that made every step a painful labor. None of them hissed or snarled or
shrieked, either. They just approached silently, sluggishly, but
implacably.
Beyond the goblins, the doors to the street still appeared to be closed.
They had entered the cathedral by some other route, through a vent or a
drain that was unscreened and offered them an easy entrance, a virtual
invitation, the equivalent of the “open door” that they, like vampires,
probably needed in order to come where evil wasn’t welcome.
Father Walotsky, briefly mesmerized by his first glimpse of the goblins,
was the first to break the silence.
He fumbled in a pocket of his black cassock, withdrew a rosary, and
began to pray.
The man-form devil and the three things immediately behind it moved
steadily closer, along the main aisle, and other monstrous beings crept
and slithered out of the dark vestibule, while new pairs of glowing eyes
appeared in the darkness there. They still moved too slowly to be
dangerous.
But how long will that last? Rebecca wondered.
Perhaps they’ll somehow become conditioned to the atmosphere in the
cathedral. Perhaps they’ll gradually become bolder and begin to move
faster. What then?
Pulling the kids with her, Rebecca began to back up the aisle, toward
the altar. Father Walotsky came with them, the rosary beads clicking to
his hands.
They slogged through the snow to the foot of the steps that led up to
Lavelle’s front door.
Jack’s revolver was already in his hand. To Carver Hampton, he said, “I
wish you’d wait in the car.”
“No.”
“This is police business.”
“It’s more than that. You know it’s more than that.”
Jack sighed and nodded.
They climbed the steps.
Obtaining an arrest warrant, pounding on the door, announcing his status
as an officer of the law-none of that usual procedure seemed necessary
or sensible to Jack. Not in this bizarre situation. Still, he wasn’t
comfortable or happy about just barging into a private residence.
Carver tried the doorknob, twisted it back and forth several times.
“Locked.”
Jack could see that it was locked, but something told him to try it for
himself. The knob turned under his hand, and the latch clicked softly,
and the door opened a crack.
“Locked for me,” Carver said “but not for you.”
They stepped aside, out of the fine of fire.
Jack reached out, pushed the door open hard, and snatched his hand back.
But Lavelle didn’t shoot.
They waited ten or fifteen seconds, and snow blew in through the open
door. Finally, crouching, Jack moved into the doorway and crossed the
threshold, his gun thrust out in front of him.
The house was exceptionally dark. Darkness would work to Lavelle’s
advantage, for he was familiar with the place, while it was all strange
territory to Jack.
He fumbled for the light switch and found it.
He was in a broad entrance hall. To the left were inlaid oak stairs
with an ornate railing. Directly ahead, beyond the stairs, the hall
narrowed and led all the way to the rear of the house. A couple of feet
ahead and to the right, there was an archway, beyond which lay more
darkness.
Jack edged to the brink of the arch. A little light spilled in from the
hall, but it showed him only a section of bare floor. He supposed it
was a living room.
He reached awkwardly around the corner, trying to present a slim
profile, feeling for another light switch, found and flipped it. The
switch operated a ceiling fixture; light filled the room. But that was
just about the only thing in it-light. No furniture. No drapes. A
film of gray dust, a few balls of dust in the corners, a lot of light,
and four bare walls.
Carver moved up beside Jack and whispered, “Are you sure this is the
right place?”
As Jack opened his mouth to answer, he felt something whiz past his face
and, a fraction of a second later, he heard two loud shots, fired from
behind him. He dropped to the floor, rolled out of the hall, into the
living room.
Carver dropped and rolled, too. But he had been hit.
His face was contorted by pain. He was clutching his left thigh, and