repeatedly. But the priest’s story leaped across it, got to him, and
sent a chill of awe along his spine.
Geary’s voice had fallen to little more than a whisper. “By the time I
got you back to the rectory and into bed, those signs were gone.
But I knew I hadn’t imagined them. I’d seen them, they’d been real, and
I knew there was something special about you.”
The lightning had fizzled out long ago; the black sky was no longer
adorned by bright, jagged necklaces of electricity. Now the rain began
to abate, as well, and Father Geary was able to reduce the speed of the
windshield wipers even as he increased that of the aging Toyota.
For a while neither of them seemed to know what to say. Finally the
priest cleared his throat. “Have you experienced this before–these
stigmata?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of But then, of course, I wasn’t aware this
time until you told me.”
“You didn’t notice the marks on your hands before you passed out at the
sanctuary railing?”
“No.”
“But this isn’t the only unusual thing that’s been happening to you
lately.”
Jim’s soft laugh was wrenched from him less by amusement than by a sense
of dark irony. “Definitely not the only unusual thing.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
Jim thought about it awhile before replying. “Yes, but I can’t.”
“I’m a priest. I respect all confidences. Even the police have no
power over me.”
“Oh, I trust you, Father. And I’m not particularly worried about the
police.”
“Then?”
“If I tell you. . . the enemy will come,” Jim said, and frowned as he
heard himself speaking those words. The statement seemed to have come
through him rather than from him.
“What enemy?”
He stared out at the vast, lightless expanse of desert. “I don’t know.”
“The enemy you spoke of in your sleep last night?”
“Maybe.”
“You said it would kill us all.”
“And it will.” He went on, perhaps even more interested in what he said
than the priest was, for he had no idea what words he would speak until
he heard them. “If it finds out about me, if it discovers that I’m
saving lives, special lives, then it’ll come to stop me.”
The priest glanced at him. “Special lives? Exactly what do you mean by
that?”
“I don’t know.”
if you tell me about yourself, I’ll never repeat to another soul a word
of what you say. So whatever this enemy is-how could it find out about
you just because you confide in me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“That’s right.”
The priest sighed in frustration.
“Father, I’m really not playing games or being purposefully obscure.”
He shifted in his seat and adjusted the safety harness, trying to get
more comfortable; however, his discomfort was less physical than
spiritual, and not easily remedied. “Have you heard the term automatic
writing’?”
Glowering at the road ahead, Geary said, “Psychics and mediums talk
about it. Superstitious claptrap. A spirit supposedly seizes control
of the medium’s hand, while he’s in a trance, and writes out messages
from Beyond.” He made a wordless sound of disgust. “The same people
who scoff at the idea of speaking with God-or even at the mere idea of
God’s existence naively embrace any con-artist’s claim to be a channeler
for the spirits of the dead.”
“Well, nevertheless, what happens to me sometimes is that someone or
something else seems to speak through me, an oral form of automatic
writing. I know what I’m saying only because I listen to myself saying
it.”
“You’re not in a trance.”
“No.”
“You claim to be a medium, a psychic?”
“No. I’m sure I’m not.”
“You think the dead are speaking through you?”
“No. Not that.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know.”
“God?”
“Maybe.”
“But you don’t know,” Geary said exasperatedly “I don’t know.”
“You’re not only the strangest man I’ve ever met, Jim. You’re also the
most frustrating.”
They arrived at McCarran International in Las Vegas at ten o’clock that
night. Only a couple of taxis were on the approach road to the airport.
The rain had stopped. The palm trees stirred in a mild breeze, and