Reprisal

Manhattan

Bill waited impatiently for the old man to return from his wife's bedroom. Apparently she was pretty sick. Sick enough to need a full-time nurse. And Veilleur appeared wealthy enough to afford one. Bill knew nothing about the current state of Manhattan real estate, but he knew a top-floor condo overlooking Central Park like this didn't come cheap.

During the drive from Queens, Bill had told Augustino and Veilleur everything—from what he'd done New Year's Eve all the way to Rafe Losmara's revelation that Danny was still alive in his grave.

The detective came over to where Bill was standing at the window, looking down at the empty, illuminated traverses snaking through the dark of Central Park.

"You know, Father, I think I had you all wrong."

"Don't call me Father," Bill said. "I'm not a priest anymore. The name's Bill."

"All right, Bill. Call me Renny." He sighed. "I've spent a lot of years thinking some pretty awful thoughts about you."

"Perfectly understandable."

"Yeah. And now I'm thinking some pretty brutal thoughts about this Losmara guy and what I'd like to do to him and his sister—because I don't think the legal system's going to be much use here."

Bill turned toward the bedroom as he heard some high-pitched

English words mixed with some other language that sounded East European.

Renny said, "Sounds like Mrs. Dracula—having a nightmare."

Veilleur returned to the living room then. He eased himself into a chair and indicated the facing sofa for Bill and the detective.

"Sorry for the delay," he said, "but I wanted to make sure the nurse was in her own room and my wife settled quietly for the rest of the night before we talked."

"Is she a light sleeper?" Bill asked, more out of courtesy than any real interest.

"Yes. She tends to get her nights and days mixed up."

Bill started when he noticed the telephone by his elbow.

"That won't be bothering you anymore," Veilleur said. "But let's get back to this young man in North Carolina. You say he calls himself Losmara?"

"Yes. Which is an anagram of Sara Lorn, the woman from five years ago I told you about."

"Both of which are anagrams of another name." He smiled tiredly and shook his head. "Still playing games."

"What's the other name?" Augustino asked from Bill's right on the sofa.

"Rasalom."

"What kind of a name is that?"

"A very old one."

"Is that their family name?" Bill said.

"Who?" The old man looked confused.

"Rafe and his sister."

"There is no sister. Only one—Rasalom. Within certain limits, he can change himself. The one you called Sara and the one you call Rafe are the same person."

"No," Bill said, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. "That can't be."

But why couldn't it be? After what had happened to that hollow thing called Herbert Lom, to Danny, why was he balking at this minor trick. >

He opened his eyes and stared into Veilleur's.

"We're out of our depth here, aren't we?"

"This is out of everyone's depth," Veilleur said.

"What are we up against?"

"Rasalom."

"And who the hell is that!" Augustino said.

Veilleur sighed. "After what you two have seen tonight, I suppose you're ready to believe. It's a very long story and I'm very tired, so I'll capsulize it for you. Rasalom used to be a man. He was born ages ago. Rasalom isn't even his real name, but a name he took and has used in various permutations ever since. Ages ago, as a youth, he gave himself over to a power that is inimical to everything we consider good and decent and rational. He became a focus for the hostile forces outside this sphere, and for all that is dark and hateful within humanity. He gains strength from what is worst in us. Like a hydroelectric dam, he stands in the flow of human baseness, venality, corruption, viciousness, and depravity and draws power from it."

"Power?" Bill said. "Just what does that mean?"

"The power to change things. To alter the world, make it into a place more to the liking of the force he serves."

Beside him, Bill heard Augustino snort in disgust.

"Gimme a break, will you? I mean, this sounds like fairy-tale stuff."

"I'm sure you said the same thing when your priest friend here told you that a boy who'd been buried for five years was still alive."

"Yeah," Augustino said, nodding slowly and shrugging. "You got a point there. But it still sounds like a Nintendo game. You know, stop the Evil Wizard before he finds the Ring of Power and rules the world. That sort of thing."

"Except it's no game," Veilleur said. "And did you ever consider why that sort of story is so powerful, why it recurs again and again, fascinating one generation after another?"

"No, but I've got a feeling you're going to tell me."

"Racial memory. This war has been fought before… and almost lost. With results so devastating, human history had to restart itself. Rasalom keeps trying, though. But he has failed each time because he has always been countered by someone representing an opposing force."

"Come on!" Augustino said. "The old war between Good and Evil story."

Bill was tempted to tell him to shut up and let the old man talk.

"Except that the Good here isn't terribly good," Veilleur said, seemingly unperturbed by the detective. "It tends to be rather indifferent to our fate. It's more interested in opposing the other force than in doing anything for us. And when it appeared that Rasalom had finally been stopped for good, the opposing force went elsewhere."

"When was that?" Bill said.

"In 1941."

"So how come he's back?"

"He has a knack for survival and he was very lucky. This is not the first body he's worn. It's all very complicated. Suffice it to say that he found a way to be reborn in 1968."

1968. Why did that year send ripples across Bill's brain?

"How do you know so much about this?" Augustino said.

"I have been studying him a long time."

"That's all fine and good," Bill said. He wasn't buying all of this, but the old man had been laying out his story so matter-of-factly that Bill found himself believing him. He should have been writing him off as a kook, but after tonight he wasn't going to be too quick about writing anything off as too crazy to be true. "But what is he up to? Why pick on Danny? Why pick on Lisl? There's no road to world domination there."

"Who can say what goes on in Rasalom's mind. I can tell you this, however: He receives his greatest satisfaction from human self-degradation. When he can bring out the worst in us, when he can induce us to lose faith in ourselves, convince us to choose to be less than we can be, to choose the low road, so to speak, it's… I think it's like a cosmic sort of sex for him. Plus, he grows stronger with each incident."

Bill couldn't help but think of Lisl. That certainly sounded like what Rafe—or Rasalom, if Veilleur was to be believed—had been doing to her.

"But why Danny and Lisl? Why would he be interested in them?"

"Oh, I doubt very much that they were his real targets."

"Then who?"

"Think about it. They were both very close to you. Losing the little boy sent you into a tailspin from which you barely recovered. Might that not happen again if something similar occurred to the young woman in question?"

His heart pounding with sudden horror, Bill straightened up on the couch.'

"Are you-saying—?"

"Yes," Veilleur said, nodding. "I think you are Rasalom's target."

Bill stood up. He had to move, had to walk around the room. More craziness! It couldn't be! But it explained so many things. And there was a hellish consistency to it.

"But why, God dammit! Why me?"

"I don't know," Veilleur said. "But I may know someone who does. We can't talk to her right now. But in the morning, I'll call her. For now I suggest we all get a little rest."

Bill continued to prowl the room.

Rest? How could he rest if all Danny had suffered and what Lisl was going through were because of him?