Chapter Ten

On the following morning the news of Katherine's injury made it easy for Thorn to excuse himself from the office for the next few days. He told his staff he was going to Rome to find a bone specialist on Katherine's behalf; in truth, he was going on a different kind of mission. Having told the whole story to the photographer, he had been convinced by Jennings to start at the beginning, to return to the hospital where Damien was born. There they would begin putting together the pieces.

The trip was arranged quickly, without fanfare, Thorn hiring a private jet in order to depart from London and arrive in Rome on runways blocked to public access. In the hours before their departure, Jennings busied himself in gathering research material: several versions of the Bible, three books on the occult. Thorn returned to Pereford to pack his bags, including a hat to mask his identity.

At Pereford, things were unusually quiet. As Thorn wandered through the empty house, he realized that Mrs. Horton was nowhere about. Her husband, too; the cars, were parked side by side in the garage with a certain finality.

"They're both gone," Mrs. Baylock said as Thorn entered the kitchen.

The woman was working over the sink, cutting vegetables, in the way that Mrs. Horton had always done.

"Gone out?" asked Thorn.

"Gone. Just up and quit. They left an address for you to send their last month's wages."

Thorn was shocked.

"Did they say why?" he asked.

"No matter, sir. I can carry on."

"They must have given a reason."

"Not to me, they didn't. But they didn't speak to me much, anyway. It was the man who insisted on going. I think Mrs. Horton wanted to stay."

Thorn gazed at her with troubled eyes. It frightened him to leave her alone in the house with Damien. But there was no remedy for it. He had to go.

"Can you carry on here if I leave for a few days?"

"I think so, sir. We've got enough groceries for a couple of weeks, and I think the boy will appreciate the peace and quiet in the house."

Thorn nodded and started to leave.

"Mrs. Baylock?" he asked.

"Sir?"

"That dog."

"Oh, I know, it'll be gone by the end of the day."

"Why is it still here?"

"We took it out to the country and let it go and it found its way back. It was at the door last night after ... well, after the 'accident,' and the boy was pretty shook up and he asked if it could stay in his room. I told him you wouldn't like it, but under the circumstances I thought ..."

"I want it out of here."

"Yes, sir. I'll call the Humane Society today."

Thorn turned to go.

"Mr. Thorn?"

"Yes?"

"How's the wife?"

"She's doing well."

"While you're gone, could I take the boy to see her?"

Thorn paused, studying the woman as she grabbed a kitchen towel and began drying her hands. She was the very picture of domesticity and he was suddenly confused as to why he so disliked her.

"I'd rather you didn't. I'll take him when I get back."

"Very good, sir."

They nodded to one another and Thorn left, driving his own car to the hospital. There he consulted with Dr. Becker who informed him that Katherine was awake and feeling relaxed. He asked if he might have a psychiatrist visit her and Thorn gave him the number of Charles Greer. He then went into Katherine's room, and she smiled weakly when she saw him.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Feeling better?"

"Some."

"They say you're going to be fine."

"I'm sure."

Thorn pulled up a chair and sat beside her. He was struck with her beauty, even in this condition; the sunlight streamed in through the window, gently illuminating her hair.

"You look nice," she said.

"I was thinking about you," he replied

"I'm sure I'm a vision," she smiled.

He took her hand and held it; both gazing into each other's eyes.

"Strange times," she said softly.

"Yes."

"Is it ever going to be all right?"

"I think so."

She smiled sadly, and he reached up, brushing a wisp of hair from her eyes.

"We're good people, aren't we, Jeremy?" she asked.

"I think so."

"Then why is everything going wrong?"

He shook his head, unable to answer.

"If we were terrible people," she said quietly, "then I'd say 'Okay.' Maybe this is what we deserve. But what did we do wrong? What did we ever do wrong?"

"I don't know," he whispered hoarsely.

She seemed so vulnerable and innocent, and he was flooded with emotion.

"You'll be safe here," he whispered. "I'm going away for a few days."

She had no reaction. She didn't even ask him where.

"It's business," he said. "Something I can't avoid."

"How long?"

"Three days. I'll call you every day."

She nodded, and he slowly rose, leaning over to gently kiss her bruised, discolored cheek.

"Jerry?"

"Hm?"

"They tell me I jumped."

She gazed up at him, her eyes puzzled and childlike.

"Is that what they told you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Why should I do that?"

"I don't know," whispered Thorn. "That's what we'll have to find out."

"Am I crazy?" she asked simply.

Thorn gazed at her, then slowly shook his head.

"Maybe we all are," he replied.

She reached up and he leaned down again, bringing his face close to hers.

"I didn't jump," she whispered. "Damien pushed me."

There passed a long silence, and Thorn slowly left the room.

The six-seat Lear Jet was empty save for Thorn and Jennings, and as it streaked through the darkened skies toward Rome, the atmosphere within was silent and tense. Jennings had his research books spread out around him and prodded Thorn to remember everything Tassone had told him.

"I can't," said Thorn with anguish. "It's all a blur."

"Start at the beginning. Tell me everything you can."

Thorn recounted his first meeting with the priest, how the priest followed him, finally cornering him and soliciting the meeting in the park. It was at that meeting, the second that he had recited the poem.

"Something about ... rising from the sea ..." Thorn mumbled as he struggled to recall. "... About death ... and armies ... the Roman Empire ..."

"You've got to do better than that."

"I was upset. I thought he was crazy! I didn't really listen."

"But you did listen. You heard. You've got the key to this, now spit it up!"

"I can't!"

"Try harder."

Thorn's face was filled with frustration and he shut his eyes, forcing his mind in a direction it refused to take.

"I remember ... he begged me to take communion. Drink the blood of Christ. That's what he said. Drink the blood of Christ ..."

"What for?"

"To defeat the son of the Devil. He said drink the blood of Christ to defeat the son of the Devil."

"What else?" urged Jennings.

"An old man. Something about an old man ..."

"What old man?"

"He said I should see an old man."

"Keep going ..."

"I can't remember ...!"

"Did he give you a name?"

"M ... Magdo. Magdo. Megiddo. No, that was the town."

"What town?" pressed Jennings.

"The town he said I should go to. Megiddo. I'm sure that's it. That's where he said I should go."

Jennings excitedly rummaged through his briefcase, retrieving a map.

"Megiddo ..." he mumbled, "Megiddo ..."

"Have you heard of it?" asked Thorn.

"I'll just bet it's in Italy."

But it was not. Nor was it to be found listed in any country on the greater European continent. Jennings studied his map for a full half-hour before closing it and shaking his head with dismay. He glanced at Thorn and saw that the Ambassador had fallen asleep. He did not wake him, turning instead to his books on the occult. As the small plane knifed through the midnight sky, he became absorbed in the prophesies of the second coming of Christ. It was linked with the coming of the Anti-Christ, the Unholy Child, the Beast, the Savage Messiah:

 ... and unto this earth comes the Savage Messiah, the offspring of Satan in human form, sired by the rape of a four-legged beast. As young Christ spread love and kindness, so the Anti-Christ will spread hatred and fear ... receiving his commandments directly from Hell.

The plane touched down with a jolt. Jennings grabbed for his books as they fell in disarray around him. It was raining in Rome, the thunder rumbling ominously above them.

Moving quickly through the empty airport, they made it to a waiting cab; Jennings catnapped as they moved slowly through a downpour toward the other side of the city. Thorn sat in numbed silence as they passed the lighted statuary of the Via Veneto, remembering how he and Katherine, once young and full of hope, wandered hand in hand down these very streets. They were innocent and in love; he remembered the smell of her perfume and the sound of her laughter. They discovered Rome in the way that Columbus discovered America. They claimed it as their own. They made love in the afternoon here. Now, as Thorn gazed into the night, he wondered if they would make love ever again.

"Ospedale Generate," said the cabdriver as he came to an abrupt stop.

Jennings awoke and Thorn squinted out into the night, his face filled with confusion.

"This isn't it," Thorn said

"Si. Ospedale Generate."

"No, it was old. Brick. I remember."

"Is it the right address?" asked Jennings.

"Ospedale Generate," the driver repeated.

"È differente," insisted Thorn.

"Ah," replied the driver. "Fuoco. Tre anni più o meno."

"What's he say?" asked Jennings.

"Fire," replied Thorn. "Fuoco is fire."

"Si," added the driver. "Tre anni."

"What about fire?" asked Jennings.

"Apparently the old hospital burned down. It's been rebuilt."

"Tre anni più o meno. Multo morte."

Thorn glanced at Jennings.

"Three years ago. Multo morte. Much death."

They paid the cab driver and asked him to wait. He refused at first, but then, seeing the kind of money they shoved at him, he readily agreed. Thorn told him in broken Italian that they would like to keep him with them until they left Rome. The driver wanted to go call his wife, but promised to return.

Inside the hospital, they were immediately frustrated. As it was quite late, the people in charge would not be returning until morning. Jennings moved off on his own, seeking someone in authority while Thorn found an English-speaking nun who confirmed that the fire three years ago had reduced the building to ruins.

"Surely it didn't destroy everything," Thorn entreated. "There must be some records ..."

"I was not here," she replied in broken English. "But they say it took everything."

"Is it possible that some of the papers were stored elsewhere?"

"I do not know."

Thorn grimaced with frustration as the nun shrugged, unable to offer more.

"Look," Thorn said. "This is very important to me. I adopted a child here, and I'm looking for some record of its birth."

"There were no adoptions here."

"There was one. It wasn't an actual adoption."

"You are mistaken. Our adoptions are done through the relief agency."

"Are there birth records? Do you keep records somewhere of the children born here?"

"Yes, of course."

"Maybe if I gave you a date—"

"It's no use," interrupted Jennings.

Thorn turned to see him approaching, his expression set in despair.

"The fire started in the Hall of Records. In the basement. All the paperwork was there; it went up like a torch. Shot up the stairwells ... the third floor became an inferno."

"Third floor ...?"

"Nursery and maternity ward," nodded Jennings. "Nothing left but ashes."

Thorn sagged, leaning heavily against a wall.

"If you'll excuse me ..." said the nun.

"Wait." begged Thorn. "What about the staff? Surely some survived."

"Yes. Some."

"There was a tall man. A priest. A giant of a man."

"Was his name Spilletto?"

"Yes," replied Thorn excitedly. "Spilletto."

"He was chief of staff," replied the nun.

"Yes. He was in charge. Is he ..."

"He lived."

Thorn's heart surged with hope. "Is he here?"

"No."

"Where?"

"A monastery in Subiaco. Many of the survivors were taken there. Many died there. He might have died. But he lived through the fire. I remember they said it was a miracle he survived. He was on the third floor at the time of the fire."

"Subiaco?" asked Jennings.

The nun nodded. "The Monastery of San Benedetto."

Racing to the cab, they poured over Jennings' maps. Subiaco was on the southern border of Italy; to reach it they would have to drive through the night. The cab driver complained, but they gave him more money, tracing the route in red pencil so he could follow it while they slept. But they were too keyed up to sleep; instead they turned to Jennings' books, studying them under the dim interior light as the small cab sped through the Italian countryside.

"I'll be damned ..." whispered Jennings, as he gazed down into a Bible. "Here we go."

"What is it?"

"It's all right here in the Bible. In the bloody Book of Revelations. When the Jews return to Zion—"

"That was it," interrupted Thorn excitedly. "The poem. When the Jews return to Zion. Then something about a comet ..."

"That's here too," said Jennings, pointing to another book. "A shower of stars, and the rise of the Holy Roman Empire. These are supposed to be the events that signal the birth of the Anti-Christ. The Devil's own child."

As the cab pressed onward, they continued to read, Thorn pulling from his briefcase the interpretive text he'd once used to prepare a speech in which he quoted from the Bible. It provided the clarity they needed to make sense of the symbols in the scriptures.

"So the Jews have returned to Zion," concluded Jennings as morning neared, "and there has been a comet. And as for the rise of the Holy Roman Empire, scholars think that could well be interpreted as the formation of the Common Market."

"Bit of a stretch ..." Thorn pondered.

"Then how 'bout this?" asked Jennings, opening one of his books. "Revelations says: 'He will come forth from the Eternal Sea.'"

"That's the poem again. Tassone's poem." Thorn squinted trying to recall. "From the Eternal Sea He rises ... with armies on either shore. That's how it began."

"He was quoting Revelations all the way. The poem was taken from the Book of Revelations."

"From the Eternal Sea He rises ..." Thorn fought to remember more.

"Here's the point, Thorn," said Jennings, pointing to his book. "It says that the Caucus of International Theological Sciences has interpreted the 'Eternal Sea' to mean the world of politics. The Sea that constantly rages with the turmoil and revolution."

Jennings gazed hard into Thorn's eyes.

"The Devil's child will rise from the world of politics," he declared.

Thorn did not respond, his eyes turning toward the slowly brightening landscape.

The Monastery of San Benedetto was in a state of semidecay, but the massive fortress made of stone retained its strength and dignity even as the elements began to reclaim it. It had stood on its mountain in the southern Italian countryside for centuries and had withstood many sieges. At the outset of World War II, all the monks within were shot by invading German forces who used it as their headquarters. In 1946 it was mortared by the Italians themselves, as retribution for the evil work that had gone on within.

Yet for all of the earthly onslaughts upon it, San Benedetto was a holy place; stark and Gothic upon its hill, the sound of religious prayer had echoed off its walls throughout the centuries, rising upward from the very vaults of history.

As the small mud-splattered cab pulled up the road along its half-mile frontage the occupants within were asleep; the cab driver had to reach back and jostle them into wakefulness.

"Signori?"

As Thorn stirred, Jennings lowered his window and breathed the morning air, gazing across the fresh and dampened landscape.

"San Benedetto," mumbled the weary driver.

Thorn rubbed his eyes, focusing on the starkly silhouetted monastery framed against an angry reddish morning sky.

"Just look at that ..." whispered Jennings with awe.

"Can't we get any closer?" asked Thorn.

The driver shook his head.

"Apparently not," concluded Jennings.

Instructing the driver to pull over and get some sleep, they headed out on foot, and were soon waist-high in tall grass that soaked their pant-legs to the thigh. The going was rough and they were not dressed for it; their clothes bound them as they struggled across the field. Breathing hard in the overwhelming silence, Jennings paused and unsnapped his camera case, shooting off a half roll of pictures.

"Incredible," he whispered. "In-fucking-credible."

Thorn glanced back impatiently and Jennings hurried to catch up; together they walked forward, listening to their breath in the stillness, and to the distant sound of chanting that came, like a constant moan, from within.

"There's a lot of sadness here," said Jennings as they reached the entranceway. "Just listen to it. Listen to the pain."

It was awesome; the monotonous chant seemed to emanate from the very walls of the stone corridors and archways, as they walked slowly inside, gazing around in the emptiness, attempting to trace the source of the prayer.

"This way, I think," Jennings said, pointing down a long corridor. "Look at the mud."

Ahead of them, the floor was marked with a path of brown discoloration. The movement of feet over the centuries had actually worn down the rock, creating a spillway where water flowed during times of heavy rains. It led toward a huge stone rotunda, sealed off by heavy wooden doors. As they slowly approached, the chant grew closer. Opening the doors, they gazed with awe at the sight before them. It was as though they had entered the Middle Ages, and the presence of God, of spiritual holiness, could be felt as thought it were a physical, living thing. It was a huge and ancient room; stone steps led to a spacious altar on which stood a massive wooden cross, the figure of Christ upon it, chiseled from stone. The rotunda itself was made of stone blocks laced with vines that joined at the center of a domed ceiling which opened at the top to the sky. At that hour, a shaft of light streamed down through it, illuminating the figure of Christ.

"This is what it's all about, man," whispered Jennings. "This is a place of worship."

Thorn nodded and his eyes scanned the chamber, coming to rest on a group of hooded monks, kneeling amid the benches as they prayed. The chant was emotional and unnerving; rising and falling, it seemed to renew itself each time it began to fade. Jennings unsnapped his light meter, trying to get a reading in the dimness of the chamber.

"Put that away," Thorn whispered.

"Should've brought my flash."

"I said put it away."

Jennings glared at Thorn, but obeyed. Thorn was deeply upset, his knees trembling as though insisting he kneel and pray.

"Are you all right?" Jennings whispered.

"... I'm Catholic," Thorn replied in a quiet voice.

And then his face froze, his eyes riveted on something in the darkness. Jennings followed his gaze, and he saw it too. It was a wheelchair. And in it was the hulking figure of a man. Unlike the others, who were on their knees with heads bowed, the one in the wheelchair sat stiffly upright, his head tilted and arms bent as though paralyzed.

"Is that him?" whispered Jennings.

Thorn nodded; his eyes were wide with apprehension. They moved closer until they could see better; Jennings winced as the priest's features came into view. Half of his face was literally melted; the eye was opaque and stared blindly upward. The right hand was also grotesquely deformed, protruding from a sackcloth sleeve like a smooth, glistening stump.

"We don't know if he can see or hear," said the monk who stood over Spilletto in the monastery courtyard. "Since the fire he's not made a sound."

They were in what was once a garden, now fallen to decay and littered with broken statuary. The monk speaking had pushed Spilletto's wheelchair from the rotunda at the end of the services, and the two men had followed him, approaching only when they were out of earshot of the rest.

"He is fed and cared for by the brothers," the monk continued, "and we pray for his recovery when his penance is complete."

"Penance?" asked Thorn.

The monk nodded.

"'Woe to the Shepherd who abandons his sheep May his right arm wither and his right eye lose its sight.' "

"He's fallen from grace?" asked Thorn.

"Yes."

"May I ask why?"

"For abandoning Christ."

Thorn and Jennings exchanged a quizzical glance.

"How do you know he's abandoned Christ?" Thorn asked of the monk.

"Confession."

"But he doesn't speak."

"Written confession. He has some movement of his left hand."

"What kind of confession?" pressed Thorn.

The monk paused, "May I ask the nature of your questions?"

"It's vitally important," replied Thorn earnestly. "I beg you to help us. There's a life at stake."

The monk studied Thorn's face and then nodded.

"Come with me."

Spilletto's cubicle was bare and boxlike, containing only a straw mattress and a table made of stone. Like the rotunda, it had an open skylight that let light and rain in; a pool of water remained from the rains of the night before. Thorn noticed that the mattress was wet, and wondered if they all suffered such discomfort, or if this was part of Spilletto's private penance.

"It's drawn on the table," the monk said as they entered. "He wrote it out in coal."

Spilletto's wheelchair clattered as it crossed the uneven stones. They gathered around the small table, seeing the strange symbol the priest had drawn there.

"He did it when he first came here," the priest said. "We left the coal here on the table, but he has drawn no more."

It was a grotesque stick figure, etched unevenly in a childlike scrawl. It was bent and misshapen, its head surrounded with a semicircular line. What immediately caught Jennings' eye were the three numerals surrounding the semicircle above the stick figure's head. They were sixes. Three of them. Like the mark on Tassone's thigh.

"You'll notice the curved line above the head," the monk said. "This indicates the hood of the monk. His own hood."

"It's a self-portrait?" asked Jennings.

"We believe so."

"What about the sixes?"

"Six is the sign of the Devil," the monk responded. "Seven is the perfect number, the number of Jesus. Six is the sign of Satan."

"Why three of them?" asked Jennings.

"We believe it signifies the Diabolical Trinity. The Devil, Anti-Christ, and False Prophet."

"Father, Son, and Holy Ghost," observed Thorn.

The monk nodded. "For everything holy, there is something unholy. This is the essence of temptation."

"Why do you consider this a confession?" asked Jennings.

"It is, as you say, a self-portrait. Or so we believe. It is surrounded, symbolically, by the triumvirate of Hell."

"So you don't know, specifically, the act to which he confesses?"

"The details are unimportant," replied the monk. "All that matters is that he wishes to repent."

Jennings and Thorn exchanged a long glance; Thorn's face was gripped with frustration.

"Can I talk to him?" Thorn asked.

"It will do no good."

Thorn glanced at Spilletto and shuddered at the sight of the glistening, frozen face.

"Father Spilletto," he said firmly, "my name is Thorn."

The priest stared mutely upward; unmoving, unhearing.

"It's no use," advised the monk,

But Thorn would not be stopped.

"Father Spilletto," Thorn repeated, "There was a child. I want to know where it's from."

"Please, Signor," entreated the monk.

"You confessed to them!" shouted Thorn. "Now confess to me! I want to know where that child is from!"

"I'll have to ask you to ..."

"Father Spilletto! Hear me! Tell me!"

The monk attempted to reach Spilletto's chair, but Jennings blocked the way.

"Father Spilletto!" shouted Thorn into the mute, unmoving face. "I beg you! Where is she?! Who was she?! Please! Answer me now!"

And suddenly they were jarred, the very atmosphere thundering around them as bells in the church tower began to peal. It was ear-splitting; Thorn and Jennings shuddered as the sound rebounded off the stone monastery wall. Then Thorn looked down and saw it. The priest's hand was beginning to tremble and slowly rise.

"The coal!" shouted Thorn. "Give him the coal!"

Jennings' hand moved quickly, grabbing the lump of coal from the table and thrusting it into the trembling hand. As the bells continued to peal, the priest's hand jerked stiffly across the stone, forming crude letters that wavered with each impact of the deafening sound.

"It's a word!" exclaimed Jennings excitedly. "C ... E ... R ..."

The priest was shaking in every fiber as he struggled to continue, the pain of exertion plain as his disfigured mouth stretched open, emitting an agonized animal-like moan.

"Keep going!" urged Thorn.

"... V … " read Jennings, "... E ... T ..."

And suddenly the bells went silent; the priest dropped the coal from his spastic fingers as his head fell back against the chair. Exhausted, his eyes gazed upward, his face bathed in sweat.

As the echo faded around them, they stood in silence, staring at the word scrawled out on the table.

"… Cervet ...?" asked Thorn.

"Cervet," echoed Jennings.

"Is that Italian?"

They turned to the monk who looked at the word, and then to Spilletto, with confusion in their eyes.

"Does that mean something to you?" asked Thorn.

"Cerveteri," the monk replied. "I think Cerveteri."

"What is it?" asked Jennings.

"It is an old cemetery. From Etruscan times. Cimitero di Sant'Angelo."

The stiffened body of the priest trembled again, and he moaned as though trying to speak. But then he fell silent, a relaxation settling over him as he surrendered to the overpowering limitations of his body.

Thorn and Jennings looked at the monk who shook his head with dismay.

"Cerveteri is nothing but ruins. The remains of the Shrine of Techulca."

"Techulca?" asked Jennings.

"The Etruscan devil-god. The Etruscans were devil worshipers. Their burial place was a sacrificial ground."

"Why would he write this?" asked Thorn.

"I do not know."

"Where is this place?" asked Jennings.

"There is nothing there, Signor, except graves ... and a few wild hogs."

"Where is it?" repeated Jennings with insistence.

"Your cab driver will know. Perhaps fifty kilometers north of Rome."

The cab driver was hard to awaken; then Thorn and Jennings had to wait until he defecated in the field alongside the road. He was disgruntled now and sorry that he had taken the job, particularly when he heard where they now wanted to go. Cerveteri was a place that God-fearing men avoided, and they would not reach it until after nightfall.

The storm that hung over Rome had spread outward, heavy rains slowing their progress as, in darkness, they swung off the main highway onto an older road that was washed out with mud and potholes. The cab faltered, its rear left wheel slipping into a trench, and they all had to get out and push. When they got back inside, they were drenched and shivering; Jennings checked his watch and noted it was close to midnight. It was the last thought he registered before falling asleep; awakening several hours later, he realized the cab was no longer moving, and all was silent within. Thorn was asleep beside him, wrapped in a blanket; all that could be seen of the driver were his mud-caked shoes as he lay snoring in the front seat.

Jennings fumbled with the door handle and moved stiffly into the night, staggering to a nearby stand of bushes to urinate. It was near dawn, the sky was beginning to show the first signs of light. Jennings blinked hard, trying to make out his surroundings. He slowly realized that they'd arrived at Cerveteri. Before him stood a spiked iron fence, and just beyond it, tombstones silhouetted against the faintly lightening sky.

He moved back to the cab and stared in at Thorn, then glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes to five. Walking quietly to the driver's door he reached in and removed the keys from the ignition, then went to the trunk, carefully unlocking it and lifting the lid. It rose with a squeal but the sound did not awaken the two within. Jennings rummaged in the darkness for his camera case and loaded a fresh roll of film. He then tested his flash attachment. It went off into his eyes, blinding him for a moment and causing him to stagger. He waited for his vision to clear, then hefted his equipment onto his shoulder, pausing as his eyes fell upon a tire iron nestled among oil-soaked rags in a corner of the trunk. He reached in and took it, tucking it into his belt, then slowly closed the lid and walked silently to the rusted iron fence. The ground was wet and Jennings was cold; he shivered as he moved along the fence, searching for a point of entry. There was none. Securing his equipment, he scaled the fence with the aid of a nearby tree, losing his footing for an instant and ripping his coat as he tumbled to the ground on the other side. Then, regaining his footing and adjusting his cameras, he headed off into the interior of the cemetery. The sky was getting lighter now and he could make out the details of the tombstones and crumbling statuary around him. They were elaborate and ornate, though disfigured with decay; gargoyle-like faces with broken expressions, crypts, some half collapsed, with rodents moving, unconcerned by his presence, in and out of the hollowed and darkened in-sides.

Though chilled, Jennings felt himself perspiring. He glanced about uneasily as he plodded forward through the heavy growth. He felt as though he were being watched; the vacant eyes of the gargoyles seemed to follow him as he passed. He paused, trying to quiet his uneasiness, and his eyes moved upward, riveted to what they saw. It was a giant stone idol staring down from above, its face frozen in anger, as though outraged by his trespass. Jennings' breath became shallow as he stared upward; the idol's bulging eyes seemed to demand that he retreat. Its face was human, its expression animal: a deeply furrowed forehead and bulbous nose, a gaping, fleshy mouth stretched open as though in rage. Jennings fought down a swell of fear and managed to raise his camera, snapping off three shots with his flash attachment, assaulting the stone face like a sudden stroke of lightning.

Within the cab Thorn's eyes slowly opened as he became aware that Jennings was gone. He moved out of the car, seeing the graveyard before him, its broken statuary now illuminated by the first rays of the dawn.

"... Jennings ...?"

There was no reply. Thorn moved to the fence and called again. He was answered with a distant sound. It was the sound of movement within the graveyard, as though someone were walking toward him. Thorn gripped the slippery bars and, with effort, hefted himself over the fence, dropping heavily to the ground on the other side.

"... Jennings?"

The sound of movement had ended. Thorn searched through the maze of broken statuary ahead. Forcing himself to move, he walked slowly forward, his shoes gurgling as they sank into mud. The half-headed gargoyles came into view, and Thorn was unnerved as he eyed them. There was a kind of stillness here that he had experienced before, a suspended silence as though the atmosphere itself were holding its breath. It was at Pereford that he had first felt it, the night he saw the eyes staring back from the forest. He paused now, fearing he was once again being watched. His eyes scanned the statuary, coming to rest on a massive cross planted upside down in the ground. He stiffened. From somewhere behind the cross came the sound. It was the sound of movement again, but this time it was coming fast, heading directly toward him. Thorn wanted to run but was rooted, his eyes widening as the sound crashed heavily down.

"Thorn!"

It was Jennings, breathless and wild-eyed as he exploded through a stand of bushes. Thorn's breath rushed out as he stood shaking; Jennings quickly moved forward with the tire iron grasped in his hand.

"I found it!" he gasped. "I found it!!"

"Found what?"

"Come here. Come with me!"

They moved at a run through the undergrowth, Jennings dodging gravestones like a soldier running an obstacle course, Thorn struggling to keep up behind.

"There!" exclaimed Jennings as he stopped in a clearing. "Take a look. They're the ones!"

At his feet were two graves; dug close together, side by side. Unlike the others in the cemetery these were fairly recent; one full-sized, the other small, the headstones unadorned, bearing only names and dates.

"See the dates?" asked Jennings excitedly. "June sixth. June sixth! Four years ago. A mother and a child."

Thorn approached slowly and stood beside him, staring down at the mounds.

"They're the only recent ones in the whole place," said Jennings proudly. "The others are so old you can't even read them."

Unanswering, Thorn knelt, wiping dirt from the headstones to see what was inscribed.

"... Maria Avedici Santoya ..." he read. "Bambino Santoya ... In Morte Et in Nate Amplexa rantur Generationes."

"What does it mean?"

"It's Latin."

"What does it say?"

"... In death … and birth ... generations embrace."

"Quite a find, I'd say."

Jennings knelt beside Thorn, surprised to find his companion in tears. Thorn bowed his head and openly wept; Jennings waited for the tears to subside.

"This is it," Thorn moaned. "I know it. My child is buried here."

"And probably the woman who gave birth to the one you're raising."

Thorn looked into Jennings' eyes.

"Maria Santoya," said Jennings, pointing to the headstone. "There's a mother here and a child."

Thorn shook his head, trying to make sense of it.

"Look," said Jennings. "You demanded Spilletto tell you where the mother was. This is the mother. And this is probably your child."

"But why here? Why in this place?"

"I don't know."

"Why in this terrible place?"

Jennings watched Thorn, sharing his confusion.

"There's only one way to find out, Thorn. We've come all this way, we might as well do it."

He raised the tire iron, plunging it forcefully into the earth. It stopped with a dull thud, buried to the hilt.

"It's easy enough. They're only a foot or so under."

He began to dig with the tire iron, loosening the caked dirt and, with his hands, scraping it away.

"You going to help with this?" he asked Thorn, and Thorn reluctantly participated, his fingers numbed with cold as he clawed at the dirt.

Within half an hour they were covered with soot and perspiration, clearing the last bits of earth from two cement covers. They sat back on their knees and stared at them, assessing what had to be done next.

"Smell it?" asked Jennings.

"Yes."

"Must have been a hasty job. Not exactly up to health standards."

Thorn didn't respond; his face was gripped with anguish.

"Which one first?" asked Jennings.

"Do we need to do this?"

"Yes."

"It seems wrong."

"If you want, I'll go get the cab driver."

Thorn gritted his teeth, then shook his head.

"Let's go then," said Jennings. "Do the big one first."

Jennings struck hard with his tire iron, wedging it against the side of the large cement lid. Then, with great effort, he pried it upward until he could get his fingers underneath.

"Come on, goddammit!" he shouted at Thorn, and Thorn responded quickly, his arms shaking with exertion as he struggled with Jennings to raise the heavy lid.

"Weighs a bloody ton ...!" Jennings groaned. As he threw his weight against it, the lid came up slowly; both of them strained with full force to hold it in place as their eyes searched the darkened chamber below.

"My God!" Jennings gasped.

It was the carcass of a jackal. Maggots and flies abounded in the decay, wriggling through bits of leathered flesh that somehow still clung to the bones.

His mouth flying open, Thorn lurched backward, the cement slipping from his grip and crashing downward, breaking into pieces in the crypt below. A horde of flies billowed upward; Jennings moved in sudden terror, slipping in mud, as he grabbed Thorn, trying to pull him away.

"No!!" cried Thorn.

"Let's go!"

"No!" gasped Thorn. "The other one!"

"What for? We've seen what we need!"

"No, the other one," Thorn moaned desperately. "Maybe it's an animal, too!"

"So what?!"

"Then maybe my child's alive somewhere!"

Jennings paused, held by the agony in Thorn's eyes. Quickly retrieving the tire iron, he jammed it against the smaller lid; Thorn moved quickly beside him, getting his fingers beneath the lid as Jennings fiercely pried up. In a single movement it was off and Thorn's face contorted with grief. Within the small casket were the remains of a human child, its delicate skull smashed to pieces.

"Its head ..." sobbed Thorn.

"... God ..."

"They killed it!"

"Let's get out of here."

"They murdered my son!" Thorn screamed, and the lid slammed shut, the two men's eyes locked in horror.

"They murdered him!" wailed Thorn. "They killed my son!"

Jennings pulled Thorn to his feet, physically dragging him away. But then he stopped; his body jarred with sudden terror. "Thorn."

Thorn turned to follow his gaze and saw, dead ahead, the head of a black German shepherd. Its eyes were close-set and glinting; saliva dripped from its half-open mouth as a vicious growl arose from somewhere within. Thorn and Jennings stood motionless as the animal slowly inched forward from the foliage until its full body could be seen. It was thin and scarred, an open wound festering amid clotted patches of hair on its side. The bushes beside it began to rustle and another dog's head appeared; this one gray, its muzzle disfigured and dripping. Then another appeared, and another, the cemetery coming alive with motion as the darkened figures emerged from everywhere, a pack of at least ten, insane and ravenous, their mouths dripping in a continual drool.

Jennings and Thorn were frozen in place, fearing any movement, even that of looking at one another, as the growling pack held them at bay.

"They smell ... the carcasses ..." Jennings whispered. "Just ... move ... back."

Barely breathing, the two men began to back up; the dogs immediately moved forward, heads held low as though stalking prey. Thorn faltered and an involuntary sound rose abruptly from his gut; Jennings gripped him, trying to restore calm.

"Don't run ... they just want ... the corpses ..."

But as they passed to two opened graves, the dogs kept coming; their advance unceasing, eyes riveted only on the men. They were closing the gap now, their fluid motion bringing them closer, while Jennings desperately searched for the fence, seeing it was still a hundred yards away. Thorn stumbled again and clung tightly to Jennings, both men shaking as they struggled to back away. Then their backs hit something solid and Thorn shuddered. They were at the base of the great stone idol, trapped there as the dogs spread slowly around them, blocking any chance of escape. For an awful moment all remained frozen, predators and prey, the circle of dripping teeth holding them at bay. The sun was out now, casting a reddish glow upon the headstones; the dogs and men were held in place as though awaiting a signal to set them into motion. The seconds passed and they coiled tighter; the men rigid, the dogs crouched, ready to spring.

Emitting a shrill war cry, Jennings hurled his tire iron at the lead dog as the entire pack exploded into motion. The dogs sprang into the air, hurling themselves on the men as they turned to run; Jennings was brought down immediately as the animals lunged for his neck. He rolled as they attacked him, his camera straps wrapping tightly about his neck, tearing into it, as the animals danced around him, trying to reach the flesh below. Flailing helplessly against them, he felt his camera beneath his chin, its lens shattering as teeth viciously slashed at it, trying to rip it away.

They had let Thorn run farther, but as he neared the fence a large animal leapt upon him, its jaws connecting squarely with the flesh of his back. Thorn struggled to continue, but the animal hung on, its front legs dangling in the air. Thorn fell to his knees, straining to pull himself forward, while others descended upon him, blocking his view. Teeth flashed and saliva spewed into the air, Thorn crying out as he fought desperately against them, still trying to make it to the fence. But it was no use. He rolled into a ball; feeling hot, stinging pains as their teeth sank into his back. For a moment, he saw Jennings, spinning and rolling, the dogs repeatedly lunging for his neck. Thorn no longer felt pain, only the fierce need to escape. He raised himself on all fours again, the dogs hanging onto his back as he inched his way toward the fence. His hand came down on something cold. It was the tire iron that Jennings had thrown; he gripped it tightly, jamming it down behind him toward the animals tearing his back. From the wail of agony he knew he'd hit a mark, a gush of blood spurting over his head as a dog spun before him, its eyeball hanging by bloody threads from the socket. It gave Thorn courage; he jabbed hard again, then began swinging the tire iron with both hands as he struggled to regain his footing.

Jennings rolled over and over until he reached the base of a tree, fighting to pull himself upward as the dogs raged about him, still striking at the camera and straps wound about his neck. As he fought them, the flash attachment went off, and the animals cowered before the blinding spark of light.

Thorn was on his feet now, swinging wildly with the tire iron, connecting with heads and muzzles as he staggered backward toward the fence. Jennings had leapt from the tree, holding the flash attachment in front of him, triggering it each time the dogs advanced, driving them back until he too had made it to the fence.

He moved quickly to Thorn, keeping the dogs at bay while Thorn began to climb over. His clothes torn, his face bloodied, Thorn struggled upward on the fence, suddenly falling hard upon the top of it, and impaling himself through the armpit with one of the rusted spikes. Crying out in pain, he forced himself upward and fell hard to the earth on the other side. Jennings followed, triggering his flash as he went, then throwing it at the howling dogs as he jumped down on the other side. Thorn was staggering as Jennings grabbed him, half carrying him toward the cab, the cab driver gazed groggily out at them, then gave of moan of horror. He reached for the ignition, but the keys were gone. He raced out, helping Jennings load Thorn into the back seat of the car. As Jennings ran to the trunk to retrieve the car keys, he glanced back at the dogs, which were now going wild. They were smashing themselves into the fence, howling with anger; one of them tried to leap over and almost made it, but was impaled by the neck, blood shooting out like a fountain. In their frenzy the other dogs leapt upon him, eating him alive as his legs kicked wildly and his voice wailed with rage.

The cab sped away with its back door flapping open, the driver shocked as he gazed into his mirror at the two men in the back. They no longer looked like men, but tangled masses of blood and clothing. And they clung to each other, weeping like children.