Cold Fire

stigmata of Christ. There was a nail hole in each of your hands—”
    Jim looked at his hands and saw no wounds.
    “—and your forehead was scratched and prickled with what might have been punctures from a crown of thorns.”
    His face was still such a mess from the punishment of sun and wind that it was no use searching in the rearview mirror for the minor injuries the priest had described.
    Geary said, “I was … frightened, I guess. But fascinated, too.”
    They came to a forty-foot-long concrete bridge at an arroyo where the runoff had overflowed the banks. A dark lake had formed and risen above the edge of the elevated roadbed. Geary bulled forward. Plumes of water, reflecting the car's lights, unfurled on both sides like great white wings.
    “I'd never seen stigmata,” Geary continued when they were out of the flooded area, “though I'd heard of the phenomenon. I pulled up your shirt… looked at your side … and found the enflamed scar of what might have been a spear wound.”
    The events of recent months had been so filled with surprises and amazements that the threshold on Jim's sense of wonder had been raised repeatedly. But the priest's story leaped across it, got to him, and sent a chill of awe along his spine.
    Geary's voice had fallen to little more than a whisper.
    “By the time I got you back to the rectory and into bed, those signs were gone. But I knew I hadn't imagined them. I'd seen them, they'd been real, and I knew there was something special about you.”
    The lightning had fizzled out long ago; the black sky was no longer adorned by bright, jagged necklaces of electricity. Now the rain began to abate, as well, and Father Geary was able to reduce the speed of the windshield wipers even as he increased that of the aging Toyota.
    For a while neither of them seemed to know what to say. Finally the priest cleared his throat. “Have you experienced this before—these stigmata?”
    “No. Not that I'm aware of. But then, of course, I wasn't aware this time until you told me.”
    “You didn't notice the marks on your hands before you passed out at the sanctuary railing?”
    “No.”
    “But this isn't the only unusual thing that's been happening to you lately.”
    Jim's soft laugh was wrenched from him less by amusement than by a sense of dark irony. “Definitely not the only unusual thing.”
    “Do you want to tell me?”
    Jim thought about it awhile before replying. “Yes, but I can't.”
    “I'm a priest. I respect all confidences. Even the police have no power over me.”
    “Oh, I trust you, Father. And I'm not particularly worried about the police.”
    “Then?”
    “If I tell you … the enemy will come,” Jim said, and frowned as he heard himself speaking those words. The statement seemed to have come through him rather than from him.
    “What enemy?”
    He stared out at the vast, lightless expanse of desert. “I don't know.”
    “The enemy you spoke of in your sleep last night?”
    “Maybe.”
    “You said it would kill us all.”
    “And it will.” He went on, perhaps even more interested in what he said than the priest was, for he had no idea what words he would speak until he heard them. “If it finds out about me, if it discovers that I'm saving lives, special lives, then it'll come to stop me.”
    The priest glanced at him. “Special lives? Exactly what do you mean by that?”
    “I don't know.”
    “If you tell me about yourself, I'll never repeat to another soul a word of what you say. So whatever this enemy is—how could it find out about you just because you confide in me?”
    “I don't know.”
    “You don't know.”
    “That's right.”
    The priest sighed in frustration.
    “Father, I'm really not playing games or being purposefully obscure.” He shifted in his seat and adjusted the safety harness, trying to get more comfortable; however, his discomfort was less physical than spiritual, and not easily remedied. “Have you heard the term 'automatic writing'?”
    Glowering at the road ahead, Geary said, “Psychics and mediums talk about it. Superstitious claptrap. A spirit supposedly seizes control of the medium's hand, while he's in a trance, and writes out messages from Beyond.” He made a wordless sound of disgust. “The same people who scoff at the idea of speaking with God—or even at the mere idea of God's existence—naively embrace any con-artist's claim to be a channeler for the spirits of the dead.”
    “Well, nevertheless, what happens to