The Fraternity of the Stone by David Morrell Page B

apply a tourniquet above the bullet wound in the calf of the leg. The blood slowed.
    Drew pulled him forward, easing him into the passenger seat, where he propped him into what appeared to be a comfortable position, then secured him across the waist and chest with the safety belt. He didn't want his enemy out of sight behind him, and this way, to a casual observer, the man seemed just a passenger fallen asleep.
    Drew searched him, found a ring of keys, and got out in the rain to open the back of the van, looking for a spare tire. In an under-the-floor compartment, he did find a tire, but even better, he found an emergency air pump with a foot pedal and a pressure gauge. Five minutes later, he'd reinflated the back right tire. Then, getting behind the steering wheel, he tested several keys until one at last fit the ignition slot. He turned it; the engine started smoothly. But he frowned at the unfamiliar dashboard, the confusing levers and knobs on the steering column, many more than he was used to. The last time he'd driven was in 1979. He had no way of knowing what design changes had been introduced since then. Had the technology altered so much that he might not be able to control the van?
    At least the transmission was automatic; he shouldn't have any trouble merely pressing the throttle and steering. But as he put the floor-shift into drive, he realized that he couldn't see through the rain on the windshield, and it took him thirty seconds to figure out that one of the knobs on the turn-signal lever controlled the wipers. A knob on another lever worked the headlights.
    Get moving, he thought. That cop might come back this way. He had to head into Quentin. He didn't want to; there was still a risk that other members of the team were watching for him there. But he couldn't afford to go in the opposite direction, where he might run into the cop again.
    At least Quentin lay south, and south was where he needed to go, to Boston, to his contact in his new network. To his confessor, Father Hafer. The Church would protect him.
    But as he proceeded along the road through the storm, obeying the speed limit - was it still fifty-five? -he was filled with misgivings. He glanced to his left toward the murky gate and the narrow lane that wound up through the concealing forest toward the monastery. He imagined the peak of the lodge poking up above the fir trees at the top of the hill. He imagined the silence of the dead in their cells. His jaw muscles hardened.
    Then the lane was behind him, and when he glanced toward his rearview mirror, all he saw was darkness. His heart sank, heavy with sorrow, hating to leave.
    What strange new world lay ahead of him? he wondered. What answers? For six years, he'd lived in suspended time. But the world had moved on. About to confront what for him was an alien future, he knew that what he also would have to confront was his past, for the answers lay somewhere behind him. Who had attacked the monastery? Why? Was it Scalpel, his previous network? But Scalpel believed that he was dead. Again he thought about Arlene, his former lover, and about her brother, Jake, his friend. Jake, the only person, apart from Father Hafer, who knew that Drew wasn't dead. All right then, he thought. First I talk to Father Hafer; then I'll go to Jake. Despite his confusion, this much was sure. During his former life, he'd made many enemies, not just Scalpel. In stalking the sins of his past, he'd also be stalking himself.
    *
    PART TWO
    PILGRIMAGE
    STRANGE NEW WORLD

    Chapter 1.
    Ahead, Drew saw streetlights muted by the rain. He entered the outskirts of Quentin and veered from the main road, using side streets, avoiding the straight route through town where a hostile observer would be most likely to expect him to pass. At the far end of Quentin, he returned to the main road and continued south.
    The clock on the dashboard was different from the type he'd been used to in cars in 1979. Instead of a circular face with arrows,