by Eric Wilson
Again Clay’s face popped into her mind.
Okay, she knew this must be a good time to pray for her friend. That’s what this was all about—hearing God’s still, small voice, carrying on a daily relationship with her Maker.
God, you are good. If you’re prompting this girl to pray, that’s what I’ll do.
Turning on the pond’s flat rock, Clay found himself facing the backside of the Dixon residence. He tried to prepare himself for a horrendous disfiguration but saw nothing. Dry lawn stretched in both directions; rhododendrons circled the house; fifty yards away, a barn sheltered farm equipment and supplies.
Only Henna stood before him. Too slight of frame to hide a man at her back.
“Where is he, Henna?”
“He’s not here. Not in the way you think.”
Clay started toward the house. He’d had his fill of this ridiculous charade.
“I’m right here, Clay.”
Clay froze at Bill’s voice. Very close. Within arm’s reach.
“Yes, right in front of you,” the voice said. Coming from Henna’s lips.
Clay stumbled back, almost tripped. Choked for air.
Henna’s mouth opened again, moving in a manner discordant with her own form. Bill Scott’s voice was issuing from her, as though she were a life-size doll programmed with the wrong speech commands. “Did you really think I was Bill? How touching.”
“This is sick, Henna! You are not funny.”
“I’m not Henna. Though I do feel very connected with her.”
“Who are you then?”
“You saw my name at the apartment, where she’d carved it into the wax. An act of devotion that I found touching.”
Clay’s mental gears whirred. “Asgoth?”
“Yes, but it’s only an acronym. Unscramble the letters and you’ll understand.”
Clay could barely think of his own name.
“A-s-g-o-t-h. Do I have to spell it out for you, Mr. Ryker?” Asgoth’s voice was mocking, enjoying this moment of exposure. “Turn it around … A-g-h-o-s-t.”
“A ghost.”
“That’s right. You pretend to know bits of the Bible. Do I need to refresh your memory? It says that an evil spirit ‘leaves a person … goes into the desert, seeking rest but finding none … So it returns … finds seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they all enter the person and live there.… That will be the experience of this evil generation.’ ”
Clay had an urge to flee this perverse scene. He felt sick to his stomach, but he braced himself and said, “You’re Bill Scott’s ghost?”
“More or less. His demon, to put it more accurately. I worked with him, cultivated him, softened him for my purposes … and you stole him from me! You ruined my chances of success. Your little shove put an end to all my work in him. Of course, my goal for my friends is death anyway, but I seek it on my terms. Self-sacrifice.”
“Suicide?”
“That’s right. It’s our ultimate laugh in the face of him who sacrificed his Son for all. It’s my blood money. If I can’t convince my human friends to do themselves in, I don’t get my full share in the market.”
“The market?”
“This town. Junction City. The market of souls. Call it what you will.”
48
Digging Deeper
Clay’s skin crawled at the vehemence trickling from Henna’s lips. By her own volition, she’d given this demon freedom to manipulate her vocal cords to his purpose. Her face twisted into a mask of unnatural contours.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment, Clay.”
“What’ve you done to Henna? Henna? Can you hear me?”
“Oh, she hears you. But I’ve taken over the reins. When she discovered you were coming back to town, her obsession with you fired up all over again, and I promised to help her get to you. I have my own reasons too, as I’ve shared.”
“This is sick. I’m outta here.”
“No!” Asgoth whipped Henna’s hand forward, and it clamped with unnatural strength onto Clay’s shoulder. The deep voice continued to generate from Henna’s mouth. “I’ve anticipated this for too long to have you walk away. You need to hear this.”
“Please let me go.”
“You don’t know the turmoil you’ve caused me. Shut up and listen.”
“I’ll pass.” Clay’s heart had turned into a lump of motionless tissue. “Please.”
The voice grew snide. “Clay, I know you humans fear us, and well you should. Think about it. Only a third of the angels were thrown from heaven, which means we demons are the minority. Yet look at all the havoc we cause. Lies and deception—they’re our trade craft. If we can get you peeking under every bush, fearing us more than you fear God … Ha! That’s the ultimate thrill.”
“So you’re behind this? You gave me this ability to sense death dates?”
“Through Henna, yes.” Henna Dixon’s eyes were glassy, her lips moving with numb disconnection from her jaws. “She’s been a willing tool of mine.”
“You can’t work without her, can you? You need a … a host.”
“A host for a ghost?” Asgoth’s chuckle turned hollow, as though rising from a cavern. Henna’s limbs quivered, went limp, and she slumped to the grass. From her side a shape moved under night’s cover. Wispy and without depth, Asgoth rose tall in Bill Scott’s clothing. He was missing a shoe. Bill’s voice became strained.
“It takes energy to show myself. I prefer a host, but it’s not mandatory.”
“You don’t look right,” Clay said. “You look … shallow.”
“Usually only my victims get to see me—as I draw on their last traces of energy. You’re right,” Asgoth confided. “Bill’s clothes aren’t my style, but they’re what he left me at the riverbank. I never could find his other shoe, so I’ve had to hobble around in this foul thing.”
“You took his stuff?”
“Didn’t get an option. Few of us do. But at least I’m not tortured by corduroy jackets with elbow patches, like my partner Monde. He got stuck with the attire of a man who died on the cliffs at Heceta Head Lighthouse last winter.”
“Monde?” Clay turned the word in his head. “You mean … demon?”
“Aren’t you clever.”
Clay began muttering prayers as he twisted free from Asgoth’s grip. Here in the Dixons’ yard, at the edge of a pond in the darkness, he was facing a spirit that had plagued him for the past few weeks. One that had tormented his high school companion. Did this creature know the whereabouts of his wife and son? In hopes of unearthing a clue, Clay decided to poke at this demon’s pride.
“What’s with the silly names?” he jibed. “Couldn’t they give you something spooky or ancient? ‘A ghost.’ You sound so … generic.”
“I don’t have to justify myself to you, you runt.”
“You don’t have a real identity, do you? Without stealing one.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Bill Scott’s shape wavered, opaque and without substance. “You’re an ant in the grand scheme, Clay. An ant!”
Clay was trying to piece it together. “You took my belt buckle, didn’t you?”
“And your ID. I had Henna plant them for me. Our little attempts to drive you to the brink.”
“So you’ve been orchestrating the deaths to match the numbers?”
“One of my favorite pastimes.”
“But I’ve disrupted a few of them at least.”
“Did I say they were foolproof? We should never have overlooked Summer Svenson’s connection to Sergeant Turney. What a nuisance he’s been! But Blomberg was easy to exploit. Of course, people are always doing their own thing, stubborn little sheep that they are. The gift of human free will is a source of constant upheaval, and I don’t understand why the one who sacrificed his Son for all ever gave such a thing.”
“So you planned this all out? Summer and the Coateses? Rhea? Mako?”
“All my doing. Though Monde might try to take som
e credit. We’ve used any and all means at our disposal, some of them manufactured, some already set. Detective Freeman’s condition, for example? Worked like a charm.”
“What about Jason? Jenni? Is there a specific plan for them?”
“Nice try.” Asgoth wagged his finger. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
Clay could feel arrogance emanating from the vaporous being, could almost smell its desire to boast. Clay continued to prime the pump with questions. “What about my mother’s numbers? They’re years away.”
“I used hers to throw you off balance, to keep you guessing.”
“Kenny Preston. He broke your string, didn’t he?”
“He hid and survived. Don’t you just love kids? I’ll remember him in the future.”
“It’s not right to pick on a child.”
Asgoth’s mocking laugh caused his form to undulate, to dissipate. He kicked his one shoe at a dirt clod, lifting a few motes of dust and nothing more. “Since when have I agreed to play by the rules?”
“Why’d you choose Kenny anyway? Just an innocent kid.”
“Exactly. That’s why he was able to find the key.”
Clay thought of the chess piece in the wooden tube. “You mean the king.”
“Same thing. I’ve tried taking hold of it, but our heavenly rivals have been guarding the train for years. They’re like a curse! One even comes disguised as an old woman, just to taunt me.”
“You’re talking about Engine 418?”
“What else? Of course you have no idea why I should care, do you?”
Clay shook his head. Under his breath, he was petitioning God for help.
“I’ll have to hold on to a few of my secrets, Mr. Ryker.” For a fleeting moment, black caftan robes seemed to envelop Asgoth, but they washed away in the moonlight. “Don’t forget, my other goal with Kenny was to drive you over the edge. With some quick thinking, I used a shadow of Kenny’s form on the tracks to deceive you. You should’ve seen your face. So horrified! Monde is fairly adept at bird sounds, so he provided the shrieking whistle of the train.”
“I thought the kid was a goner.”
“And you were too caught up in self-pity to catch my mistake.”
Clay dredged up that macabre image. He saw the hollowness in the eyes, the lifeless pallor of the face, the unreal aspects of the temporary apparition.
“Kenny’s bike helmet,” he said. “You forgot to conjure it.”
“Ah, you figured it out. Finally.”
“And everyone who survived through August tenth, they were just decoys, weren’t they? Throwing the police off so I’d be on my own for Friday the thirteenth.”
“Can you think of a more fitting date? You’re next, Mr. Ryker. Save me the trouble, and take your own life.”
“You tried this once already, didn’t you?”
“No. You tried. And you failed.”
“I think God intervened.”
“Or maybe you simply failed again, as you do with everything. Business. Marriage. Can’t even kill yourself properly.” Asgoth shook his head. “This time I’ve got to have results. For the Consortium’s sake.”
“The Consortium?”
“The seven others. Smug, condescending creatures. They think they’re better than me. Well, I intend to prove them wrong. Once you’re gone, I’ll be free to go where I will. The floodgates’ll be opened.”
Clay had an urge to grab this demon, to shake it by the throat. But hadn’t he seen a train shoot right through it? He had no doubt Asgoth would dissipate in his grip. On a deeper level, one he’d tapped while on his knees at the chapel this morning, Clay felt an impulse to cry out a name. The same name he had called on in the black watery depths. The name above demons and ghosts, spirits and death.
It was a whisper. “Jesus.”
Gathering force in his throat. “You are Lord.”
Clay let the truth seep deep into his soul. “Jesus. You’re the only sacrifice!”
On the grass, Henna’s entire body jerked. Her mouth was a contorted shape, sucking in the blackness, providing a place of dark retreat. Asgoth’s specter shrank within Bill Scott’s clothing, whirled, then rotated into a funnel of soundless shapes and shadows that disappeared down the drain of Henna’s cavernous throat.
Henna smoothed her blond hair. “Did you speak with him?”
Clay stared at her. “With Asgoth? Yep, I sure did.”
“He’s a gentle spirit, isn’t he? A spirit guide, as some say. I may not see him directly, but I’m always aware when he enters a room. As I told you on the bus the day you arrived, ‘God works in many different ways.’ ”
“You’re very confused.”
“Enlightened,” Henna replied. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Where’s Jenni? Where’s Jason? I want my family back.”
“Have you forgotten what I told you? What Asgoth had me write in the note?”
“I know, I know.” Clay’s legs were weak. “Love comes at a price!”
“So true, don’t you think?”
“How do I know you have them? Maybe you’re bluffing.”
“After all that you’ve seen us accomplish, you still doubt us, Clay? Call her now. She’s with some of our … friends. They’ve been told to expect a call anytime after eight. Go on. She’ll pick up.”
Clay tore the cell phone from his pocket, hit redial. Before the second ring had sounded, Jason’s voice came on.
“Daddy!”
Then Jenni’s voice. Indignant. Full of fear. “Put him down!”
Clickkk … Someone hung up on him.
With every ounce of his strength, Clay resisted the depression lingering over him. He bit back the rage rising in his throat. “I’ll have your money, Henna.”
“I doubt that, Clay. We created these stipulations knowing you couldn’t meet them. Which means you’ll be responsible for their deaths. Tell me, where’re you going to get a hundred thousand dollars?”
“I’ll have it.”
“If not, your wife and son will die. Churches aren’t the only places that solicit donations to fund their outreaches. We need money to carry out the wishes of our spirit guides.”
“You’re opposing God.”
“We’re all one with God, Clay. Each of us is a god or a goddess.”
“So that gives you the right to decide between life and death?”
“It’s a position of great responsibility.”
“Yeah? What if another ‘god’ decides it’s your time to go? Your logic breaks down on so many levels.”
“Clay, I don’t expect you to understand. Just bring the cash—if that’s possible—along with the GPS unit. ‘To reunite as a pair, you’ll need a spring in your step.’ ”
“Okay, would you just tell me what that means?”
“A quiet little spot up the McKenzie River. We’ll meet at Belknap Springs. Keep an open mind, if you would. For years I’ve waited for you to pay me any heed, and I don’t want it to be a wasted opportunity.”
“I want my wife,” Clay said. “And my boy.”
Clay checked his bank account on the way home. The ATM receipt told him he had negative seventy-three dollars and change. Tomorrow’s paycheck hadn’t come soon enough to cover the bills he’d sent out on Monday.
Am I surprised? That’s what I get for trying to pay my bills on time.
He sped back to his parents’ place. Snatched the change from the candy bowl atop the refrigerator. Rummaged through the garage, found his flashlight and camp shovel. Loaded the stuff into the Duster’s backseat.
In the glow of the dash, he powered the GPS unit and cradled it in his lap.
The horrendous confrontation out on Lovelake Road, the sheer depth and depravity of one demon’s schemes had left him spiritually exhausted.
It had also filled his heart with a renewed sense of protection and providence. Despite the hardships and rough spots in his journey, Clay Ryker understood he walked with a God who was skilled a
t piecing together life’s puzzle. God had a plan—adjusting and strategizing, working with people’s choices, absorbing the grief and anger humans directed his way when their own decisions backfired.
God was history’s storyteller. A master novelist. A craftsman of suspense.
He never stopped working toward a good ending, but his chapters were cliff-hangers, and his twists and turns could take one’s breath away.
In Junction City the usually subdued streets still bore festival goers and late-night revelers. Clay stopped to fill the Duster with as much gas as his fistful of change would permit. He sent up a prayer—for angels to watch over this old beater. Then he headed south.
Highway 99 took him to Beltline Road, which joined him with Highway 126. Even now God’s hand was at work. Clay was forging ahead on the very road Gerald would be using for his McKenzie River fishing trip. Only hours would separate them, giving Clay a chance to anticipate Asgoth’s designs. Clay was also taking the route required to reach Jenni and Jason. In three hours, according to Henna’s instructions, he was to meet her at Belknap Springs off Highway 126. He would turn over the hundred grand and the GPS unit; in exchange, Henna would release his wife and son.
Henna didn’t know of Gerald’s fishing plans.
Gerald didn’t know of Henna’s schemes.
Neither of them knew of Clay’s own reason for heading this way. Years ago his friend Digs had earned a nickname without cognizance of the role he would play in today’s events. August 13, 2004.
Failure’s no option. It seems obvious God’s shifting these pieces into place.
Still, he decided, it wouldn’t hurt to have some backup. He dialed Sergeant Turney’s number to tell him about the encounter at Lovelake. Turney brushed aside any concerns about sleep and agreed to keep an eye on Henna’s movements.
On her beanbag Mylisha laid out the components of her Beaulieu Super 8 sync sound camera. More than one independent movie had been filmed successfully in this format. Oliver Stone had even used it in one or two high-budget movies, preferring its grainy and more realistic style.
She’d spoken to the school counselor; starting next week, she would audit introductory filmmaking classes. She’d bought the camera on eBay, as well as a Sony DAT recorder and an EWA Super 8 backwinder.
