vanity, Bobby rushed him, and I went after him, too, just a fraction of
a second later.
Instead of retreating, Father Tom launched himself forward, and when
they collided, the priest lifted Bobby off the floor. He wasn’t Father
Tom at all anymore. He was something unnaturally powerful, with the
strength and ferocity of a mad bull. He lunged across the bedroom,
knocking over a chair, and slammed-jammed-crushed Bobby into a corner so
hard that Bobby’s shoulders should have snapped. Bobby cried out in
pain, and the priest leaned into him, punching, clawing at his ribs,
digging at him.
Then I was in the melee, too, on Father Tom’s back, slipping my right
arm around his neck, gripping my right wrist with my left hand.
Got him in a choke-hold. Jerked back on his head. Just about crushed his
windpipe, trying to pull him away from Bobby.
He retreated from Bobby, all right, but instead of dropping to his knees
and capitulating, he seemed not to need the air that I was choking out
of him, or the blood supply to the brain that I pinched off.
He bucked, trying to throw me over his head and off his back, bucked
again and more furiously.
I was aware of Sasha shouting, but I didn’t listen to what she was
saying until the priest bucked a fourth time and nearly did pitch me
off. My choke-hold slipped, and he snarled as if sensing triumph, and I
finally heard Sasha saying, “Get out of the way! Chris! Chris, get out
of the way! ” Doing what she demanded took some trust, but then it’s
always about trust, every time, whether it’s deadly combat or a kiss, so
I released my faltering choke-hold, and the priest threw me off even
before I could scramble away.
Father Tom rose to his full height, and he appeared to be taller than
before. I think that must have been an illusion. His demonic fury had
attained such intensity, such blazing power, that I expected electric
arcs to leap from him to any nearby metal object. Rage made him appear
to be larger than he was. His radiant yellow gaze seemed brighter than
mere eye shine, as if inside his skull was not merely a new creature
becoming but the elemental nuclear fire of an entire new universe
aborning.
I retreated, gasping for breath, stupidly groping for the gun that
Manuel had taken from me.
Sasha was holding a bed pillow, which she evidently had jerked out from
under the head of one of the suicides. This seemed as crazy as
everything else that was happening, as if she intended to smother Father
Tom or to batter him into submission with a sack of goose down.
But then, as she ordered him to back off and sit down, I understood that
the pillow was folded around her .38 Chiefs Special, to muffle the
report of the revolver if she was forced to use it, because this bedroom
was at the front of the house, where the sound might carry to the
street.
You could tell that the priest wasn’t listening to Sasha. Maybe by this
time he wasn’t capable of listening to anything except to what was
happening inside him, to the internal hurricane-roar of his becoming.
His mouth opened wide, and his lips skinned back from his teeth.
An unearthly shriek came from him, then another, more chilling than the
first, followed by squeals and cries and wretched groans, which
alternately seemed to express pain and pleasure, despair and joy, blind
rage and poignant remorse, as if there were multitudes within this one
tortured body.
Instead of ordering Father Tom to desist, Sasha was now pleading with
him. Maybe because she didn’t want to be forced to use the gun.
Maybe because she was afraid his crazed shouting would be heard in the
street and draw unwanted attention. Her pleas were tremulous, and tears
stood in her eyes, but I could tell that she would be able to do
whatever needed to be done.
The shrieking priest raised his arms as if he were calling down the
wrath of Heaven upon all of us. He began to shake violently, like one