8
Jack rubbed his grainy eyes as he crouched in the rhododendrons by the Castlemans' fence. Had to love rhodos—they provided the same cover year round.
His back ached and his butt was cold from sitting on the ground. He pulled his gym bag under him for insulation. The hard irregular lumps of the tools inside were almost as uncomfortable as the ground. Had to remember to bring a cushion tomorrow night.
He'd spent hours observing the Castlemans' home life and so far hadn't seen a hint of anything even remotely violent. Or remotely interesting. These were not exciting people.
Skinny little Ceil apparently had got home shortly before Jack arrived. Schaffer had said his sister worked for a small publishing house in Manhattan. The little kitchen TV was on—Jack recognized Eyewitness News—and she was pouring herself a stiff vodka. She watched the news as she started slicing and dicing for dinner; she'd smoked three cigarettes and downed another vodka by the time big Gus Castleman came in from a hard day of accounting at Gorland Industries. He peeled off his suit coat and went straight to the fridge. Maybe he grunted hello to Ceil; Jack couldn't be sure. Sure as hell no hello kiss. Gus pulled out two Bud Lights and sat down before the family room TV—Jack couldn't see what he was watching.
When dinner was ready Gus came to the kitchen table and they ate watching the TV. After dinner, more TV. Gus fell asleep around ten. Ceil woke him up after the 11:00 news and they both went to bed.
Such was life at the Castlemans'—boring to live, excruciating to watch. But Jack had a rule about being sure of a situation before he did a fix. After all, people lied. Jack lied to most people every day. Schaffer could be lying about Gus, might want him laid up for something that had nothing to do with his sister. Or Ceil might be lying to her brother, might be telling him it was Gus who gave her those bruises when all along it was some guy she was seeing on the side. Or Schaffer and Ceil could be conspiring against Gus ...
Jack smiled and shook his head. Less than one day with the SESOUP folk and already he was hunting up conspiracies.
Whatever, Jack needed to be sure Gus was doing what his brother-in-law said he was before he made a move on him.
But so far Gus was just boring and inattentive. That didn't rate hospital-league injuries.
If something was going to break here, Jack wanted it to happen before Sunday. Clocks were due to get pushed ahead then and the extended daylight would make surveillance a lot tougher.
Calling it a night, he crept back to the street. As he headed for his rented sedan, he heard the hum of a car engine growing behind him. He tensed. Cops, maybe? He continued strolling along with his gym bag over his shoulder, doing his best to look like a local on his way back from a late night work-out. Trouble was, the bag wouldn't withstand even a cursory inspection: under the sneakers and sweatsuit lay a full set of burglar tools and a special .45 ACP automatic.
Jack didn't turn, didn't give a hint he'd even heard the car until it came even with him. Then he glanced over, real casual like, preparing to nod and give a friendly little neighborly wave.
The car was passing under a streetlight—a black Lincoln Town Car, a later model than the one he'd seen in Monroe. And the two guys in the front seat weren't cops. Jack wasn't sure what the hell they were: Ditko characters with pale faces, black suits, white shirts, black ties, and black hats with the brims pulled low over dark glasses.
Dark glasses? It was edging toward midnight.
The driver was closer, staring straight ahead, but the passenger was leaning forward, studying Jack. Without changing speed, it glided past and cruised on down the street.
Just two guys dressed like the Blues Brothers.
So how come they left him with a case of the creeps?
IN THE WEE HOURS
Roma ...
Salvatore Roma paced the narrow, ill-lit space between the antique boilers in the hotel basement.
It's beginning, he thought.
He could feel it, but it was building so slowly.
Patience, he reminded himself. Patience. You've waited so long already, you can wait a little longer now.
Mauricio had made room for himself on a low shelf. He rummaged in the white plastic shopping bag he'd brought along and removed a human finger. He held up the severed digit for Roma to see.
"Look at that fingernail," he said in the Old Tongue, his tone dripping contempt. The nail was very long, perfectly shaped, and painted a bright fuchsia with a diagonal turquoise stripe. "Where do they get the idea that this is attractive?" He bit into the nail with his sharp teeth and wrenched it free, exposing the raw nail bed. He spat it back into the bag. "I'm glad their time is up. I hate them."
Roma watched with amusement as Mauricio began to gnaw on the bloody stump of the finger, tearing off bits of flesh with quick, jerky movements. He could tell that his old companion was in a foul mood. Roma said nothing. He knew more was coming.
"As I am sure you can tell," Mauricio said finally, "I'm very upset with this recent turn of events."
"Really?" Roma hid a smile. He was fond of Mauricio but wished he had a sense of humor. "You hide it so well."
"I'll thank you not to mock me. You should not have admitted that stranger. The instant I laid eyes on him I knew he was trouble."
"And how, pray tell, did you know that?"
"I felt it. He is a wild card, an unexpected, unquantified element who spoke not a word of truth. You should have ejected him and not allowed him to set foot through the door for the rest of the weekend."
"That was my first impulse as well, but I had a change of heart."
"The hotel was supposed to be filled with sensitives—at least one in every room. He now has one of those rooms."
"True, and I believe he may be a sensitive himself."
Mauricio had gnawed the finger's proximal phalanx clean. He cracked the bone in half and began sucking out the marrow.
"Oh? And on what did you base that decision?"
"The fact that he is marked. You noticed that, I assume."
"Of course. Immediately. But he is not merely 'marked,' he is scarred, and that means he has fought the Otherness—fought and survived."
"'Fought' is a loaded term, Mauricio. He was most likely just an innocent bystander, a wounded civilian."
"Perhaps, but the very fact that he survived bothers me—bothers me very much. He could be working for the enemy."
Roma laughed. "Do not be such an old woman, Mauricio. We know the enemy's agents and he is not one of them."
"We know only of the Twins. How do we know there are not more? I say we should call this off."
Roma felt his amusement fade, replaced by irritation. "I wish to hear none of that. You have been against this plan from the start and you will latch onto any excuse to abort it."
Mauricio had finished with the first phalanx. He tossed the bone fragments back into the sack, then went to work on the rest of the finger.
"I've tried to discourage you for good reason. I was put here to advise you, remember?"
"To serve me, Mauricio."
The monkey glared at him. "I serve the Otherness, as do you."
"But I am The One. I decide, you facilitate. Do not forget that."
They'd had this argument before—many times. Mauricio had been sent to aid him, but over the years he had come to see himself as a mentor. Roma resented that. No one on this plane had worked longer in service of the Otherness than he. He had learned the hard way, through pain, imprisonment, even death, and the last thing he needed was someone offering half-baked advice, especially at this late date.
Mauricio said, "Why won't you listen to me when I tell you this whole plan is premature? You are too impatient."
"Impatient? I have waited ages—literally ages—for this. Do not dare call me impatient!"
"Very well then: You are not impatient. But you have not dealt with The Lady, and the signs are not quite right yet."
They are right, Roma thought, because I say they are right.
br /> "The Lady does not matter."
"And why here?" Mauricio went on. "New York is too crowded. Too many variables, too many ways for something to go wrong. Why not somewhere in the desert? A hotel in, say, Nevada, or New Mexico?"
"No. I want it here."
"Why?"
"I have my reasons."
Mauricio hurled the partially eaten finger across the room and leaped to the floor. He shot upright to stand on his hind legs. His usually high-pitched voice dropped two octaves as he abandoned his capuchin monkey guise and expanded to his true self—a powerful, bull-chested, midnight-furred creature with blood-red eyes, standing four feet tall,
"You're not allowed reasons! You are The One. You are here to open the way. It is your duty and your destiny. Personal vendettas have no place in your life!"
"Then someone else should have been chosen," Roma said calmly, coldly. "Not someone with a past—a long past. Not someone with scores to settle. But there is no one else on this plane with the capacity to make the choice. So if I say it begins here, then here is where it will begin."
"I see I have no say in the matter," Mauricio said sullenly. He shrank into the capuchin guise again. "But mark my words well: I still think this is premature—the wrong time as well as the wrong place—and that it will end badly. I also think allowing that stranger in was a mistake. He's an enemy. And a terrible dresser."
Roma laughed, glad to ease the tension between them. Mauricio needed to be put in his place every so often, but he was too valuable an ally to alienate. "Admit it, Mauricio. That is what really bothers you about him, isn't it."
"Well, after all, did you see that hideous warm-up he wore? Absolutely dreadful." He looked Roma up and down. "How about your new suit? Any compliments on it?"
"Many." Not that he cared in the least.
"See? I told you—"
Roma held up his hand. "Wait!" A tingle began running over his skin. "Feel it? It's happening ... the power is growing, building. Any moment now."
A portal would be opening soon. And as it did, he could only imagine what was going on with the sleeping sensitives racked on the floors above him. The last place he'd want to be right now was in their dreams. He almost felt sorry for them.
Almost.
Olive ...
... awakens to the sound of chanting. She forces her eyes open and gasps.
Hooded forms, thirteen of them, crowd around her bed, each holding a thick black candle. She screams but only a muffled squeak struggles past the cloth gag bunched in her mouth. She tries to move but her hands are tied behind her and she's bound to the bed.
Panic detonates within as she realizes her rings are gone, and the crucifix has been taken from around her neck.
"Did you think you could be saved, Olive?" says a voice.
It echoes from one of the forms but she can't tell which because their faces are lost in the inky shadows within their cowls. It sounds like her father's voice, but that can't be ... he's dead—he died ten years ago.
She begins to pray. Our Father, Who art in Heaven ...
"Yes," says the voice, "I really do believe she thinks she's saved. Pathetic, isn't it."
Laughter from the other forms, male and female voices, mocking her.
"Let us remind you why you can never be saved," says the voice. "Let us take you back and show you why the face of God will be forever turned from you."
Olive screams through her gag. Not that! Oh, please, not that again!
She feels herself shrinking, the gag popping out of her mouth, the cords on her hands and feet falling away, to be replaced by bands of duct tape winding around her body, pinning her arms to her sides and her legs together. She tries to scream again but she has no voice here. The hotel room melts away, leaving her in a dank subcellar lit by smoky torches.
And she knows this place, oh, dear God, she remembers every detail of the horrors that were perpetrated here. For years, decades, she had no memory of these events, but gradually, through many sessions with her memory recovery therapist, she unlocked doors that had been sealed shut by her protective brain. One after another they opened and she learned what had happened to her.
And her father was the villain. After the divorce, her Bible-toting mother had filled her ears with maledictions about his drunken, no-account ways, yet still Olive had to spend every other weekend with him. And on one of those weekends, he and some of his friends dragged her along to one of their "services" ...
And now she sees the subcellar more clearly than ever before ... almost as if she's there ...
Suddenly she realizes that she is here. They're not going to make her remember ... she's five again and she's going to relive the horror.
No-no-no-no-no! PLEASE NO!
But she cannot turn away, cannot even close her eyes. It's all here—the pentagrams and inverted crosses painted in blood on the walls. Straight ahead lies a huge marble block, dripping red. In the high, deep fireplace to the right, something that looks like a monkey is turning on a spit.
A goblet is pressed to her lips.
"Drink!" says her father's voice.
When Olive sees the thick red fluid within, and sniffs the coppery odor, she turns her head away in revulsion.
"Drink!" the voice commands.
Her head is grabbed and tilted back, her jaws forced open; thick, warm, salty liquid pours into her mouth. She coughs, gags, but they keep pouring. She feels it running over her face, clogging her nostrils, she must swallow or drown, swallow or drown ...
Olive swallows, gasps, tries to vomit it back up, but they squeeze her throat and keep it down.
Then she's dragged to a table—a rough wooden bench, really—and watches as one of the hooded figures slices flesh from the monkey turning on the spit ... a chubby little thing with an unusually large head for a monkey. The flesh is laid before Olive. They don't even give her a chance to refuse it. The greasy meat is thrust into her mouth, then her jaws are forced shut and her nostrils pinched.
Again—swallow or suffocate.
She swallows.
Still gagging, she is carried to another corner of the room where a huge sow lies spread-eagled on a stone block. Its throat has been slit; its many-nippled abdomen has been opened and all the organs removed. Olive is folded into the red stinking cavity, her head in the pelvis, her feet against the diaphragm. She kicks and screams and twists as they sew the skin flaps closed, but to no avail. Soon she is entombed in the wet, suffocating darkness.
Never in her life, before or since, has Olive been so terrified, so mortally sick with fear and loathing. She is sure she is going to die. Past her sobs and whimpers she hears muffled chanting around her. The rotten air clogs in her throat. She can't breathe.
As a roaring grows in her ears and bright spots flare before her eyes, she feels a pair of hands gripping her head, the fingers curving under her jaw and pulling. Darkness still engulfs her. Where did the hands come from?
The hands pull, harder and harder, until she is sure her head will come off. She kicks toward the pressure and suddenly she's moving, squeezing through a tight, tight passage, and then there's air! Who'd have thought this dank subterranean air could smell so sweet? She sucks deep drafts as the rest of her body is pulled free of the sow through the space between its legs.
The chanters cheer and tear off their robes. They are naked beneath, and now they dance and drink and go into a rutting frenzy—men with women, women with women, men with men.
Child Olive squeezes her eyes shut while adult Olive thinks about all that followed after she regained these memories. She remembers confronting her father as he lay dying of cirrhosis—despite his toxic state, he gave a great performance of wounded incredulity. And even his mother, who hated the man and never had a good word to say about him, declared that he never could have been a part of such horrendous doings.
Lies, all lies.
Olive went to the local police. They investigated but could find no evidence of such a cult. Of course not. How
could they? The evidence was three decades old.
Then she heard that the FBI was investigating the wave of reports of Satanic ritual abuse sweeping the country. Olive told them her story. The agents were properly sympathetic, and dutifully took down her information, but their investigation also yielded nothing.
How could that be? she wondered in all her naiveté. How could one of the finest crime fighting organizations in the world find no evidence of such a widespread cult?
When she went back to the federal office and insisted that they keep looking, one of the investigators took her aside. He told her that they'd investigated hundreds of these claims and had yet to find any corroborating evidence. They'd combed through houses where others with recovered memories claimed that dozens of children had been ritually abused and sacrificed, and had found not a trace of blood. He even went so far as to suggest to Olive that what she remembered most likely never happened, that it was something called false memory syndrome, instilled by suggestions from her memory recovery therapist.
Olive thanked him very much ... and fled the building.
Because then she knew ... the very people she was turning to for help were part of the problem. This was bigger than she ever had imagined. Higher-ups in the government were linked to a powerful worldwide network of murderous satanic pedophiles and pornographers who destroyed all evidence when they could, and planted disinformation when they could not. And when that didn't work, the Lord of Evil protected them—Satan himself implanted distortions in the brains of survivors, to make them seem like poor delusional fools.
A filigree of deceit encasing the world, concealing the truth ...
Abruptly Olive is no longer lying on the floor. She feels sheets around her, a mattress against her back. And she is no longer a child.
She opens her eyes. She is back in her hotel room, and the Satanists are gathered again around her bed.
"So you plainly see, Olive," says her father's mocking voice, "why you can never be saved. You have drunk human blood and eaten human flesh. In God's eyes you are a blight on His creation, you are anathema. You will be cast into hell where we can all be together—for eternity!"