Chapter Four

By July the English countryside was in full flower, an unusually extended rainy season causing the Thames tributaries to overflow and bring life to even the most long-dormant seeds. The grounds of Pereford too had responded, becoming lush and green, the forested area beyond the gardens grown thick, sheltering an abundance of animal life. Horton feared that the rabbits of the forest would soon overrun their refuge and start feeding on the tulips, and he set traps for them; their piercing cries could be heard in the dead of night. The practice ended, not only because Katherine asked that he stop, but also because he had become uneasy about entering the forest to collect their remains. He felt "eyes" upon him, he said, as though he were being watched from the thickets. When he confessed this to his wife, she laughed, telling him it was probably the ghost of King Henry the Fifth. But Horton was unamused, refusing to enter the forest ever again.

It was, therefore, of special concern to him that the new nanny, Mrs. Baylock, often took Damien there, finding God-knows-what to amuse him with for hours at a time. Horton also noticed, on helping his wife sort through the laundry, that the boy's clothing had a great many dark hairs on them, as though he had been playing with an animal. But he failed to make any connection between the animal hairs and the trips into the Pereford forest, chalking it up to just another one of the disturbing aspects of Pereford House, of which there were coming to be many.

For one thing Katherine was spending less and less time with her child, somehow replaced by the new, exuberant nanny. It was true that Mrs. Baylock was a devoted governess and that the child had come to love her as well. But it was disquieting, even unnatural, that the boy preferred her company to that of his own mother. The entire staff had noticed it and talked about it, feeling hurt for their mistress's sake that she had been replaced in her child's affections by an employee. They wished that Mrs. Baylock would leave. But instead, each day found her more firmly entrenched, exerting more influence on the masters of the house.

As for Katherine, she felt much the same way but found herself helpless, unwilling to allow jealousy to again interfere with someone's affection for her child. She felt responsible for once having robbed Damien of a cherished companion, and she was loath to let it happen again. When, after the second week, Mrs. Baylock asked to move her sleeping quarters to a room directly opposite Damien's, Katherine consented. Perhaps among the rich this was how it was supposed to be. Katherine herself had been raised in more modest circumstances where it was a mother's job, and her only job, to be the companion and protector of her child. But life was very different here. She was the mistress of a great house, and perhaps it was time she started behaving that way.

Her newfound freedom was occupied in all the right ways; ways her husband heartily approved of. Mornings were taken up with charity causes, afternoons devoted to politically oriented teas. Thorn's wife was no longer the social oddball, the fragile flower, but a lioness possessed of an energy and confidence he had never seen before. This was the wife he had dreamed of for himself, and although the sudden change in personality was somehow disquieting, he did nothing to stand in her way. Even her lovemaking had changed, becoming more exciting, more passionate; Thorn failed to realize that it was possibly an expression of desperation rather than desire.

Thorn's own work was all-consuming; his job in London put him in a pivotal position in dealing with the oil crisis, and the President relied more and more on his feedback from informal meetings with the Saudi Arabian oil sheiks. A trip was planned to Saudi Arabia in the weeks ahead, and he would be going alone since the Arabs took the presence of a wife in a touring entourage as a sign of weakness in a man.

"I don't understand it," said Katherine when he told her.

"It's a cultural thing," Thorn replied. "I'm going to their country, I have to respect it."

"Don't they have to respect you, too?"

"Of course they do."

"Well, I'm a cultural thing, too!"

"Katherine— "

"I've seen those sheiks. I've seen the women they buy. Wherever they go, they're followed by whores. Is that what they want you to do, too?"

"Frankly, I don't know."

They were in the bedroom and it was late. Not the time to start an argument.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Katherine quietly.

"It's an important trip, Kathy."

"So if they want you to sleep with a whore—"

"If they want me to sleep with their eunuch, I'll sleep with their eunuch. Do you know what's at stake here?"

They were at a standoff; Katherine slowly found her voice.

"Where am I in all this?" she asked quietly.

"You're here," he answered. "What you're doing is equally important"

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm trying to make you understand …"

"That you can save the world by doing what they say."

"That's one way of putting it"

She looked at him in a way that she never had before. Hard. Hateful. He felt weakened by her glare.

"I guess we're all whores, Jeremy," she said. "You're theirs and I'm yours. So let's just go to bed."

He spent a long time in the bathroom hoping she would be asleep by the time he came out. But she was not. She was awake and waiting, and he detected the scent of perfume in the air. He sat on the bed and gave her a long look; she returned a smile.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I do understand."

She took his face in her hands and pulled him close to her, locking him tightly in an embrace. Her breath became heavy and he began to make love to her, but she failed to move beneath him.

"Do it," she insisted. "Just do it to me. Don't go away."

And they made love in a way they had never made love before. Katherine refused to move, but refused to release him, urging him to completion with only her voice. When it was finished she released her hold and he moved off her, gazing at her with hurt and confusion.

"Go save the world now," she whispered. "Go do what they say."

Thorn did not sleep that night, sitting instead by the French doors in their room, gazing out into the moonlit night. He could see the forest from there, and it was unmoving, like a single entity in slumber.

Yet it was not slumbering, for he felt somehow as if it were staring back. They kept a pair of binoculars on the porch for bird watching; Thorn went out and got them, raising them to his eyes. At first all he saw was darkness. And then he spotted the eyes, gazing back. Two dark, glowing embers reflecting in the light of the moon; close-set, yellow, they were riveted on the house. It made him shudder and he lowered the binoculars, backing inside. He remained there, frozen for a moment, then forced himself to move; he padded silently down the long stairwell in his bare feet to the front door, then stepped quietly out. It was silent, even the noise of the crickets had stopped. Then he began to move again; as though pulled forward to the edge of the forest, where he paused, staring in. There was nothing. Not a sound. The two glowing embers were gone. Turning, his bare foot stepped on something soft and wet, and he sucked in his breath, stumbling to one side. It was a dead rabbit, still warm, its blood staining the grass where the head should have been.

The following morning he rose early, questioning Horton as to whether he was still setting traps for rabbits. Horton said he was not, and Thorn took him to the place where the dead carcass lay. It was buzzing with flies now, and Horton shooed them off as he knelt to examine it.

"What do you figure?" asked Thorn. "Do we have a predator in there?"

"Couldn't say, sir. But I doubt it."

He lifted the stiffened body, pointing to it with distaste.

"The head's what they leave, not what they take. Whatever killed this did it for fun."

Thorn instructed Horton to dispose of the body and to say nothing of it to anyone in the house. As they headed away, Horton stopped.

"I don't like that forest much, sir. And I don't like Mrs. Baylock taking your boy in there."

"Tell her not to," replied Thorn. "There's plenty to do here on the lawn."

That afternoon Horton did as he was told, and it brought the first indication to Thorn that something in the house was amiss. Mrs. Baylock sought him out in the drawing room that night and expressed irritation at having orders relayed to her through another member of the staff.

"It's not that I don't follow orders," she said indignantly, "it's just that I expect to receive them direct."

"I don't see what difference it makes," replied Thorn, and he was surprised at the anger that flashed in the woman's eyes.

"It's just the difference between a great house and a small house, Mr. Thorn. I get the feeling here that no one's in charge."

Turning on her heel, she left him alone; Thorn wondered what she meant. As far as the household was concerned, Katherine was in charge. But then again, he was away every day. Perhaps Mrs. Baylock was trying to tell him that things were not as they appeared. That Katherine was, in fact, not in control

In his cramped six-flight walk-up in Chelsea, Haber Jennings was awake, gazing at the growing gallery of Thorn portraits that adorned his darkroom wall. There were the funeral pictures, dark and moody, the close-up of the dog among the headstones, the close-up of the boy. And then there were the pictures of the birthday party: Katherine watching the nanny, the nanny in clown costume, all alone. It was the latter photograph that most interested him, for above the nanny's head there was a kind of blemish, a photographic imperfection that somehow added to the portent of the scene. It was a fleck of faulty emulsion, a vague haze that hung over the nanny, forming a halo around her head and neck. Though normally a flawed photo would have been discarded, this one was worth keeping. The knowledge of what happened immediately after it was taken gave the blemish a symbolic quality-the shapeless form like a shadow of doom. The final photograph was of her dead body suspended by a rope; a jarring reality to complete the montage. Altogether the Thorn gallery was a photographic study in the macabre. And it delighted Jennings. He had taken the same subjects that adorned the pages of Good Housekeeping and found something extraordinary in them, something different that no one had found before. He had also begun to research, using a contact in America to check into the Thorns' backgrounds for more information on them.

He found that Katherine had come from Russian immigrant parentage and that her natural father had died by his own hand. According to a back issue of the Minneapolis Times, he had leaped from the roof of a downtown Minneapolis office building. Katherine was born a month later and her mother remarried within a year, moving to New Hampshire with her new husband who gave the child his name. In a few interviews that Katherine had given out over the years there was never any mention of the stepfather, and Jennings speculated that she herself might not know the truth. It wasn't important, but somehow it gave Jennings an edge. Just one more delightful morsel, adding to the illusion that he was on the inside.

The only shot missing was that of the Ambassador himself, and Jennings hoped that tomorrow might be the day. There was an important wedding at All Saints Church which the Thorn family would be likely to attend. It wasn't Jennings' kind of setup, but he'd been lucky so far and perhaps would be again.

The day before the wedding Thorn dispensed with his customary Saturday chores at the Embassy and took Katherine for a drive in the country instead. He had been deeply disturbed by their argument and the strange lovemaking that had followed it, and be wanted to be alone with her to attempt to sort out what was going wrong. It appeared to be the right medicine, for she seemed relaxed for the first time in months, enjoying the drive, the simplicity of holding his hand as they wound their way through the English countryside. At noon they found themselves at Stratford-Upon-Avon and attended a matinee performance of King Lear; Katherine sat enrapt, the play moving her to tears. Lear's soliloquy over the death of his child: "Why does a dog, a rat, have breath … and Thou no breath at all …" struck a chord deep within her, and she wept openly, Thorn comforting her in the silence of the theater long after the play was over.

They returned to the car and drove on; Katherine held tightly to Thorn's hand, the release of emotions having created an intimacy that had long been absent in their relationship. She was vulnerable now, and as they stopped by a stream her tears came again. She spoke of her fears, her fears of losing Damien. She said that if anything happened to him, she would not be able to carry on.

"You won't lose him, Kathy," Thorn gently assured her. "Life couldn't be that cruel."

It was the first time he had called her Kathy in a long while, and it stung, somehow accentuating the distance that had come between them in recent months. They sat on the grass beneath a towering oak tree and Katherine's voice came in a whisper as she watched the movement of the stream.

"I'm so afraid," she said.

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Yet I fear everything."

A June bug was crawling beside her and she watched it wind its way across the vast landscape of grass.

"What's to fear, Katherine?"

"What isn't to fear?"

He gazed at her, waiting for more.

"I fear the good because it will go away … I fear the bad because I'm too weak to withstand it. I fear your success and I fear your failure. And I fear that I have little to do with either. I fear you'll become President of the United States, Jeremy … and you'll be saddled with a wife who isn't up to it."

"You've done beautifully," he reassured her.

"But I've hated it."

The admission was so simple, yet it had never been said. And it somehow cleansed them.

"Doesn't that shock you?" she asked

"A little," he replied.

"You know what I want for us more than anything?" she asked

He shook his head.

"I want for us to go back home."

He lay back in the grass, staring up into the leaves of the great oak.

"More than anything, Jeremy. To go where it's safe. To be where I belong."

A long silence followed; she lay beside him, nestled in his arms.

"It's safe here," she whispered. "In your arms."

"Yes."

She closed her eyes, her mouth upturning in a wistful smile.

"This is New Jersey, isn't it?" she whispered. "And isn't our little farm just over that hill? The one we've retired to?"

"It's a big hill, Kathy."

"I know. I know. We'll never get over it"

A slight breeze rose, rustling the leaves above them, and they watched in silence as rays of sunlight played on their faces.

"Maybe Damien will," whispered Thorn. "Maybe he's a budding young farmer."

"Not likely. He's your son through and through."

Thorn was unresponsive; his eyes were fixed on the leaves.

"He is, you know," Katherine mused. "It's as if I had nothing to do with him at all."

Thorn raised himself on one arm and regarded her saddened expression.

"Why do you say that?" he asked

She shrugged, not knowing quite how to explain it.

"He's his own man. He doesn't seem to need anybody."

"He just seems that way."

"He's not attached to me like a child is to his mother. Were you attached to your mother?"

"Yes."

"Are you attached to your wife?"

Thorn's eyes met hers and he caressed her face; she kissed his hand.

"I don't ever want to leave this spot," she whispered. "I want to stay here like this."

And she moved her face upward until her lips touched his.

"You know, Kathy," Thorn whispered after a long silence, "when I first met you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen."

She smiled at the memory and nodded her head.

"I still think so, Kathy," he whispered. "I still do."

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you so," he responded.

Her mouth tightened, moisture tracing the rims of her closed eyes.

"I almost wish you would never speak to me again," she whispered. "That's what I want to remember hearing you say."

And when she next opened her eyes, darkness was upon them.

When they returned to Pereford that night, everyone was asleep; they built a large fire in the fireplace, poured themselves wine, and sat snuggled together, deep in a soft leather couch.

"Can we do this in the White House?" Katherine asked.

"That's a long way off."

"Can we do this there?"

"Don't see why not"

"Can we be disgusting in the Lincoln bedroom?"

"Disgusting?"

"Carnal."

"In the Lincoln bedroom?"

"Right in his bed?"

"If Lincoln will move over, I guess."

"Oh, he can join in."

Thorn chuckled and pulled her close.

"Have to do something about the tourists, though," added Katherine. "They come through the Lincoln bedroom three times a day."

"We'll lock the door."

"Hell, no. Let's just charge them extra."

He laughed again, delighting in her mood.

"What a tour!" she whispered enthusiastically. "See the President screwing his wife."

"Kathy!"

"Kathy and Jerry, going at it And old Lincoln rolling in his grave."

"What's gotten into you?" he gasped.

"You," she hissed.

He gazed at her, somewhat perplexed.

"Is this you?" he asked.

"The real me."

"The real you?"

"Aren't I disgusting?"

She laughed at herself, and so did he. And for that day and night it was the way she had dreamed it could be.

The following morning dawned bright, and by 9:00 A.M. Thorn was dressed for the wedding and moving jauntily down the stairs.

"Kathy?" he called.

"Not ready," her voice replied from upstairs.

"We're going to be late."

"That's true."

"They might wait for us, you know. We ought to make an effort."

"I'm making an effort."

"Is Damien dressed?"

"Hope so."

"I don't want to be late."

"Ask Mrs. Horton to make us some toast."

"I don't want any toast."

"I want some toast."

"Hurry up."

Outside, Horton had already pulled the limousine into place; Thorn stepped out and gave him a wait-a-minute signal, then moved quickly to the kitchen.

Katherine hurried from her room, tying the sash on her white dress, and moved toward Damien's, calling ahead of her as she went.

"Let's go, Damien. We're all ready!"

She stopped in his room, for he was nowhere in sight. She heard the sound of bathwater running in the tub and quickly entered the bathroom. She gasped in dismay. Damien was still in the bath, Mrs. Baylock washing him as he played.

"Mrs. Baylock," moaned Katherine, "I told you to have him dressed and ready ... "

"If you don't mind, ma'am, I think he'd rather go to the park."

"I told you we were taking him to church!"

"Church is no place for a little boy on such a sunny day."

The woman was smiling, apparently feeling it didn't matter.

"Well, I'm sorry," replied Katherine evenly. "It's important that he go to church."

"He's too young for church. He'll just cause a fuss."

There was something in her tone and manner, perhaps too calm and innocent as she openly defied her, that set Katherine's teeth on edge.

"You don't seem to understand," said Katherine firmly. "I want him to accompany us to church."

Mrs. Baylock tensed, offended by Katherine's tone of voice. The child felt it too, moving closer to his nanny as she gazed up at his mother from her position on the floor.

"Has he been to church before?" Mrs. Baylock asked.

"I don't see what that has to do …"

"Kathy?!" called Thorn from downstairs.

"In a minute!" she called back.

She gazed harshly at Mrs. Baylock; the woman gazed back calmly.

"Get him dressed at once;" said Katherine.

"Excuse me for speaking my mind, but do you really expect a four-year-old to understand the gibberish of a Catholic wedding?"

Katherine sucked in her breath.

"I am Catholic, Mrs. Baylock, and so is my husband."

"I guess someone has to be," the woman retorted. Katherine stood stunned, outraged by the open defiance.

"You will have my son dressed," she said tightly, "and in the car in five minutes time. Or you can start looking for another job."

"Maybe I'll do that anyway."

"If you choose."

"I'll think about it."

"I hope you do."

There was a tense silence, then Katherine turned on her heel to leave.

"About going to church …?" Mrs. Baylock said.

"Yes?"

"You'll be sorry you took him."

Katherine left the room; within five minutes, Damien appeared, dressed and ready, at the car.

The drive carried them through Shepperton where the new highway was being constructed, creating a massive traffic jam, which added to the charged silence within the Thorn limousine.

"Something wrong?" asked Thorn as he observed Katherine's expression.

"Not really."

"You look angry."

"Didn't mean to."

"What's it about?"

"Nothing much."

"Come on. Out with it."

"Mrs. Baylock," said Katherine with a sigh.

"What about her?"

"We had some words."

"About what?"

"She wanted to take Damien to the park."

"Something wrong with that?"

"Instead of church."

"Can't say I disagree."

"She did everything she could to keep him from coming."

"She's probably lonely without him."

"I don't know if that's good."

Thorn shrugged, gazing at the construction beside' the car as they inched along in the snarled line of traffic.

"Can't we get around this, Horton?" he asked.

"No, sir," Horton replied, "but if you don't mind, I'd like to speak my piece about Mrs. Baylock."

Thorn and Katherine exchanged a glance, surprised at Horton's request.

"Speak away," said Thorn.

"I hate to do it around the little one."

Katherine looked at Damien, who was playing with the laces of his new shoes and apparently oblivious of the conversation.

"It's all right," said Katherine.

"I think she's a bad influence," said Horton. "She's got no respect for the rules of the house."

"What rules?" asked Thorn.

"I didn't want to go into specifics, sir."

"Please."

"Well, for one thing, it's accepted that the staff eats meals together and takes turns washing the dishes."

Thorn glanced at Katherine. Obviously it was nothing serious.

"She never eats with us," continued Horton. "She apparently comes down when we're all finished and takes a meal by herself."

"I see," said Thorn, feigning concern.

"And she leaves her dishes for the morning help to do."

"I think we can ask her to stop that"

"It's also expected that after lights-out the staff stays inside," continued Horton, "and I've seen her on more than one occasion in the small hours of the morning going into the forest outside. It was still dark out. And she was definitely walking quiet so no one would hear."

The Thorns pondered all this, both puzzled.

"Seems strange …" muttered Thorn.

"This part's indelicate and you'll have to excuse me," continued Horton. "But we've noticed she doesn't use any bathroom paper. By the toilet, you know? We haven't had to change it since she arrived."

In the back seat, the Thorns again glanced at each other. The story was getting bizarre.

"I add two and two," said Horton. "I think she does it in the forest. And I think that's uncivilized. It is if you ask me."

There followed a silence; the Thorns were perplexed.

"One more thing, sir. One more thing that's very wrong."

"What's that, Horton?" asked Thorn.

"She uses the telephone and she calls long distance to Rome."

Finished with what he had to say, Horton resumed his driving, finding a gap in the traffic and quickly pulling away. As the landscape moved by them, Katherine and Thorn pondered in silence, eventually finding each other's eyes.

"She was openly defiant today," said Katherine.

"You want to dismiss her?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

Thorn shrugged.

"Damien seems to enjoy her."

"I know."

"That counts for something."

"Yes," sighed Katherine. "I guess it does."

"You can let her go if you want."

Katherine paused, gazing out the window.

"I think perhaps she'll go on her own."

Sitting between them, Damien stared at the floor, his eyes unmoving as they sailed toward town.

All Saints Church was a mammoth building. Seventeenth-century architecture, melded with eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth in an ongoing flow of construction. The massive front doors were always open, the inside lighted day and night. Today the staircase leading to the doors was knee-deep in iris, and morning-coated ushers creating a stately path. The event had brought a crowd of people, some of them carrying picket signs with Communist party slogans, obvious defectors from a rally in Piccadilly who preferred to gawk here instead. The one great leveler for people of all stations and political persuasion was the presence of celebrities. People were gathered there in swarms; the crowd was beginning to burgeon, and security guards were having difficulty holding them back. It delayed the proceedings, and the arriving limousines had to queue up in single file and wait until they were directly in front of the church before they could discharge their passengers.

The Thorn limousine was a late arrival, taking its position near the end of the block. The security forces were thin here, and people crowded around the car, staring in unabashedly. As they inched through, the mob thickened, and Damien, who had dozed, began to rouse, startled and confused by the faces peering in. Katherine pulled him close, gazing uneasily ahead, but the bodies around them multiplied and began to push; the grotesque face of a hydrocephalic shoved close to the window beside Katherine and began to knock as though trying to get inside.

She turned to the face and flinched, for the man had begun to laugh, emitting a cascade of drool.

"Good lord," she gasped. "What is going on?"

"It's jammed up here for a good long block," replied Horton.

"Can't you get around it?" Katherine asked.

"We're bumper to bumper, front and back."

The knocking continued beside her and she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the sound, but it only grew, as others outside became amused by it and began to knock on the other windows as well.

"Look up ahead," said Horton. "Communists."

"Can't we get out of here?" begged Katherine.

And beside her Damien's eyes began to register fear, picking up his mother's alarm.

"It's all right … it's all right," soothed Thorn, seeing the fear in the child's eyes. '"These people can't hurt us, they just want to see who's inside."

But the child's eyes began to widen, and they were not focused on the people but on a point high above them; the towering spires of the church.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Damien," said Thorn. "We're just going to a wedding."

But the child's fear grew, his face gripped with tension as they inched inexorably closer to the massive, towering church.

"Damien …"

Thorn glanced at Katherine, directing her eyes to the child. His face was stony, his body tightening as the crowds slid away and the cathedral suddenly loomed into view.

"It's all right, Damien," whispered Katherine, "the people are gone …"

But his eyes were riveted to the church, growing wider with each moment.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Thorn quickly.

"I don't know."

"What is it, Damien?"

"He's frightened to death."

Katherine gave him her hand and he clutched at it, gazing desperately into her eyes.

"It's a church, darling," said Katherine intensely.

As the boy turned, his lips went dry; the panic welling up within him as he began to pant, his face draining of color.

"My God," gasped Katherine.

"Is he ill?"

"He's like ice. He's cold as ice!"

The limousine stopped suddenly in front of the church and the door swung open; the usher's hand reaching in for Damien sent him into instant panic. Grabbing at Katherine's dress, he clung hard, beginning to whimper with fear.

"Damien!" cried Katherine. "Damien!"

As she tried to pull him off, he clung tighter, becoming more desperate as she fought to pull him off.

"Jeremy!" cried Katherine.

"Damien!" shouted Thorn.

"He's tearing my dress!"

Thorn reached for him, pulling forcefully, the child fighting harder to cling to his mother, his hands clawing her face and pulling her hair in his desperation to hold on.

"Help! God!" screamed Katherine.

"Damien!" shouted Thorn as he pulled futilely on the child. "Damien! Let go!"

As the child began to scream in terror, a crowd gathered around to watch their desperate struggle. Trying to help, Horton raced from the front seat, grabbing Damien and trying to pull him out the door. But the child had become an animal, shrieking as his fingers dug deep into Katherine's face and head, ripping a handful of hair.

"Get him off!" she screamed.

In terror she began beating at him, trying to wrest the fingers that had dug into her eye. In a sudden move, Thorn ripped Damien off her, grabbing him in a bear hug and pinning his arms to his side.

"Drivel" he panted to Horton. "Get out of here!"

And as the child struggled, Horton ran to the front seat, slamming doors as he went; the limousine lurched forward suddenly as it pulled quickly away from the curb.

"My God." sobbed Katherine, holding her head, "my ... God .... "

And as the limousine sped away, the child's struggling slowly ceased, his head falling back in utter exhaustion. Horton swerved back onto the highway, and in a few moments, all was silent. Damien sat with glazed eyes, his face wet with perspiration; Thorn still clutched him in his arms, gazing fearfully ahead. Beside him, Katherine was in a state of shock, her hair pulled and torn, one eye swollen and nearly shut. They drove home in silence. No one dared to speak.

When they arrived at Pereford, they took Damien to his room and sat with him in silence as he stared out the window. His forehead was cool, so there was no need for a doctor. But he would not look at them; fearful, himself, of what he had done.

'I'll take care of him," Mrs. Baylock said quietly as she entered the room.

As Damien turned and saw her, his entire posture registered relief.

"He had a fright," Katherine said to the woman.

"He doesn't like church," replied the woman. "He wanted to go to the park instead."

"He became … wild," said Thorn.

"He was angry," said Mrs. Baylock. And she moved forward, lifting him into her arms. He clung to her. Like a child to his mother. The Thorns watched in silence. And then they slowly left the room.

"There's somethin' wrong," said Horton to his wife.

It was night now and they were in the kitchen, she having listened in silence as he recounted the day's events.

"There's somethin' wrong with that Mrs. Baylock," he continued, "and there's somethin' wrong with that boy, and there's somethin' wrong with this house."

"You're making too much of it," she replied.

"If you'd seen it, you'd know what I'm saying."

"A child's tantrum."

"An animal's tantrum."

"He's spirited, that's all."

"Since when?"

She shook her head as if to dismiss it, taking a pile of vegetables from the refrigerator and beginning to cut them into small pieces.

"Ever looked into them eyes?" asked Horton. "It's the same as lookin' into an animal's. They just watch. They wait. They know somethin' you don't know. They been someplace you never been."

"You and your hobgoblins," she muttered as she cut.

"You wait and see," assured Horton. "Something bad's happening here."

"Something bad is happening everywhere."

"I don't like it," he said darkly. 'I'm thinking we should leave."

At the same moment the Thorns were on the patio. It was late now and Damien was asleep; the house was quiet and dark around them. Classical music was playing softly on the hi-fi, and they sat without speaking, gazing out into the night Katherine's face was swollen and bruised, and she methodically bathed her injured eye with a cloth which she dipped from time to time into a bowl of warm water before her. They had not uttered a word since the events of the afternoon, but merely shared one another's presence. The fear that passed between them was a fear that other parents had known: the first realization that there was something wrong with their child. It crystallized in silence, but it was not real unless voiced.

Katherine tested the bowl of water with her hand, and, finding it cold, she wrung the cloth out, pushing it away. The movement caused Thorn to gaze at her, and he waited until she was aware of it.

"Sure you don't want to call a doctor?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head.

"Just a few scratches."

"I mean ... for Damien," said Thorn.

All she could offer was a helpless shrug.

"What would we tell him?" she whispered.

"We don't have to tell him anything. Just … have him examine him."

"He had a checkup just last month. There's nothing wrong with him. He's never been sick a day in his life."

Thorn nodded, pondering it.

"He never has, has he?" he remarked curiously.

"No."

"That's strange, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"I think so."

His tone was odd and she turned to look at him. Their eyes held, Katherine waiting for him to continue.

"I mean … no measles or mumps … or chickenpox. Not even a runny nose or a cough. Or a cold."

"So?" she asked defensively.

"I just ... think it's unusual."

"I don't."

"I do."

"He comes from healthy stock."

Thorn was stopped, and a knot within him tightened. The secret was still there. Down in the pit of his stomach. It had never left him, in all these years, but mostly, he had felt justified about it; guilty for the deception, but soothed by all the happiness it had brought. When things were going well, it was easy to hold it down, keep it dormant. But now it was somehow becoming important, and he felt it burgeoning in him as though it would clog his throat.

"If your family or mine," continued Katherine, "had a history of … psychosis, mental disorder … then frankly I'd worry about what happened today."

He looked at her, then averted his eyes.

"But I've been thinking about it," she continued, "and I know it's all right. He's a fine, healthy boy. Healthy ancestry right up and down both our family trees."

Unable to look at her, Thorn slowly nodded.

"He had a fright, that's all," added Katherine. "Just a … bad moment. Surely every child is entitled to that."

Thorn nodded again, and, with great fatigue, rubbed his forehead. Inside he longed to tell her, have it out in the open. But it was too late. The deception had gone on too long. She would hate him for it. She might even hate the child. It was too late. She must never know.

"I've been thinking about Mrs. Baylock," said Katherine.

"Yes?"

'I've been thinking we should keep her."

"She seemed very nice today," said Thorn quietly.

"Damien is having anxieties. Maybe because he heard us talking about her in the car."

"Yes," replied Thorn.

It made sense. It could have caused the fear in the car. They thought he wasn't listening, but obviously he was taking it all in. The thought of losing her had filled him with terror.

"Yes," Thorn said again, and his voice was filled with hope.

"I'd like to give her other duties," said Katherine. "So she'll be away from home for a while in the day. Maybe have her do the afternoon shopping so I can start spending more time with Damien."

"Who does it now? The shopping."

"Mrs. Horton."

"Will she mind giving it up?"

"I don't know. But I want to spend more time with Damien."

"I think that's wise."

They fell silent again, and Katherine turned away.

"I think that's good," reiterated Thorn. "I think that's wise."

For an instant he felt that everything was going to be all right. And then he saw that Katherine was crying. It tore at him, and he watched, helpless to comfort her.

"You were right, Kathy," he whispered. "Damien heard us talking about firing her. That's all it was. It was as simple as that."

"I pray," she responded in a quivering voice.

"Of course …" he whispered. "That's all it was."

She nodded, and when the tears had subsided, she stood, looking up at the darkened house.

"Well," she said, "the best thing to do with a bad day is to end it. I'm going up to bed."

"I'll just sit out here for a while. I'll be up in a minute."

Her footsteps faded behind him, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

As he gazed out into the forest, he saw instead the hospital in Rome; saw himself there, standing before a window, agreeing to take the child. Why had he not asked more about the mother? Who was she? Where had she come from? Who was the father, and why was he not there? Over the years he had made certain assumptions and they had served to calm his fears. Damien's real mother was probably a peasant girl, a girl of the Church, therefore delivering her child in a Catholic hospital. It was an expensive hospital and she wouldn't have been there without that kind of connection. She was probably an orphan herself, thus no family, and the child was born out of wedlock, this the reason no father was on hand. What else was there to know? What else could have mattered? The child was beautiful and alert, described as "perfect in every way."

Thorn was unaccustomed to doubting himself, to accusing himself; his mind struggled for reassurance that what he had done was right. He had been confused and desperate at the time. He had been vulnerable, an easy prey to suggestion. Could it possibly have been wrong? Could there have been more he needed to know?

The answers to those questions would never be known to Thorn. Only a handful of people knew them and by now they were scattered across the globe. There was Sister Teresa, Father Spilletto, and Father Tassone. Only they knew. It was for their consciences alone. In darkness of that long-distant night they had worked in feverish silence, in the tension and honor of having been chosen. In all of earth's history it had been attempted just twice before, and they knew that, this time, it must not fail. It was all in their hands, just the three of them, and it had moved like clockwork, and no one had known. After the birth, it was Sister Teresa who prepared the impostor, depilating his arms and forehead, powdering him dry so he would look presentable when Thorn was bought up to view. The hair on his head was thick, as they had hoped, and she used a hairdryer to fluff it, first checking the scalp to make sure the birthmark was there. Thorn would never see Sister Teresa, nor would he see the diminutive Father Tassone who was at work in the basement crating two bodies to be immediately shipped away. The first body was that of Thorn's child, silenced before it uttered its first cry; the second was that of the animal, the surrogate mother of the one who survived. Outside, a truck was waiting to carry the bodies to Cerveteri, wherein the silence of Cimitero di Sant' Angelo, gravediggers waited beneath the shrine.

The plan had been born of diabolical communion and Spilletto was in charge, having chosen his accomplices with the utmost care. He was satisfied with Sister Teresa, but in the final moments became concerned about Tassone. The diminutive scholar was devout, but his belief was born of fear, and on the last day he demonstrated an instability that gave Spilletto pause. Tassone was eager, but his eagerness was self-oriented, a desperation to prove he was worthy of the job. He had lost sight of the significance of what they were doing, preoccupied instead with the importance of his own role. The self-consciousness led to anxiety, and Spilletto came close to dismissing Tassone. If one of them failed, all three would be held responsible. And more important, it could not be attempted again for another thousand years.

In the end, Tassone proved himself, performing his job with dedication and dispatch, even handling a crisis that none of them anticipated. The child was not yet dead and made a sound within his crate as it was being put onto the truck. Quickly removing the crate, Tassone returned with it to the hospital basement and himself made certain that no cry would ever come again. It had shaken him. Deeply. But he had done it, and that was all that mattered.

Around them that night in the hospital, all things appeared to be normal; doctors and nurses carrying on their routine without the slightest knowledge of what was happening in their midst. It had been performed with discretion and exactitude, and no one, especially not Thorn, had ever had a clue.

As he sat now on his patio, gazing out into the night, Thorn realized that the Pereford forest no longer was foreboding to him. He did not have the feeling, as before, that there was something watching him from within. It was peaceful now, the crickets and frogs creating their din. And it was relaxing, somehow reassuring, that life around him was normal. His eyes shifted toward the house, traveling upward to Damien's window. It was illuminated by a nightlight, and Thorn speculated on the child's face in the peacefulness of sleep. It would be the right vision to end this frightening day with, and he rose, switching off a lamp and moving into the darkened house.

It was pitch black inside and the air seemed to ring with silence. Thorn felt his way toward the stairs. There, he groped for a light switch, and finding none, proceeded silently upward, until he had reached the landing. He had never seen the house this dark, and realized he must have been outside, lost in thought, for a considerable time. Around him, he could hear the sound of slumbered breathing, and he walked quietly, feeling his way along the wall. His hand hit a light switch and he flicked it, but it did not work; he continued on, turning a bend in the long, angular hall. Ahead he could see Damien's room, a faint shaft of light coming from under the door. But be suddenly froze, for he thought he heard a sound. It was a kind of vibration, a low rumble, gone before he could identify it, replaced only by the silent atmosphere of the hall. He prepared to step forward, but the sound came again, louder this time, causing his heart to start pounding. Then he looked down and saw the eyes. With a sudden gasp, he flattened himself against the wall, the growl rising in intensity as a dog materialized from the darkness and stood guard before the child's door. With his breath coming shallow, Thorn stood petrified, the guttural sound rising, the eyes glaring back.

"Whoa … whoa …" uttered Thorn on a shaking breath, and his voice caused the animal to coil tighter, as if ready to spring.

"Quiet down, now," said Mrs. Baylock as she appeared from her room. "This is the master of the house."

And the dog fell silent, the drama suddenly ended. Mrs. Baylock touched a light switch and the hall was instantly illuminated, leaving Thorn breathless, staring down at the dog.

"What ... is this?" he gasped.

"Sir?" asked Mrs. Baylock casually.

"This dog."

"Shepherd, I think. Isn't he beautiful? We found him in the forest."

The dog lay at her feet now, suddenly unconcerned.

"Who gave you permission …?"

"I thought we could use a good watchdog, and the boy absolutely loves him."

Thorn was still shaken, standing stiffly against the wall, and Mrs. Baylock could not hide her amusement.

"Gave you a fright, did he?"

"Yes."

"See how good he is? As a watchdog, I mean? Believe me, you'll be grateful to have him here when you're gone."

"When I'm gone?" asked Thorn.

"On your trip. Aren't you going to Saudi Arabia?"

"How do you know about Saudi Arabia?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I didn't know it was a secret."

"I haven't told anybody here."

"It was Mrs. Horton told me."

Thorn nodded, his eyes moving again toward the dog.

"He won't be any trouble," assured the woman. "We're only going to feed him scraps …"

"I don't want him here," snapped Thorn.

She gazed at him with surprise. "You don't like dogs?"

"When I want a dog, I'll choose it."

'"The boy's taken quite a fancy to it, sir, and I think he needs it."

"I'll decide when he needs a dog."

"Children can count on animals, sir. No matter what."

She gazed at him as though there was something else she was trying to convey.

"Are you ... trying to tell me something?"

"I wouldn't presume to, sir."

But the way she looked at him made it plain.

"If you have something to say, Mrs. Baylock, I'd like to hear it."

"I shouldn't, sir. You've enough on your mind …"

"I said I'd like to hear it."

"Just that the child seems lonely."

"Why should he be lonely?"

"His mother doesn't seem to accept him."

Thorn stiffened, affronted by the remark.

"You see?" she said, "I shouldn't have spoken."

"Doesn't accept him?"

"She doesn't seem to like him. And he feels it, too."

Thorn was speechless, not knowing what to say.

"Sometimes I think all he has is me," the woman added.

"I think you're mistaken."

"And now he has this dog. He loves this dog. For his sake, don't take it away."

Thorn gazed down at the massive animal and shook his head. "I don't like this dog," he said. "Tomorrow take him to the pound."

"The pound?" she gasped.

"The Humane Society."

"They kill them there!"

"Just get him out, then. Tomorrow I want him gone."

Mrs. Baylock's face hardened and Thorn turned away. The woman and the dog watched him move away down the long hall, and their eyes burned with hatred.