Читать книгу Dark Rites - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 10
ОглавлениеGriffin sat behind the desk in David Barnes’s office, typing out the last words of his report regarding the evening. As he did so, he saw everything replay in his mind. He shook his head, damning himself. He couldn’t see how he could have stopped what had happened.
The door opened and Rocky walked back in. “How’s it going?”
“Almost through here,” Griffin said. “I’m waiting for a callback from Dr. Loeb.”
“Medical examiner? Theodore Loeb?” Rocky asked.
“You’ve worked with him?”
“No,” Rocky said, “but I did meet him at a crime summit a few months back. Guy is brilliant and looks like a mad professor, right? Crazy white hair and thin as a sack of bones?”
“Yep. That’s him,” Griffin agreed. He drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t know what he can tell us about our dead man that we don’t already know. He appeared to be healthy before, young and hardy looking. And now dead. Suicide capsule. What makes someone do that?”
Rocky took a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Well, usually you have to be more afraid of living than you are of dying, I imagine.”
“Right. Afraid of what—or who—he had to face.”
“That’s a solid theory, anyway,” Rocky said.
“If we look at most things that have had to do with that kind of behavior—suicidal sacrifice behavior,” Griffin said, “it’s usually because we’re looking at those who feel disenfranchised or forgotten. If we look at history, men and women born in dirt and poverty are willing to practice terrorism when they’re promised something wonderful on the horizon—a special place in heaven or Valhalla or Mount Olympus. From Japan to Germany to the Middle East, Ireland and beyond. Those who feel that they have been chosen by a higher power to strike back at their oppressors are often ready to fight and die, whether it’s beneath a hail of bullets or on a suicide mission. Then again, there’s the fear that if you don’t carry out the suicide mission, what comes next will be even more terrible.”
“You think we’re looking at domestic terrorism?” Rocky sounded doubtful.
“No, no, I really don’t. So far, people have just been sent to the hospital. We’re not looking at anyone having been murdered—that we know about. But I believe that some kind of statement is being made, that there is something larger going on.”
Detective Barnes came into his office.
“The body is at the morgue, the forensic team is done in the streets and the techs are trying what they have to get an ID on the body. Autopsy won’t be until tomorrow, so we won’t really have real physical answers until then, but then you know that, and you know that we have been able to get Dr. Theodore Loeb on our case. I swear, if there is anything we can get from the body, Loeb will get it.”
Barnes was, in Griffin’s mind, a good cop. He was willing to put in whatever hours were needed. He had nearly a decade more experience on the force than Griffin, but had no qualms about working with him or the FBI.
Except that now he looked at Griffin, and then Rocky, and shook his head.
“Ah, hell! We couldn’t just be pleased—we couldn’t just be certain that we’d gotten the attacker—and that the newest craze in Boston beatings was over. No...you think it’s something deeper, and that we’re about to find out.”
Griffin glanced at Rocky and shrugged.
Devin Lyle tapped at the door and then walked in, carrying a foam tray with four large coffee cups.
“One is for me?” Barnes asked.
“Of course,” Devin assured him. She was about five-nine with a headful of long black hair. Devin had great stature, though; in her “real” life, she wrote children’s books. She still had the ability to appeal regal—and very authoritative.
“Thank you, thank you!” Barnes said.
Then he rose. “I suppose I’m glad I have a few specialists from your division of the bureau here. But I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to run the attacker’s fingerprints, see if he’s in the system.” He started out, then turned back. “Oh! I’ve got a report written up for Alex Maple. I’ve pushed accepted protocol around on this, you know. But we’re looking for his phone, and we’re checking out his apartment. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“Thank you, Barnes,” Griffin told him.
“Yep. All right, I’m getting out of here.”
“Actually, this is your office,” Griffin reminded him.
“I do know that. You all take your time. If I don’t find you here, I’ll call when I’ve got something.”
“Thanks.”
He left them.
Devin silently handed out coffee.
“So, nothing yet?”
“Nothing but musings,” Griffin told her.
“And they don’t bode well,” Rocky added softly.
* * *
“Wow,” Vickie murmured to herself. She realized she’d been on the computer for hours.
She looked at her watch; she knew it was late, of course. Paperwork did take a long time. She had to give up working for the night, though.
Her shoulders were beginning to hurt!
She winced, rubbing the back of her neck, wishing Griffin was there to do it.
Then she remembered that she had promised she’d make it worth his while to hurry home.
A wicked little smile crossed her face. She leaped up, heading to shower and shave her legs, now hoping that he wouldn’t arrive until she was ready. After toweling dry, she touched up with some makeup.
Since he was the only other human being in the world to have her key, she figured she was safe with whatever she did. And so, wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of spiked heels, she set up a perch on the sofa with throw pillows. She brought out an ice bucket and, since she didn’t have any champagne, opted for two bottles of Sam Adams beer. All the while keeping an ear out for the entry door to her complex—an old brownstone converted into four apartments.
Lastly, she arranged a plate of strawberries and chocolates and set them at the end of her little throne, right by the ice bucket. She turned most of the lights off and set just a couple lamps down low.
She took off the towel, curled her legs beneath her and posed and waited.
“Ho-hum, eh? Call this ho-hum!” she said aloud.
Then, of course, she felt a little ridiculous, naked on her sofa with high heels on. But their lives seemed to be twisted all the time by life-or-death situations, and—with Griffin’s work—it always would be that way. He’d told her that agents learned to seize their personal time, love it and embrace it. It was how they all managed in their world day after day, to appreciate every life they saved—and accept when there was damage they could not stop.
She decided to turn on the television—if she just held the remote control, she could keep it low and ditch it the minute he came in.
The news was filled with the evening’s reports. A recording of Detective Barnes was shown, giving out what information he could. The assailant was as yet unidentified. Yes, he had committed suicide with a pill; exactly what it contained, forensic experts would soon inform them. Did he believe there would now be a stop to the assaults? The police would be investigating all avenues, along with agents from the FBI.
He promised that new information would be forthcoming as they had it. He reminded the citizens of Boston and environs that they were a large and important city and never immune to harm; whether they had stopped the assaults or not, residents should always be vigilant.
As the news rolled to the next story, Vickie was certain that she heard someone at the building’s front door.
She quickly switched off the television—Griffin didn’t need to hear about the night he had experienced.
She switched into what she hoped was a truly sexy pose.
She heard the key in the lock. And the door opened.
For a split second, she froze.
And then she let out a scream.
* * *
At first, Alex Maple stared in disbelief at the man—the creature?—who came toward him. His mind was not working at all well, he determined.
Why would it be working well? He’d been kidnapped; he was a prisoner in a defunct loony bin!
Get it together, Alex. Survive! he told himself.
So. Figure, yes, figure—that was safe to say. The figure coming toward him was wearing something like a KKK outfit—only it was bloodred and trimmed with strange black markings.
“Ah, Professor! You are awake—ready to join us!” the figure said.
It spoke; it moved. It appeared to be human.
Man.
Alex fought for reason and reaction—for the ability to move his mouth and form words.
“Join what? Who are you? Why am I here?” he managed to ask.
The man came closer.
“I am the high priest,” the man told him. His face was more or less covered by a mask that appeared to be loosely connected to his conical red hood. Alex could see the man’s eyes, though. They weren’t burning red or anything—they were just dark brown.
“I am the high priest, Professor, and you will join with us.”
Alex blinked. It would be laughable if it weren’t for...
For the chains that held him.
For the headless body that lay crumpled in the corner, with rats destroying it.
“I’m sorry, join with you for...what?”
“The resurrection.”
“The resurrection of what?”
“You, sir, are not just going to join us, you see. You are going to help us!” the high priest said.
“Help you...?”
“Well, we’re going to bring Satan to earth, sir! More specifically, we’re going to bring Satan to Boston. And you, Professor, are the man with the knowledge to help us do it.”
He couldn’t see the man’s mouth, but he was sure that he smiled.
Did this dude know how ridiculous his words were?
“Yes, you are the man!”
What if I refuse?
Alex wasn’t exactly an atheist. He considered himself a deist, believing in a higher power, but not in all the myth that went along with it—through any religion.
Satan wasn’t real to Alex, and, therefore, he couldn’t be summoned.
But...
He didn’t bother to ask what happened to him if he refused. He knew.
He could see the instruments of medicine, surgery—and torture.
He could see the rat-riddled body in the corner.
“How intriguing,” he said. “I assume you believe that I will somehow be able to find the proper rites and means by which to do this through historical research?”
“Oh, yes. You see, Satan has come to Massachusetts before,” the high priest said. “You will bring him again.”
“Great challenge!” Alex said, trying to put some enthusiasm into his words.
Find me, Vickie, find me, for the love of God. Yes, there is some kind of a God, I do believe that, Vickie, find me, find me...
The high priest spoke, apparently accepting Alex’s words.
“Indeed! Yes, hail Satan! He has lived among us before. Through you, he will return. All hail! Satan shall return!” The high priest stepped forward, a key in his hand. He was going to free Alex.
Free, if he was free...
He was skinny, but he was no weakling. He could try to overpower this man...
“Hail Satan! Hail Satan!”
It was a chant. Alex looked up; there were several people there now, in the doorway to the old operating room. They were all in the red capes and masked hoods.
He could not fight...
“Come, brother!” the high priest said. “We will initiate you by letting you witness our sacrifice!”
He was going to see a sacrifice. Please, let it be a chicken! he thought.
It wasn’t going to be a chicken.
He suddenly found prayer, prayers he had known as a kid.
Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let the sacrifice be me.
* * *
“Vickie!”
Griffin suddenly came bursting into the room, pushing past the unknown man who had stood in the doorway when it had opened.
“Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Vickie cried.
She felt like an absolute idiot—no idea what to do, how to react. She was sitting on the sofa, naked and in heels, and Griffin was with Craig Rockwell, one of Griffin’s closest friends—and coworker!
A man she had met just once!
Pillow! She grabbed a pillow and pressed it before her.
Griffin was doing his best to block her, and Rocky and Devin Lyle were backing away, excusing themselves awkwardly—and laughing, certainly.
She wanted to disappear. To sink beneath the floorboards.
Vickie could hear herself talking, garbling out something. Griffin was talking...his friends were apologizing as they moved back into the hall...and she was backing her way into the bedroom.
In the bedroom she grabbed a robe from the closet and slipped into it as fast as humanly possible. By then, Griffin had reached the room. She started in on him furiously. “Why didn’t you call me, why didn’t you let me know, why...”
She couldn’t help it; she let him have it with a pillow.
“Hey!” he protested, catching the pillow. And she saw that he was almost smiling. His dark eyes shining in his rugged face, drawing her in and almost making her forget her embarassment.
Almost.
She got another pillow and let it fly.
“I just wasn’t expecting such a greeting!”
“Oh! Your friends! Your work associates. Your professional work associates!” Vickie said, shaking her head. “Oh, my God. What must they think? Oh!”
Griffin pulled her tight against him, smoothed back her hair and looked down into her eyes. And now he was smiling. “They’re thinking I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he told her.
He kissed her—a tender kiss, a great kiss. She wanted to forgive him.
Her level of humiliation was just a little too high.
“They’re still out there, right?”
“I think they’re standing awkwardly in the hall, maybe trying to leave...”
“You can’t...you can’t just leave people in the hall. Or make them leave. I mean, you—get out to the parlor. Go. Try to...oh, I don’t even know what you can try to do. When I can, I’ll come out.”
“They’ll leave. They won’t mind.”
“No!”
“But after everything you did for me, your preparation...”
“Out!”
“Got it. I’m on it,” Griffin assured her.
“I’ll never be able to face them if I don’t face them now!” Vickie said.
He left her, heading on out to the parlor. During the moments the bedroom door was open, Vickie could see that his Krewe friends hadn’t stayed in the apartment; they were out in the hallway waiting. Or they had left altogether.
She could also see that Griffin was still smiling. She felt like crawling beneath the floorboards.
But as much as she wanted to, she knew that she couldn’t hide out in her room forever.
Vickie slid into jeans and a T-shirt, and stood in front of the mirror again. Totally unsexy, she decided. Except for the flood of color that rose to her cheeks every other second.
She hesitated, then opened the door to her room. She could hear Griffin speaking, hear a female voice, and another male voice. Griffin was in the kitchen, making coffee, it seemed.
She paused, listening.
“You think that there are a number of people, all of them assigned to randomly attack people?” Devin Lyle was saying. Vickie had met her—and Rocky—just briefly, earlier during the day. She’d instantly liked Devin. They had a lot in common. Even if they’d grown up in very different cities, they had both been born in Massachusetts, steeped in the history of the state, come and gone, seen the good and the bad—and still loved it as home.
“I get how you figure it might be a number of people, but...why? I’ve been thinking about it since you were so convinced that the young man who died had to be one of many,” Devin finished.
“I don’t know. Gut feeling. I can’t help it. But from the beginning, someone has been making a statement. That poem. Attacking people without killing them...thank God they’re not dead!”
“Maybe the attacks are the statement,” Rocky said.
“Or the attacks might be a way to distract law enforcement from what is really going on,” Griffin said.
“If you believe that, what do you think is really going on?” Rocky asked Griffin.
Vickie heard plates being set on a table. She figured that maybe Griffin and his friends hadn’t quite gotten through dinner. She hadn’t had much of a meal herself.
And they weren’t talking about her, didn’t even seem to be thinking about her...
She had to get over herself and just step out into the room.
She managed to do so. It didn’t go quite as well as she’d hoped, but then again, she had no control over the flare of heat that rose into her face.
Devin Lyle was sweet and charming and tried to pretend that she’d seen absolutely nothing when they’d come in. Rocky was just as circumspect. But then she could see that the man lowered his head and turned away, and that he was trying to keep from smiling when he looked over at Devin. But then Devin shook her head and gave Vickie a tremendous smile and said, “Hey, hi! Well, let’s try to get a bit more comfortable here! We’re so sorry...”
“So, so sorry!” Rocky agreed.
“On so many levels!” Devin said with a grin. “And even now, well, we have to mention the elephant in the room. Only way to clear it out. We are beyond sorry!”
“And, wow, envious,” Rocky said.
“What?” Devin demanded. “Hey!”
“I’m referring to the fun of it, my love,” Rocky assured her. “What a cool thing to have thought of to do for someone after a hectic night,” he added.
Devin grinned and looked at Vickie. “There you go—the pressure is on!”
“So, anyway, we’re all good?” Griffin asked Vickie hopefully.
“Terrific,” she said, deadpan.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Griffin said.
“I’d leave it,” Devin told him sagely. “Take whatever you can get right now!”
“Yep, just leave it for now,” Rocky said. “Anyway, for the last time, please forgive us the invasion. We were going to head straight to Griffin’s apartment and go to bed. Then we figured we’d talk among ourselves, see if we got anywhere, over a midnight snack. We never ate. The night became very long and convoluted.”
“Because, of course, there’s what happened,” Devin said.
“And the fact that your friend Alex is now missing. You still haven’t heard from him, right?” Rocky asked.
“No,” Vickie said.
“We’ve made sure that we—as in the Bureau, and especially the Krewe of Hunters—are involved at every level,” Griffin told her seriously.
“FBI participation? In investigating the attacks, the death of the man tonight—or with the disappearance of Alex?” Vickie asked. “As far as I know, everything that has happened has happened within the state. And we’re not looking at murder here.”
“We may be looking at a kidnapping,” Devin said.
“Rules and protocol have changed,” Griffin said. “You know, Vickie, that all kinds of boundaries and jurisdictions changed after 9/11.” He turned toward the counter and she saw that he’d brewed coffee. It was late for coffee, but she doubted that it would keep any of them up.
“Here,” Vickie murmured, moving forward. She went to get mugs. Griffin opened the refrigerator and drew out sandwich makings.
“The FBI even does more on foreign soil,” Devin murmured. She looked at Vickie and asked, “May I help with anything?”
Vickie laughed. “I’m not even sure what Griffin is doing.”
“This is it, I’m afraid,” Griffin said. “Sandwiches, chips...”
“A gourmet buffet at this point!” Rocky said. He took a plate of cheese from Vickie and told her, “Roles change, and it’s often good—we’re sometimes involved with cases that concern just one state or area—or the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as it is here. It can be a really good partnership, especially when the local police want help and are ready to become part of a task force with a lot of cooperation.”
Vickie poured the coffee, taking her own cup and sinking into a chair at the table. “Well, naturally, I’m delighted that you’re all on this—whatever this is. You’re working with Detective Barnes? And everything is going well?”
“Fine—I like Barnes,” Rocky assured her. He seated Devin and then he and Griffin took chairs at the table, too—and dug in. The three were obviously hungry. “He seems to be a very good man. Comfortable and assured—and not in the least daunted by the feds. But then, you’ve already worked with him, right?”
“Yes, during the Undertaker thing,” Vickie said.
“Doesn’t hurt to have a precedent set,” Rocky said.
“So, do you know who the man was tonight—the man who killed himself when Griffin caught him? Was he the one who hurt Alex Maple before? And if so, why is Alex still missing?”
“I admit that no one can reach him, but are you still convinced that Alex is missing?” Griffin asked her. “Even Barnes helped us start a report before it’d normally be done.”
“I haven’t known Alex that long, but I do know him pretty well. He didn’t show for dinner. I really believe that if he could, he would have found a way to have called me by now,” Vickie said. “I am seriously worried.”
“We have people checking the local hospitals,” Devin said.
“And the morgue, of course,” Rocky added.
Devin nudged him hard.
“Hey, it’s all...necessary,” Vickie murmured.
“I know that Barnes said he’d call us, but...” Devin said, looking at Griffin.
“I’ll go ahead and call him,” Griffin said.
He dialed. Vickie listened, looking at him hopefully.
“Have they found anything?”
“They’re still tracing the phone. Alex is not home. His landlord opened the apartment and he wasn’t there. Also, there was no sign of a struggle in his apartment,” Griffin told her. “They’ve checked with every hospital—and the morgue. No sign of Alex.”
Vickie nodded. “Thank goodness for that, anyway,” she murmured.
“So far, people have been attacked in the street,” Devin said. “Are we assuming that the same perps who struck Alex Maple so hard they could have killed him have now kidnapped him?”
“I know it sounds strange, but let’s face it—everything to do with these attacks is strange,” Vickie said. “Here’s why I’m scared that what you’re saying just might be what happened, Devin. There was a great deal of publicity about the attack when Alex was hurt. There was information about him on every channel, in every newspaper and on the web, as well. Alex is young and brilliant. He may know more about Massachusetts history than just about anyone else alive. What if...?”
Griffin looked up from his sandwich, considering Vickie from across the table. “What if whoever is doing this needs someone who knows the ancient lore of Massachusetts?”
“It doesn’t explain the random attacks, really,” Vickie said, looking at Griffin earnestly. “But from the beginning, those attacked had the same historical words written on them. So whoever is behind this is making a statement. Alex was the first victim—the press and media went wild with the story. Details about Alex were shared with just about everyone. He was happy at first—it was nice to be recognized as one of the youngest professors. Of course, he hoped the publicity would help his attacker be caught. This is just a theory—what if Alex’s attack was random at first. The attacks were random, or carried out on vulnerable people when help didn’t seem to be near. But after this person or these people learned about Alex, they wanted him.”
Griffin, Rocky and Devin were silent, looking at her.
“Yes, it’s a stretch. But hey, the attacker or the cult or the group is saying that Satan will come back. That implies that he’s been here, and we all know that the devil and Massachusetts have quite a history. We have the very sad truth of the worst witch trials in the New World, for instance. But there’s more because of the very harsh situation of the times—brutal winters and repressive societies and, of course, constant fear of Indian attacks. The darkness in the forests—all those things made it easy for impressionable minds to believe in Satan. The human creature hasn’t changed so very much. People have always wanted power. They’ve always coveted what others have.”
Again, silence greeted her words. Then Devin smiled. “I like her, Griffin. I really like her.”
“We know a little bit about that witchcraft thing,” Rocky said ruefully. “And very sick minds.” He looked at Griffin. “She really might have something.”
“But where does it all lead?” Vickie wondered. “Where do you start?”
“Well, the good thing is—we are part of the Krewe of Hunters,” Griffin said. “Adam Harrison and Jackson Crow call the shots, but they’re the kind of guys who just don’t believe in micromanagement.” He smiled at Vickie. “When we need help, we can call the office. When we don’t, we go where our intuitions take us. We start with what we know, and we investigate from there. And sometimes, what we know about the past—in this case, the witch trials—can lead us into answers for what is happening now.”
“Here’s the good—God help us, the trials are remembered for their inhumanity! We look back at them now and shudder at the concept that anyone was condemned on spectral evidence. And the thing is, I don’t think we’re looking back at Salem.”
“The good old founding Puritan fathers might not have seen a difference, but today, there is a tremendous difference. We’re not looking at any modern form of witchcraft—or the midwives and other healers who might have been persecuted as witches. We’re really looking at Satanism,” Vickie reminded him. “‘Hell’s afire and Satan rules, the witches, they were real. The time has come, the rites to read, the flesh, ’twas born to heal. Yes, Satan is coming!’”
“But you told me that rhyme is not even original,” Griffin said. “Right?” He glanced at Devin and Rocky. “Alex and Vickie had been researching the words left on the victims. They date way back.”
“From 1665,” Vickie said. And she went on to explain what they had discovered about Ezekiel Martin, his obsession with Missy Prior—and his early invention of cult wherein he was able to “marry” any woman he chose, share them with his closest male followers and wield strict control over his little colony of “Jehovah.”
“I have heard of Jehovah,” Rocky said, “and we even learned about Ezekiel Martin. Of course, Devin grew up in Salem and I’m from Peabody. That history was just a brief side note for us, though. When you grow up anywhere near Salem, you kind of live and breathe the Salem witch trials. And due to the case occurring when we met, we’ve been pretty heavily steeped in it all, too.”
“We all knew there were other instances of supposed witchcraft and that there were other executions in Massachusetts—and even the other colonies,” Devin said. “I believe that the Salem witch trials just grew in such hysteria, volume and ridiculousness that they dwarfed everything else we learned. And, of course, for the Puritans anything suggesting witchcraft had to do with the devil, so it wouldn’t have been like today. Wiccans these days have a recognized religion in which they honor the earth. But in the 1600s, the only concept of witches was one which included Satan.” She shrugged. “Even if, when you look at the pagan religions from which the Wiccan derived, the tribes practicing the religions wouldn’t have even heard of Satan.”
“To be fair, in Boston, you pretty much had to rub the faces of the powers that be in the fact that you were a Quaker or other religious dissenter to be executed,” Vickie said. “You were usually banished. And, from what I’ve read, I believe that Ezekiel Martin was furious that he wasn’t permitted to become a minister and given a congregation. We know that when people are disenfranchised, miserable and can’t find their place in society, they are most vulnerable to join a cult. There must have been people back then who were equally susceptible, especially if he was a charismatic speaker.”
“That quotation,” Griffin said. He shook his head. “Whoever is pulling the strings here knows all about Ezekiel.”
“And whoever it is has Alex,” Vickie said. She looked at them one by one, ending with Griffin. “I just have this strong feeling that he’s been kidnapped. They want to use him, use what he knows about history, about old cults, about ancient religions, about Massachusetts,” she added.
“About Jehovah?” Devin asked.
“He definitely knows about Jehovah—he is a veritable encyclopedia on the state,” Griffin said.
“So, should we head for Jehovah to look for Alex?” Vickie asked.
Griffin looked back at her thoughtfully. “You know that, officially, at the moment, the powers that be believe that a single person was responsible for the attacks and leaving the message, and that one person committed suicide tonight.”
“I don’t believe it and you don’t believe it,” Vickie told him.
“Jehovah doesn’t exist anymore,” Griffin said.
“But we can find out where it was!” Vickie argued.
Griffin’s phone rang and he excused himself but didn’t move away to answer it. He looked at them and nodded.
Yes, the call had to do with the case.
He listened, gave brief answers and then hung up.
“Our young attacker-turned-suicide from tonight has been identified. He was Darryl Hillford of Framingham, twenty-five.”
“What a waste of life!” Rocky said.
“Sad,” Vickie agreed softly.
“Tragic,” Devin agreed.
“Except, of course, that he was willing to hurt other people. Possibly kill,” Rocky said flatly.
“Barnes did some checking on the guy, and I think we are looking at a ‘type’ that is easily maneuvered,” Griffin said. “He dropped out of college—too much debt, too many drugs and a few arrests. His past didn’t look so great. Alcoholic father, mother not in the picture. They’re doing a toxicology screen, of course, and we’ll know everything that was in his system tonight.” He paused for a minute, casting his head thoughtfully to the side. “I don’t think they will find that he was on drugs. He was doing what lots of people do...trying to find some kind of meaning for himself in the jumble of the world. He strayed onto a bad path. His last known address was a fraternity house, but he hasn’t lived there in over three years.”
“Well, then, he was living somewhere. If we can find out where...” Vickie murmured.
“Maybe we’ll find Alex!” Griffin said.
* * *
Alex was provided with an outfit to go over his jeans and T-shirt; it was a red cloak, conical hat and attached scarf-type mask, just like that worn by the man who’d called himself a high priest.
While other people were with him, none of them identified themselves—even by a fake name.
Not one of them seemed to even notice the headless corpse in the corner!
He tried to still his shaking hands. He didn’t know what the others thought, but he was pretty sure that the so-called “high priest” had left the rotting corpse there with calculated intention.
And now...
They led him out of the surgery room.
They didn’t speak much. There were four of them with him, two about his height, two a little shorter. He wasn’t even sure if they were men or women, young or old.
They brought him to a little cubicle. It had a heavy wooden door with a little panel that opened in so that he could be seen from outside. He was pretty sure that, once upon a time, such a space had held dangerous patients, the criminally insane.
Or perhaps those made dangerously insane by the crude treatment of the disabled in years gone by. Actually, he’d seen a few places where things hadn’t changed so much.
The small room had a cot. With a blanket. And a bedpan. That was it.
The blanket gave him hope.
He wasn’t going to die. The high priest seemed to want him. He had to play this right.
And pray that he wasn’t going to be asked to stick a knife into a living sacrifice!
He wasn’t shut up in the locked room for long. They came for him again—the four red-clad figures. They chanted as they led him out beneath the moonlight. Once, there had been something of a courtyard—a place where patients might have precious moments in the sun.
When there was sun, of course. It was, after all, Massachusetts. His mom used to joke that everyone should come for summer in Massachusetts—it happened every July 27.
He almost laughed aloud; he was so terrified, and grasping at strange, old memories.
He wondered if he was supposed to chant. He didn’t know what they were chanting, so he probably couldn’t chant with them.
Others joined.
He saw that an old tiled garden table had been stripped and set with inverted crucifixes. There was a large empty space on the table...
Room for the sacrifice!
Maybe there was no sacrifice. Maybe...
There would be a sacrifice. There was a large knife on the tiled surface. Its clean blade glinted in the dim light.
The chanting continued. They began to form a circle—twelve, all in all, including him. And then, as the chanting increased, another figure stepped into the center. He raised his arms, and he began to speak. At first, it was some other language—what, Alex just couldn’t be sure.
And then his words were in English.
“Do what thou wilt! For the day is coming, the day that is his! He will embrace his followers, those who bring him to flesh, to the pleasures of the flesh. For those who bring him to blood...oh, yes, the sweetness of the blood!”
As he spoke, a tall blonde woman was led into the group. She seemed to come willingly, but she walked as if she was in a trance.
She wore white where the others wore red.
Alex began to tremble.
Sacrifice...this beautiful young woman!
The high priest raised his hands. He reached down for the knife on the altar. He lifted it high.
Alex’s knees were giving; he was going to fall. They were going to sacrifice the young woman!
But the high priest continued to talk. “The time comes for the ultimate, as we prepare this world for he who is coming—he who will touch you all, and give you life and freedom. We prepare, we come closer and closer!”
Someone stepped forward, touching the young woman by the shoulders. The white gown fell to her feet.
No! He had to protest; Alex had to do something, had to stop this...
Alex heard a noise. A horrible bleating, a protest.
He turned.
It was a goat.
And as Alex watched, the poor creature was trussed up by a pair of the figures and stretched, screaming and terrified, over the altar.
And the knife went down on the creature’s belly and then its throat.
Blood sprayed across the table and down onto the cobblestones. The bleating stopped.
“All hail Satan!”
The cry went up. The gushing blood was caught in a chalice. The cup was passed around.
It was brought before the girl; she was marked in blood over her breasts—what the markings meant, Alex didn’t know.
But she was alive!
The chalice was passed again. It came to him.
He was supposed to drink.
He did.
It was amazing what terror and the will to survive could do for a man.
* * *
He didn’t vomit until he was back in his little cell.
He fell on his little cot, shivering and sick.
“Vickie, please, please, find me!” he said softly. “Please, please!”
He thought he might cry; he felt he should, but didn’t. He was too bewildered, too weary, after the night.
He just lay there. He tried to assure himself that help would come.
“One thing for sure, Vickie, if I make it out of here alive. This fellow is going to be a vegetarian! Maybe I’ll even be vegan!”
His cell had no windows, but he thought that it was late in the night when he finally slept.
He might be an agnostic, but he drifted off whispering the Lord’s Prayer.
And he couldn’t forget the woman, the beautiful, blonde woman standing there, obviously drugged, smeared in the blood as if...
As if she was being prepared for a time when it was her blood that would be spilled.
