Chapter Twenty-one

So she had met Mr. Apple. Now she sobbed aloud and twisted the beads in her hands as she strove
toward the tabernacle, wishing she could have the Host, could some­how hold Him before her as a
protecting shield. Her vision of the altar blurred and fluttered. From the depths of the church came avid
scuttling. She clapped her hands to her ears, scattering beads across the granite floor. Her mind screamed
frantically at her, Run, for the love of God, run.
People, hundreds of them, were filtering into the church from the side doors, from the crypt, filling the
aisles and then the pews. There were shuffles and murmured apologies, and an occasional stifled cough.
"My God, protect me!" Her own voice was a cracking moan. Hard upon her words came another sound,
soft, stifled, gleeful. "You laugh," she shouted into the dark. "You're laughing at me!"
She swept her hair out of her eyes.
"Don't be afraid, Patricia. I've told you that you won't be hurt."
"You must be crazy, all of you!"
"We're activating your subconscious minds, yours and Jonathan's. The church, the night—all the trappings
are to help your imaginations create a new reality."
"You think you're conjuring evil spirits, don't you, Mr. Apple? This is a black mass."
"Nonsense. It has nothing to do with superstition."
"It's blasphemy and I'll have no part of it!"
"You don't know what you're saying. You belong to us, Patricia. You always have and you always will.
Your parents gave you to the Church. Our Church."
How dare he talk about her parents! They could never even have known this vicious old man. They
would never have allowed him to touch their daughter, much less ... do the things they did at a black mass.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou—"
The laughter again. Pitying laughter. Embarrassed.
Mr. Apple wanted to make others as foul as he was. Evil is always missionary.
Patricia clasped her hands tightly, huddling against the crowd behind her. She was soaked through from
her run down the wet Queens streets. Behind her she heard a heavy, scraping tread. She moaned.
The congregation began very softly to clap. The sound was terrible because it was so gentle; a
quickening, savage rhythm as intimate as the rustle of leaves.
Patricia raised her eyes until she was again gazing at the tabernacle. Inside lay the living Mystery itself,
the God to whom she had given her loyalty and love. She needed intercession now. His customary silence
had to end; this was the time and place for a miracle. "Send the Archangel Michael," she whispered.
"It's starting, Patricia. Don't be afraid."
"Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry—"
"Help her, Mary." "I will try."
Mary was no Catholic nun—Patricia knew that by the deep red of her habit. There was no red habit in
the Church. She came sweeping up, now pale and agitated, floating in oceans of wine-red silk, her face
framed by starched black linen. A real nun's wimple would be white. A hand came around Patricia's
shoulder and starch crackled in her ear. "Now, now, darling, you let me help you."
"Don't touch me!"
"Patricia, you don't understand. You're under hypnosis and it's made you forget your role. You must trust
us. This is to create something beautiful and important for the world."
"You're committing an act of desecration. You're a Cath­olic. We've been to Mass together—I've seen
you pray!"
"I'm going to hold a cloth over your nose and mouth, and I want you to breathe deeply."
When Mary's face loomed close, smiling, Patricia almost recognized, almost remembered—but the place
her sup­posedly new friend actually had in her past was, like Jona­than's, just beyond the reach of her
conscious mind. Mary placed a golden bowl full of clear blue liquid on the floor and dipped a cloth in it. She
took Patricia's head in her hands and held up her face. Her arms were strong; Patricia lacked the power to
resist.
The cloth obscured her vision. She held her breath. "Now, Patricia, breathe. Come on, darling." Patricia
held on. She resolved to die just as she was, simply by not breathing again. Not ever.
A male voice rumbled behind her. "We can't hold him!"
Another: "Franklin, this is hopeless. You can't make this work with both of them uncooperative."
"Quiet, all of you!" A loud clap of hands. "Music! Now!"
A long, low note vibrated in the atmosphere. Patricia was beginning to be desperate for air. The wet
cloth was stifling her. Mary whispered reassurance, her flat green eyes brim­ming with what appeared to
be pity.