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Chapter 23

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 10TH

Dayne bounded out of bed early on Sunday morning, did a quick workout on the stair-stepper and with her weights, and ignored the ringing of the telephone downstairs—the answering machine could get the phone, because after finishing a seventy-hour work week, she had no intention of going in to help out at the hospital on her day off.

The phone rang at fifteen minute intervals, with some calls closer than that. They must have had a stack of Sunday morning call-ins. She shrugged and climbed into the shower. Life's tough, she thought. She'd worked short-staffed all week and covered everybody else's hours, but if she answered the phone, the supervisor was going to try to make her feel guilty for not coming in to help out on her day off, too.

"Today," she muttered, "the hospital's problems are not my problem."

The phone was still ringing when she got out. "Two options," she thought. "I can unplug it, or I can go someplace."

On such a beautiful October morning, with the sun shining through her kitchen window and the light slanting long, in that peculiar way that signaled autumn, unplugging the phone seemed to her a fool's choice. So she packed a lunch, grabbed her keys and her purse, and headed out her front door . . .

. . . Into the only silent circus she'd ever seen.

She noticed the picketers first; two lines of them worked opposite ends of the sidewalk. The batch on the right were dressed in business suits or neat dresses, and they carried signs that read, "SEND THEM BACK, WE PRAY!" and "NO DEVILS IN MY BACKYARD!" and "THINK OF OUR CHILDREN: NO DEVILS HERE!" and "BAPTISTS AGAINST SATAN!"

The other line consisted of people wearing black. Their signs read "MAKE ROOM FOR DEVILS," and "OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HELL, WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA," and "HELL HERE NOW!"

Two men at a hastily set-up card table seemed to have been doing a brisk business in T-shirts—on one, Dayne recognized a fairly good caricature of herself holding a miniature devil by the scruff of the neck with one hand and slapping her forehead with the other. The slogan blazoned across the front read "I Should Have Had a V8." Another had her standing arm in arm with a devil holding a trick-or-treat bag. That one read "Hell for the Holidays."

Uniformed police officers stood beside their cars, some watching the goings-on, and some directing traffic. And the traffic! Nobody honked horns, nobody leaned out of windows and shouted. It was the most polite, orderly mob Dayne had ever seen. She frowned—she couldn't understand the silence. Then her eyes widened as she realized the quietest group of all waited, video cameras trained on her, reporters watching with microphones in hand—studying her warily from just beyond her landing. Everything had stopped when she stepped out of her door, and all eyes were trained on her, and in all of them she saw something she would never have expected.

She saw fear.

They were afraid of her. She walked toward them, and the nearest reporters took a single step back. The walk in front of her cleared, the massed humanity separating neatly and silently as if it were water and she were Moses parting the Dead Sea. The picketers had stopped walking, and stood watching her. The cars in front of the house had come to a halt, and people were leaning out of their windows taking pictures. The police were watching the people in the cars, and she realized with a sick lurch in her gut that they were trying to make sure the only things pointed at her were cameras.

She took another step forward, uncertainly. She couldn't get her car out of its parking place—not in this mob. She looked at the reporters, and one man nervously crossed his legs, and one woman cleared her throat.

"Would you be willing to give a statement to the press?" the woman asked.

Would she? What could she possibly have to say to reporters?

But she nodded, and walked back, and sat on the top step of her landing. She tucked her purse behind her feet and dropped her lunch beside her, and made sure her keys were in her left jacket pocket, and slid her hand over the reassuring weight of the pepper gas canister in her right pocket. "What do you want to know?"

It was the oddest press conference she'd ever seen. The reporters, who had talked fearlessly with the minions of Hell, were circumspect with her. They were polite, and careful, and quiet—and they stayed a good ten feet back from her, though they maneuvered their microphones close. And suddenly she realized that, while the people in the street might be afraid of Dayne Kuttner, the reporters were even more afraid of Dayne Kuttner's pepper gas, and her knees, and her elbows. That fear was evident in the protective stances the male reporters took.

Dayne grinned. She'd like to know why people did the things they did. As long as she could understand, she could cope. They asked her a few simple questions, taking turns instead of trying to shout each other down. She began to believe all people who were to be interviewed needed to gas the first reporter who approached them and kick him in the nuts. It did wonders for the manners of the rest.

At last they got to the meatier questions. "Would you tell us why you asked God to free Satan's hordes?" one reporter asked.

"I didn't," Dayne said. "I only asked God to give every soul in Hell a second chance. I am no more sure than you are about why he chose to answer my prayer in this fashion. I do have a theory, though."

"What is it?"

"I think perhaps God wants our help." She leaned forward and spread her hands in front of her. "Think of it. The Fallen have been in Hell for eons—we have no way of knowing how long. But they are God's creatures as surely as we are, and certainly he must want them to repent and return to his grace. A father who loves his children could take no pleasure from seeing them in pain. Perhaps he wishes us to show them the things they have been so long without in Hell, to remind them of what they have forsaken."

"What have the Hellraised forsaken, do you think?"

"Friendship," Dayne said softly. "Kindness. Hope. Compassion. Honor." She looked out over the faces that stared into hers. "Love."

"You think God wants us to love them?"

"I suspect he might. I don't want to seem presumptuous by claiming to speak for God."

"You were presumptuous when you spoke to him," one woman said. Her voice had an edge to it. "Why could you presume to dictate how God ran Hell?"

Dayne felt the darkness of pain wash over her. They had to know, she supposed. So she told them. She told them about the old people on ventilators, about the feel of breaking bones beneath her hands, about the sound of shattering old ribs, so precisely like the sound of cracking knuckles. She told them about doctors who wouldn't give up, and people who couldn't die: nearly drowned children who would live for years without ever waking again, brain-dead husbands and wives whose families came daily to visit the empty husks of their loved ones' bodies—who came to see those visits as visits to a grave, while grief drained life and joy out of them. And she talked about Torry, whom she had loved and lost, and about the fate she feared had awaited him, and the pain she feared he suffered and did not want him to suffer. She talked about this as being pain greater than any she had ever seen, greater than anything she could comprehend.

"If my husband ran around on me, I'd want him to burn in Hell," one female reporter offered.

"Not if you love him," Dayne said. "Your own hurt is temporary. Hell's pain was eternal." She brightened. "But not now. Now there is hope even in Hell."

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 23

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 10TH

Dayne bounded out of bed early on Sunday morning, did a quick workout on the stair-stepper and with her weights, and ignored the ringing of the telephone downstairs—the answering machine could get the phone, because after finishing a seventy-hour work week, she had no intention of going in to help out at the hospital on her day off.

The phone rang at fifteen minute intervals, with some calls closer than that. They must have had a stack of Sunday morning call-ins. She shrugged and climbed into the shower. Life's tough, she thought. She'd worked short-staffed all week and covered everybody else's hours, but if she answered the phone, the supervisor was going to try to make her feel guilty for not coming in to help out on her day off, too.

"Today," she muttered, "the hospital's problems are not my problem."

The phone was still ringing when she got out. "Two options," she thought. "I can unplug it, or I can go someplace."

On such a beautiful October morning, with the sun shining through her kitchen window and the light slanting long, in that peculiar way that signaled autumn, unplugging the phone seemed to her a fool's choice. So she packed a lunch, grabbed her keys and her purse, and headed out her front door . . .

. . . Into the only silent circus she'd ever seen.

She noticed the picketers first; two lines of them worked opposite ends of the sidewalk. The batch on the right were dressed in business suits or neat dresses, and they carried signs that read, "SEND THEM BACK, WE PRAY!" and "NO DEVILS IN MY BACKYARD!" and "THINK OF OUR CHILDREN: NO DEVILS HERE!" and "BAPTISTS AGAINST SATAN!"

The other line consisted of people wearing black. Their signs read "MAKE ROOM FOR DEVILS," and "OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HELL, WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA," and "HELL HERE NOW!"

Two men at a hastily set-up card table seemed to have been doing a brisk business in T-shirts—on one, Dayne recognized a fairly good caricature of herself holding a miniature devil by the scruff of the neck with one hand and slapping her forehead with the other. The slogan blazoned across the front read "I Should Have Had a V8." Another had her standing arm in arm with a devil holding a trick-or-treat bag. That one read "Hell for the Holidays."

Uniformed police officers stood beside their cars, some watching the goings-on, and some directing traffic. And the traffic! Nobody honked horns, nobody leaned out of windows and shouted. It was the most polite, orderly mob Dayne had ever seen. She frowned—she couldn't understand the silence. Then her eyes widened as she realized the quietest group of all waited, video cameras trained on her, reporters watching with microphones in hand—studying her warily from just beyond her landing. Everything had stopped when she stepped out of her door, and all eyes were trained on her, and in all of them she saw something she would never have expected.

She saw fear.

They were afraid of her. She walked toward them, and the nearest reporters took a single step back. The walk in front of her cleared, the massed humanity separating neatly and silently as if it were water and she were Moses parting the Dead Sea. The picketers had stopped walking, and stood watching her. The cars in front of the house had come to a halt, and people were leaning out of their windows taking pictures. The police were watching the people in the cars, and she realized with a sick lurch in her gut that they were trying to make sure the only things pointed at her were cameras.

She took another step forward, uncertainly. She couldn't get her car out of its parking place—not in this mob. She looked at the reporters, and one man nervously crossed his legs, and one woman cleared her throat.

"Would you be willing to give a statement to the press?" the woman asked.

Would she? What could she possibly have to say to reporters?

But she nodded, and walked back, and sat on the top step of her landing. She tucked her purse behind her feet and dropped her lunch beside her, and made sure her keys were in her left jacket pocket, and slid her hand over the reassuring weight of the pepper gas canister in her right pocket. "What do you want to know?"

It was the oddest press conference she'd ever seen. The reporters, who had talked fearlessly with the minions of Hell, were circumspect with her. They were polite, and careful, and quiet—and they stayed a good ten feet back from her, though they maneuvered their microphones close. And suddenly she realized that, while the people in the street might be afraid of Dayne Kuttner, the reporters were even more afraid of Dayne Kuttner's pepper gas, and her knees, and her elbows. That fear was evident in the protective stances the male reporters took.

Dayne grinned. She'd like to know why people did the things they did. As long as she could understand, she could cope. They asked her a few simple questions, taking turns instead of trying to shout each other down. She began to believe all people who were to be interviewed needed to gas the first reporter who approached them and kick him in the nuts. It did wonders for the manners of the rest.

At last they got to the meatier questions. "Would you tell us why you asked God to free Satan's hordes?" one reporter asked.

"I didn't," Dayne said. "I only asked God to give every soul in Hell a second chance. I am no more sure than you are about why he chose to answer my prayer in this fashion. I do have a theory, though."

"What is it?"

"I think perhaps God wants our help." She leaned forward and spread her hands in front of her. "Think of it. The Fallen have been in Hell for eons—we have no way of knowing how long. But they are God's creatures as surely as we are, and certainly he must want them to repent and return to his grace. A father who loves his children could take no pleasure from seeing them in pain. Perhaps he wishes us to show them the things they have been so long without in Hell, to remind them of what they have forsaken."

"What have the Hellraised forsaken, do you think?"

"Friendship," Dayne said softly. "Kindness. Hope. Compassion. Honor." She looked out over the faces that stared into hers. "Love."

"You think God wants us to love them?"

"I suspect he might. I don't want to seem presumptuous by claiming to speak for God."

"You were presumptuous when you spoke to him," one woman said. Her voice had an edge to it. "Why could you presume to dictate how God ran Hell?"

Dayne felt the darkness of pain wash over her. They had to know, she supposed. So she told them. She told them about the old people on ventilators, about the feel of breaking bones beneath her hands, about the sound of shattering old ribs, so precisely like the sound of cracking knuckles. She told them about doctors who wouldn't give up, and people who couldn't die: nearly drowned children who would live for years without ever waking again, brain-dead husbands and wives whose families came daily to visit the empty husks of their loved ones' bodies—who came to see those visits as visits to a grave, while grief drained life and joy out of them. And she talked about Torry, whom she had loved and lost, and about the fate she feared had awaited him, and the pain she feared he suffered and did not want him to suffer. She talked about this as being pain greater than any she had ever seen, greater than anything she could comprehend.

"If my husband ran around on me, I'd want him to burn in Hell," one female reporter offered.

"Not if you love him," Dayne said. "Your own hurt is temporary. Hell's pain was eternal." She brightened. "But not now. Now there is hope even in Hell."

Back | Next
Contents
Framed