. She obviously didn't want him listening to this. "Is anything wrong?"

"I came to see who was here."

He walked past Bulmer and his mother and stopped before Glaeken where he sat on the couch. For a long moment he stared almost vacantly into the old man's eyes, then threw his arms around Glaeken's neck and hugged him.