felt a powerful lightness, as if the hand cupping his heart had been a great weight he was carrying around with him.
And now he was at peace.
"I thank thee, O God most holy," he whispered. "Thou hast cast out from me the evil spirit."
He prayed a moment longer, giving his thanks. And with the thanks still in his heart and a murmuring prayer on his lips, he rose up from his knees and went to the window and turned the long handle on the blinds and looked out into the grayish light.
There was a red glow from behind the houses to the right of his window. A glow so intense that it could only be coming from a fire. But whose house? He could see all the houses on Cloverdale, and behind them there was nothing. Just the empty basin around the drainpipe.
At that moment, a column of red light shot upward and something dark rose within it. Word watched in fascination as the thing writhed a little. Like a slug.
A slug with wings. He saw them unfold. He saw the bright and terrifying eyes. He saw the wings spread out and beat against the red and smoky air and lift the great worm into the air.
Not a worm, really. Too thick and stubby for a worm. The ancient lore had it wrong. Not a worm, but a Wyrm. The great enemy of God. The one cast out of heaven by Michael the archangel.
He heard footsteps behind him. He glanced back and saw his father, his eyes red-rimmed as if he'd been up way too late. Or as if he'd been crying.
"So there it is, Father," said Word.
"Can you figure out what a chopper's doing flying over our neighborhood this time of night?" asked Father.
"Chopper?"
Word knew.
"What were you looking at then?"
"No, I just... I'm kind of bleary-eyed. Didn't know it was a chopper."
"You can hear it," said Father. "Waking people up all over the neighborhood, I bet. Have you slept at all tonight, son?"
"If I have, I must have slept through it, cause I don't remember."
It was an old joke between them, and Father laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Guess they'll have to do without you at that church today."
"Maybe," said Word.
Father walked out of the room.
Word watched the chopper head out toward the northwest, right over the Williamses' house.
It was a slugdragon, thought Word. I knew it when I saw it - this was the beast.
And yet it was a chopper all along. Heading northwest.
A dragon in disguise?
Word had to see. He was responsible for this thing, somehow. It had been in him. Who knew what it took away? What knowledge it stole from him.
Word ran to his dad's office. "Can I take a car?"
"When will you be back?" asked Father.
"Don't know."
"You're too tired to drive."
"Won't be far, Dad." Word hoped he was telling the truth. And then hoped he wasn't - because whatever business that flying slug had, he didn't want it to be in his own neighborhood, among his friends.
"Take the Mercedes," said his father, and then Word caught the keys in midair and headed for the garage.
Ura Lee wore her nurse's uniform as she stood on the overpass with the earliest of the Olympic Avenue traffic passing under her. There weren't many cars out at this time of day - but the surprise was that there were any at all. Early shifts? Or just people who figured it was better to be at work two hours early and be productive than to arrive at work on time after an hour and a half on the 405 or the 10.
Folks from Cloverdale walking up a cloverleaf.
And before she let herself go off on a mental riff about that, she reminded herself: Sometimes coincidences aren't signs of anything.
Would she ever see Mack Street again?
My son, she thought. As much of a son as I could ever have had. And I raised him about as much as I ever could. I was never cut out to be a fulltime mother, that's for sure. Thank God for Ceese. That boy gave Mack Street a terrific childhood. Full of freedom and yet completely safe, with someone always watching over him.
Maybe I could have been a fulltime mother. Maybe I wouldn't have run out of patience if I hadn't already had a long shift of taking care of people made fretful by their pain. Not to mention the bossy people and the sneaky relatives and the selfish visitors who never