Free Blood of the Impaler by Jeffrey Sackett Page A

said, "Holly's here, Gramps. You ready to go? You sure you feel up to it?"
    "Certainly, certainly," the old man said. He was standing in the dining room, helping himself to a glass of sherry. "Just fortifying myself for one of Father Henley's sermons," he said, grinning at Holly.
    "Father Henley tends to be rather long-winded," Malcolm confided to her. "Nice fellow, though."
    "I'm sure he is," she said. Quincy walked over to them, offered her his arm, and they departed.
    Fortunately, the church was just around the corner on Ascan Avenue. It was abundantly clear that the old man could not have managed a longer walk. As it was, this short distance taxed him considerably. He was flushed and winded by the time they reached the church and seated themselves in the front pew, Quincy sliding in first, Holly following, and Malcolm sitting beside her. Quincy Harker always sat in the front pew when he attended church. As the oldest member of the parish, he had an unspoken right to it, so that the priest could come down to him and administer the sacrament rather than having him struggle up the steps to the altar rail and then kneel down upon stiff knees.
    He made quiet conversation with Holly until the organist began the prelude, and then they and the other people in attendance fell into a contemplative silence. Holly paged through the Book of Common Prayer and then gazed up at the stained-glass windows.
    And Malcolm was becoming terribly, terribly uncomfortable. It's almost summertime , he thought. Why the hell don't they turn on the air-conditioning? It's hot as a blast furnace in here . He looked around and noticed that some of the women in the pews were pulling their scarves and stoles around their necks, and then in a brief silence between the end of the postlude and the priest's invocation he heard the faint hum of the air-conditioning unit. Maybe I'm getting feverish, he thought. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to get out today .
    "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," the priest chanted, making the sign of the cross.
    "Amen," the congregation sang.
    Malcolm began to feel dizzy, slightly nauseated. The air conditioner must be broke , he thought. I feel as if I'm sitting in a steam bath . Beads of perspiration welled up on his forehead and trickled down his cheeks.
    He found that by closing his eyes and breathing deeply he could master the growing nausea. The sounds of the service became blurred and indistinct in his ears, and he rose and sat mechanically as he heard other people doing it. Only on occasion did some familiar sound or phrase penetrate his self-imposed isolation.
    "Kyrie eleison, Christos eleison, kyrie eleison . . ."
    Better go back to the doctor , he thought. I really don't feel at all well . He opened his eyes for a moment and a wave of nausea swept over him. He struggled to repress it but felt the telltale pressure of sour air beginning to force its way up from his stomach. No, no! he ordered himself. Not here, not in church, not with Holly here, not when it means so much to Gramps for me to have come today . He managed to press down the threatening flow.
    "Praise God from Whom all blessings flow . . ."
    "Malcolm," he heard a voice whisper, and he snapped his eyes open. Father Henley's smiling face was close to his own, and the priest said, "Your sister told me that you've had an accident. Are you all right?"
    Malcolm looked around, noting that the collection plates were being passed and that Henley had taken advantage of the brief hiatus in the service to step down from the altar and speak with him. He looked back at the priest and tried to smile. "Yes. Well, no, not really. I feel a bit feverish, actually."
    "Well, don't bother coming up to the railing. When I bring the elements down to your grandfather, I'll administer them to you also. No need to tax yourself."
    Malcolm was enormously relieved. "Thank you, Father, thank you very much. I don't know if . . ." Henley noted that the