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Reprisal by F. Paul Wilson

PART I

NOW

ONE

Queens, New York

Rain coming.

Mr. Veilleur could feel the approaching summer storm in his bones as he sat in a shady corner of St. Ann's Cemetery in Bay side. He had the place to himself. In fact, he seemed to have most of the five boroughs to himself. Labor Day weekend. And a hot one. Anyone who could afford to had fled upstate or to the Long Island beaches. The rest were inside, slumped before their air conditioners. Even the homeless were off the streets, crouched in the relative cool of the subways. The sun poured liquid fire through the hazy midday sky. Not a cloud in sight. But here in the shade of this leaning oak, Mr. Veilleur knew the weather was going to change soon, could read it from the worsening ache in his knees, hips, and back.

Other things were going to change as well. Everything, perhaps. And all for the worse.

He had .been making sporadic trips to this corner of the cemetery since he had first sensed the wrongness here. That had been on a snowy winter night five years ago. It had taken him a while, but he had finally located the spot. A grave, which was perfectly natural, this being a cemetery. This grave was not like the others, however. This one had no marker. But something else made this grave special: Nothing would grow over it.

Through the past five years, Mr. Veilleur had seen the cemetery's gardeners try to seed it, sod it, even plant it with various ground covers like periwinkle, pachysandra, and ivy. They took root well all around, but nothing survived in the four-foot oblong patch over the grave.

Of course, they didn't know it was a grave. Only Mr. Veilleur and the one who had dug the hole knew that. And surely one other.

Mr. Veilleur did not come here often. Travel was not easy for him, even to another part of the city he had called home since the end of World War II. Gone were the days when he walked where he wished, fearing no one. Now his eyes were bad; his back was stiff and canted forward; he leaned on a cane when he walked, and he walked slowly. He had the body of a man in his eighties and he had to take appropriate precautions.

Age had not dampened his curiosity, however. He didn't know who had dug the grave or who was in it. But whoever lay down there below the dirt and rocks and weeds had been touched by the Enemy.

The Enemy had been growing steadily stronger for more than two decades now. But growing carefully, staying hidden. Why? There was no one to oppose him. What was he waiting for? A sign? A particular event? Perhaps the one buried below was part of the answer. Perhaps the occupant had nothing to do with the Enemy's quiescence.

No matter—as long as the Enemy remained inactive. For the longer the Enemy delayed, the closer Mr. Veilleur would be to reaching the end of his days. And then he would be spared witnessing the chaotic horrors to come.

A shadow fell across him and a sudden gust of wind chilled the perspiration that coated his skin. He looked up. Clouds were moving in, obscuring the sun. Time to go.

He stood and stared one last time at the bare dirt over the unmarked grave. He knew he would be back again. And again. Too many questions about this grave and its occupant. He sensed unfinished business here.

Because the grave's occupant did not rest easy. Did not, in fact, rest at all.

Mr. Veilleur turned and made his unsteady way out of St. Ann's Cemetery. It would be good to get back to the cool apartment and get his feet up and have a glass of iced tea. He tried to believe that his wife had missed him during his absence, but with her mind the way it was, Magda probably hadn't even realized he was gone.

TWO

Pendleton, North Carolina

Conway Street was nearly at a standstill. Like a parking lot. Between fitful crawls, Will Ryerson idled his ancient Impala convertible in the stagnant traffic and watched the heat gauge. It was staying well in the safe range.

He patted the dash. Good girl.

He glanced at his watch. He'd already had a late start for work this morning, and this was going to make him later. He took a deep breath. So what? The grass on the north campus at Darnell University could wait a few extra minutes for its weekly trim. Only problem was, he was in charge of the work crews this morning, so if he didn't get there, J.B. would have to get things rolling. And J.B. had enough to do. That was why he had recently promoted Will.

Will Ryerson is moving up in the world.

He smiled at the thought. He'd always wanted an academic life, to spend his work days on the campus of a great university. Well, for the last three years or so, his wish had come true. Except he didn't travel there every day to immerse himself in the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the ages; he came to tend the grounds.

Of course, with his degrees, he could have been at Darnell as an academic, but proving his qualifications would require him to reveal his past, and he couldn't do that.

He glanced in the rearview mirror at his long, salt-and-pepper hair, still wet from his morning shower, pulled tight to the back, his scarred forehead, bent nose, and full, graying beard. Only the bright blue eyes of his former self remained. If his mother were still alive, even she'd have trouble recognizing him now.

He peered ahead. Had to be an accident somewhere up there. Either that or the road department had picked the town's so-called a.m. rush hour to do some street repairs. Will had grown up in a real city, the city with the king—no, the emperor of rush hours, and this little bottleneck couldn't hold a candle to that.

He killed time by reading bumper stickers. Most of them were religious, including a fair number of worn "PTL CLUB" stickers, and others like, born again, listen for the shout—HE'S coming AGAIN, YOUR GOD DEAD? TRY MINE: JESUS LIVES, A CLOSE

encounter of the best kind: jesus, and Will's favorite, jesus

IS COMING AGAIN AND BOY IS HE PISSED.

I can dig that, Will thought.

He considered turning on the radio but wasn't in the mood for the ubiquitous country music or the "new music" that dominated the university's student station, so he listened to the engine as it idled in the press. A quarter-century-old, gas-guzzling V-8 but it purred like a week-old kitten. It had taken him a while, but he'd finally got the timing right.

Will noticed that the right lane seemed to be inching forward faster than the left, the one he was in. When a space opened up next to him, he eased over toward the curb and made slightly better time for half a block. Then he came to a dead stop along with everybody else.

Big deal. He'd picked up fifty feet over his old spot in the left lane. Hardly worth the trouble. He peered ahead to see if the next side street was one he could use to detour around the congestion. He couldn't make out the name on the sign. He glanced to his right and froze.

There was a telephone booth on the sidewalk not six feet from the passenger door of his car.

Usually he could spot one blocks away, but this one had been hidden by the unusually large knot of people clustered at the bus stop next to it. He'd missed it completely.

Panic gripped the center of Will's chest and twisted. How close was he? Too close. How long had he been stopped? Too long. He couldn't stay here. He didn't need much, just half a car length forward or back, but he had to move, had to get away from that phone.