"You think it's true?" she said.

"Of course it's true!" Martin said from the driver's seat. "The Spirit is guiding us, pointing us along the Path!"

"I believe the cloning part is true," Mr. Veilleur said to her, ignoring Martin. "As for this Satan-Antichrist business"—he shrugged—"I've told you what I think of that. But this cloning… I've never heard of such a thing, or even dreamed it might be possible. Such a man might well provide a gateway. But why now? What is so special about now, this time, that it should be chosen?"

"I don't know," Grace said.

Mr. Veilleur half turned toward her, his blue eyes intent.

"You say you know this man?"

Grace nodded. "For about ten years, yes."

"When was he born?"

Grace couldn't see how that mattered, but she tried to remember. She knew Jim's birthday was in January. Carol always complained that it fell so soon after Christmas, when she had already exhausted all her gift ideas, and he was the same age as Carol, so that would make it…

"January 1942. The sixth, I believe."

"The Epiphany!" The car swerved slightly as Martin shouted from the front. "Little Christmas!"

"Is that important?" Grace said.

"I don't know," Martin replied in a softer, more thoughtful voice. "It must be, but I don't know why."

"January sixth," Mr. Veilleur said, frowning. "That would mean that he was conceived—or began incubation, as it were—somewhere in late April or… early… May of 1941…"

His voice trailed off as his eyes widened briefly, then narrowed.

"Is that date significant?" she asked.

"Someone… something… died then. Or so I'd thought."

His face settled into fierce, grim lines.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head brusquely once. "Nothing." Then once more. "Everything."

Grace glanced out the window and saw the sign for the Glen Cove exit. The dread began to grow in her. Monroe was less than ten miles north of here.

7

Jim gently pulled Carol aside in the hall just outside the library.

"Why did you bring them here?"

He was annoyed at her for leading Bill and, of all people, Ma, out to the mansion. He knew she meant well, but he didn't feel like seeing anybody today. He didn't know when he would ever feel like having company again.

"It's just a way of showing we love you," she said, running a fingertip along his jawline, sending a chill down his body. "Of saying that none of this matters."

Jim had to admit he was warmed by the thought, but he still felt somehow… ashamed. He knew he had done nothing wrong. Being the clone of a Nobel prizewinner was not like having it become public knowledge that you had the syph or the like, yet he could not deny that he felt embarrassed—and, yes, diminished—by the truth.

And a bit paranoid too. Had Bill's handshake been just a bit less firm than he remembered in the past? Had Ma pulled away just a little too quickly when she had hugged him on arriving today? Or was he just looking for things? Was he expecting everyone else to treat him differently because of how differently he now saw himself?

He watched Carol go off toward the kitchen to make coffee, then he took a deep breath and headed for the library. He couldn't hide forever. Maybe the couple-three belts of Jack Daniel's he'd had earlier would help him handle this. As he entered, he heard the conversation between Bill and Ma die out.

Ma… he didn't have a real Ma, did he?

Was she looking at him strangely? He felt like telling her that he wasn't about to sprout another head, but that would blow this whole cool, calm, collected, life-is-going-on-as-usual scene. Instead he put on a smile.

"So," he said, as casually as he could, "what's new?"

8

"Aren't you coming?" Martin said through the open side window of the car.

"Grace shook her head. "No… I can't. She's my niece."

"That may be true," Martin said, "but this is the Lord's war. You've got to stand up and be counted sooner or later."

The authority Brother Martin had given him seemed to have gone to his head.

"I'm with the Lord," she said, "but I can't picket my niece's home. I just can't."

Grace shut her eyes to block out the sight of the placard-carrying Chosen walking toward the little white cottage that had been her brother Henry's home before he and Ellen had been killed. Too many lunches and dinners and afternoon cups of tea with Ellen, plus half a dozen years of living there and making a home for her dear, orphaned Carol while she commuted to college at Stony Brook. Too many memories there to allow her to parade in front of it and call Carol's husband the Antichrist, even if it was true.

But looking at that familiar little cottage sitting there in the light of day, she wondered how such a thing could possibly be true.

"Where are the reporters?" Martin said, his eyes flicking up and down the street. "I called all five local TV stations, the big papers, and the local rag… what's it called?"

"The Express, " Grace said.

"Right. You'd think someone would have sent a crew out here to cover this!"

"It's Sunday, after all," Mr. Veilleur said. "You're probably far ahead of them. You moved pretty fast."

"Yes, we did, didn't we?" he said with a note of satisfaction. "But we can't wait forever, and it'll probably be better if we're on line and marching when they arrive. Are you sure, Grace?"

"I can't. Please don't ask me any more."

"How about you?" Martin said, opening the door next to Mr. Veilleur. "Time for you to earn your keep."

Mr. Veilleur smiled. "Don't make me laugh."

Martin's expression turned fierce.

"Listen, you! Either get out and walk that picket line or get out and start walking back to the city. I'm not having any deadweight around here!"

Grace didn't have time to express her shock at Martin's rudeness. In a blur of motion Mr. Veilleur's big hand darted out, took hold of Martin's tie, and dragged his head and shoulders into the car.

"I will not be spoken to that way," he said in a low voice.

Grace could not see Mr. Veilleur's eyes, but Martin could. She saw his face blanch.

"Okay, okay," he said quickly. "Have it your way."

Neither Grace nor Mr. Veilleur said anything as they watched Martin hurry over to the cottage. The Chosen were lined up on the walk before the house. She watched Martin pass through them and stride to the front door. He knocked a few times but there was no answer. She saw him try the knob. The door swung open. Grace almost cried out as she saw Martin go inside with a group of the others trailing behind. They shouldn't be in there! Not in Henry's old house!

It took maybe fifteen minutes but seemed like hours before Martin reappeared, hurrying toward the car. His face was flushed, his eyes feverish as he slipped back in behind the wheel.

"No one's home, but I think we found the proof we need!"

"Proof?" Mr. Veilleur said.

"Yes! Books on Satanism, the occult! He's obviously been studying them!"

Mr. Veilleur's smile was wry. "If he's this Antichrist you talk about—the Devil himself or his offspring—one would think he'd already be intimately familiar with all there is to know about Satanism."

Martin only paused for a beat. "Yes, well, whatever… it establishes a link between this James Stevens and the Devil."

"Where are the books?" Mr. Veilleur asked.

"I told them to destroy them." He turned to Grace. "Now, do you know how to get to this mansion he inherited?"

"Of course," she said. "It's on the waterfront. Everybody in town knows the Hanley mansion. Why?"

"Because if he's not here, he's probably holed up there."

"Maybe he left town," Grace said hopefully.

"No," Martin said slowly. "He's here. I can feel the evil in the air. Can't you?"