John thought of telling this simple, decent man about the church and the Brethren. About his struggle to hold on to his faith, which had been as solid as sand, and had slipped through his fingers just as quickly. Then there was Mercer, and the monster hiding under his smiling mask. But Lamar Robinson had earned his peaceful existence, keeping the roofs over people's heads, looking out for men in trouble, and doing his small part to make the world go on.
"Everyone I've trusted has left me, lied to me, or used me," he said slowly. "I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know where I belong."
Robinson nodded. "You got to make a change, then. Way Maurice did."
John suddenly knew with a deep, unwavering conviction that he would never possess the kind of contentment that Lamar Robinson radiated unless he chose, once and for all, between the two great forces on either side of him.
They ate the rest of their lunch in a companionable silence. When the waitress brought the check, John took out his wallet, but Robinson shook his head.
"I'm working; you're not. 'Sides, how often a man get to buy himself and his friend a little bit of heaven?" he asked, winking at the waitress, who giggled.
"Mr. Robinson, the food was delicious, and I appreciate your seeing me about the job." John stood and held out his hand. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."
"It don't work out for you, this thing you got going, you call me." He grinned. "I can always use another strong back to haul shingles and slap down tar for me."
John checked the bus schedule, and determined what connections he had to make to go from Heaven to hell. It was time to make a stand against the order. As the first step toward his personal salvation, he could do worse than saving an old friend from them.
It took changing buses three times to get within walking distance of the abbey. He took his time, reaching the front gates just as the sun was beginning to set. He rang the bell, and as soon as Brother Jacob heard his voice he opened the electronic locks.
Mercer met him halfway between the gate and the cloister. "John, I was so worried about you. Where have you been? The police called us about the station wagon being left in town. Were you robbed? What happened?"
John smelled the wine the abbot had been drinking coating every word, hanging in the air between them, another silent slap at their so-called friendship.
"We need, to talk." He looked over the abbot's shoulder at the other brothers walking toward them. "Alone."
"Of course, after vespers—"
"I know about the Brethren and the Darkyn, Mercer," John said in a low voice. "They're the reason I left the priesthood. We talk alone, or we talk here."
Mercer turned to address the brothers. "Brother Patrick has returned safely to us. I must speak with him about his misfortune in town. Go on to services without me."
The friars exchanged uncertain looks before obeying the abbot's orders.
Mercer had gone shock-white when he faced him. "Why didn't you tell me that you knew? Are you part of the order? How in God's name—"
"The Brethren pretended to recruit me, but they were only interested in using me to get to my sister." He gestured toward the abbot's house. "Shall we?"
Acting as if they were being pursued by demons, Mercer hurried him inside, locking the door behind them.
"I'm so relieved you know about them," the abbot said. "I hated keeping it from you all this time. But you can't talk about the order openly. They've killed everyone who has tried to expose them."
John sat down and let him babble on. He could see how Mercer's alcoholism would have given the Brethren a hold over him. The order knew how to ferret out any weakness—and exploit it—to get what they wanted.
"I came here to get away from them, John," his friend was saying. "I swear to you, I thought they'd forget about me, the way they did Bromwell. And they have, until now. We've been able to live and work as the Lord intended us to here."
"You're not a priest, Mercer."
"No, not officially," the abbot conceded. "But you can't argue with the good we've done here. We've helped this community so much. I can't tell you how many families we've brought back to God. We've all found true serenity and peace in devoting ourselves to good works."
John rubbed his eyes. "What about the breeding program? How you threatened Ignatius? Was that all part of your good works, Mercer?"
Mercer's hesitant smile disappeared. "I don't agree with everything I'm told to do, but Brethren's mission is to protect humanity. These things that they fight, they are evil incarnate. I have no choice but to follow their methods."
"Their methods. Not yours."
"I can't kill them." The abbot went to his desk and took out the wine bottle inside. "I found out that I'm a coward, John. I couldn't take it. I couldn't even stand on the sidelines and watch it. I knew what they were doing was right, and necessary to protect the real church, but it got to me. It would have destroyed me."
John watched him pour the dark liquid into a glass. "My sister is one of them now."
Wine spilled onto the desk. "What did you say?"
"The maledicti. The Darkyn. They infected my sister, and she changed into one of them." John stood up and crossed the room to take the bottle out of the abbot's hand. "Alexandra has become a vampire."
"Oh, John. No. Not Alex." Mercer's face screwed up, until he glanced down. "What are you doing?"
"Ruining your next binge." He picked up the glass and the bottle and carried them out to the kitchen, where he emptied them into the sink. The abbot followed but didn't attempt to stop him.
"I don't need it," Mercer said. He began making a pot of coffee. "It's the Brethren, you know. They made me like this."
"What will be your excuse next time, Mercer?"
The abbot poured measured grounds into the drip filter. "There won't be a next time." He added water to the machine and switched it on. "I promise."
"You have to get help." John slid the phone book Mercer kept on the counter toward him. "Alcoholics Anonymous could be the first step. The local chapters are listed under A."
"I can't seek outside help. The Brethren would never permit it. Even if I did, I can't change." Mercer took two cups from the cabinet. "Did they make you torment the demons? How do you live with what you've done?"
"I didn't know—I still don't know what the Darkyn are. I know what the Brethren are. I know my sister." John thought of how angry he had been with Alexandra, and how little she deserved it. "She's no demon. She may not believe in God, but she's never harmed anyone. I used to pity her because she had no faith. Now I see how she must have pitied me for mine." He looked at Mercer. "The killing has to stop. On both sides."
"Yes." Mercer filled the coffee cups and gave one to him. "I'll make my last toast, John. To life."
The coffee was hot and bitter, but John drank some to be polite.
Mercer didn't touch his, but turned his back on John and set it on the counter. He stayed that way, moving his hand to his face for a moment. "I was going to poison you just now. The order wants you dead." He turned to look at John's expression and grimaced. "I changed my mind at the last minute."
The abbot clutched his chest and fell to his knees. John grabbed him to hold him upright. "Jesus, Mercer, what have you done?"
"Lukumi poison. Looks like a heart attack or a stroke." The abbot went limp.
John eased him down on his back, and saw an empty vial fall out of his friend's hand and roll across the kitchen floor.
The abbot clutched at his arm. "Go to a nightclub on the beach. Infusion." He dragged in a labored breath. "Go down there and warn them. Bastille Day."
"I don't understand."
The fierceness emptied out of his face. "Have to bury me on consecrated ground. Fool God, the devil to pay." Mercer uttered a weak chuckle. "But my masters… will be so… disappointed." He gave the ceiling a look of mild surprise, and then his hand fell away.
John put his hand on the abbot's face, and gently closed his friend's eyes. A persistent ringing brought him to his feet, and he picked up the phone.
"Father Lane," Brother Jacob said, not waiting for John to speak, "why didn't you answer the phone? The Lightkeeper called for you from Rome."
"Brother Jacob, this is John." He tried to think of what to say, and decided to show his friend a final mercy. "The abbot has had a heart attack. Call an ambulance."
"But… what about Brother Rupert and the others?"
John almost swore. "What about them?"
"They never returned last night," Brother Jacob said.
Chapter 19
"Hey." Someone was shaking her. "Time to make the doughnuts."
Sam groped for a pillow, found one, and put it over her face to block out the noise and the light. "Go away."
"I'd be happy to, Officer, but you're in my apartment."
The pillow lifted, forcing Sam's eyelids to do the same thing. An exasperated Chris was sitting on the edge of her bed. No, on Keri's bed. As the first time she'd woken up in the exact same spot, Sam couldn't remember how she'd gotten there. Now she was so thirsty she could barely speak.
She eyed the kid, who looked disgustingly cheerful. "Did I sleep with you?"
"Nope. I bunked out on the couch."
Lucan.
"I was at the nightclub." Sam sat up carefully. "How did I get here?"
"A nice man with a bad head cold carried you up the stairs. He said that you'd gotten hit on the head. You also had a lot of bumps and bruises, and you were really out of it, so I told him to bring you in here. I woke you up a couple of times to make sure you weren't lapsing into a coma or anything." Chris handed her a cup of coffee. "I borrowed the stuff to make this from your place. I can't afford coffee yet."
