F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 by Midnight Mass (v2.1) Read Free Book Online Page A

carelessly bounced
the crowbar against the hood, denting it with every bounce.
                 A
few minutes later the two other men emerged, dragging Father Palmeri between
them. The priest had a bloody nose and was blubbering in fear, begging them to
let him go.
                 The
sandy-haired man laughed. "Found him hiding in the basement! Lookit him!
Peed his pants!"
                 Carole
shook her head in dismay when she saw the darker stain on Father
                 Palmeri's
black cassock. God forgive her, she'd never liked the man, and after last night
when he could have saved Bernadette simply by letting her into the church,
well, she liked him even less. He was a man of God. He was supposed to set an
example.
                 Then
the woman appeared. She'd draped herself in Father Palmeri's long white
chasuble and came out dancing and skipping behind the whimpering priest.
                 Carole
felt her anger begin to boil. How dare this . . . this tramp sully holy
vestments like that. It was sacrilege.
                 "You
like basements, priest?" the cowboy said, grinning. "Good. 'Cause
you're gonna be seeing a lot of them from now on."
                 Carole's
stomach dropped. What did that mean? Were they going to turn him into a
vampire? Oh, no. They couldn't do that. Not to a priest.
                 She
had to help him, but what could she do? She was one woman and there were four
of them. She watched as they locked Father Palmeri in the caged rear
compartment of one of the cars. Then they started toward the convent, the
cowboy in the lead, the crowbar on his shoulder.
                 No!
Not here! Not now! And she'd unlocked the door.
                 Hide!
The basement? No. She had to pass the rear door to reach it. They'd see her for
sure. She could make it to the second floor but couldn't think of anyplace to
hide up there.
                 She
did a quick turn and her gaze came to rest on the big institutional-size oven
to her left. She yanked down the door and looked inside. Could she fit? Maybe,
maybe not. But even if she did fit, the plate glass window in the door would
give her away. But no. A closer look showed that it was fogged with baked-on
grease. Bless old Sister Mary Margaret's bad eyes. Last week was her turn to
clean the oven. She never did a good job, for which Carole was now grateful.
                 Moving
as quickly as she could without causing a racket, she slid out the two metal
racks and slipped them between the oven and the neighboring cabinet. She pulled
a long-handled metal spatula from the wall rack and bent the end into an acute
angle. Then she sidled into the close space, her flannel nightgown sticking to
the grease-splattered surfaces, and tucked her knees against her chest.
                 She
fit. Barely. Now to get the door closed. She reached out with the spatula,
hooked its bent end around the upper edge of the oven door, and pulled. It barely
budged. These old oven doors were heavy. Straining her muscles, she managed to
pull it a quarter of the way closed when the spatula slipped off. The door fell
back with a clank.
                 She
felt her heart kick into a higher gear as she tried again. The cowboy and his
gang would be walking in any—
                 She
heard the back door slam open and a woman's voice say, "Nice of them to
leave the place unlocked."
                 "Probably
means it's empty," said a voice she recognized as the cowboy's.
"Check it out anyway. See if we can put a nun on Gregor's plate, too"
                 The
woman snickered. "Yeah! A priest-and-nun combo platter!"
                 "A
three-way!" someone else said.
                 Lots
of laughter at that. But for Carole, only terror clawing at her gut. She had to
close this door. Now.