Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  His hands trembling, Waxman shut and locked the door as soon as Bellamy was inside. "Are you sure you weren't followed?" the fat man asked.

  "Yes," Bellamy said.

  Waxman grimaced. "No, you're not. I mean, you think you are, but you can't be."

  "But nobody even knew I was coming to see you," Bellamy said reasonably. Actually, his statement wasn't quite true. Naturally he'd told Linus Hanson, his supervisor, that Waxman had phoned him. But it was close enough to the truth as to make no difference. "So it's logical to assume that no one would even try to tail me.

  Right?"

  Waxman's face twisted as if he was struggling not to cry. "I don't know! They have ways of discovering things, ways we can't understand." He grabbed the bottle of mint chocolate liqueur, raised it to his lips, and glugged down a long drink.

  "Mr. Waxman," Bellamy said, "I understand that your employer's murder came as a terrible shock, but I honestly don't think that you need to feel so afraid. So far the Atheist has always hit a site once and then moved on, usually to a different state. And he generally kills high-profile types like priests, nuns, and ministers, not people who work behind the scenes like you.

  "But if you do have some legitimate reason to think you're in danger, if you held something back when we spoke before, then you owe it to yourself to tell me now. Once I understand the problem, I can protect you."

  "But how? Eric was the only one who ever could. I was the watchful eye and he was the strong right arm, that's what we used to say. Maybe now the only way to be safe is to lie low. Maybe if I don't tell on them, they won't come after me."

  "You mean, let the Atheist get away with cutting Reverend Weiss's heart out? From the way you talk, I thought you liked him."

  Waxman's piggy eyes glared. "Of course I did! Eric Weiss was my friend! The only one who was never afraid of me, who never looked down on me for being different."

  "Then help me catch his killer."

  Waxman hesitated, and then finally said, "All right. I do have to do something, or I'll hate myself for the rest of my life. And maybe you can stop the killing. Sometimes they jump to this side of the Shroud. They have to, to hurt us, but maybe at that point you could hurt them back. And I've heard that the government has secret information. Secret weapons. Maybe your superiors will know about that end of it."

  Inwardly, Bellamy sighed. Obviously, Waxman wasn't just drunk. He was crazy. Not that that came as any big surprise. The guy had been in and out of psych wards as a kid, and the FBI man had spotted him for a flake at their first meeting. If Bellamy hadn't already established beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Waxman had been visiting his mother in Seattle at the time of Weiss's murder, he would have wondered if the fat man might not be the serial killer himself.

  But despite Waxman's manifest lunacy, Bellamy still intended to listen to his story. What the hell, he'd traveled hundreds of miles to hear it. And it was just conceivable that he might discover some legitimate information mixed in with the raving. "Shall we sit down?"

  Waxman nodded. "Yes. That's a good idea." He carefully inserted his wide butt between the arms of a dilapidated chair, one within easy reach of the bottles on the table.

  Bellamy perched opposite him on the sagging bed. The springs squeaked. "I want you to know I admire you for having the courage to come forward, Mr. Waxman. You won't be sorry. Now tell me what you know and how you know it."

  "If it's going to be any use," Waxman replied, "you have to put aside your prejudices. I'm not stupid. I know you know about Reverend Weiss's drinking and womanizing, and the investigations for tax evasion and mail fraud, I know what you must believe. Eric was no better, no different than any other tel—" he faltered, stumbling over the word—"televangelist, milking his viewers for millions of dollars in 'love offerings.'"

  "I won't deny that, based on what I've learned about him so far, I don't particularly admire him," Bellamy replied, "but I promise you, my personal opinion doesn't matter. He was the victim of a heinous crime, and I'm absolutely committed to catching his killer."

  Waxman's mouth twisted. In the dimness, the expression made his round, shiny face resemble an angry, misshapen moon. "That's not the point. I—" Suddenly he stiffened, then peered wildly about. "Did you hear that? Did you feel it?"

  "No," Bellamy said.

  After a moment Waxman's shoulders slumped. "Neither do I, now." He peered at the bottle in his hand. "I shouldn't do this. It takes away the only edge I have. But I keep feeling like I'm strangling, and my heart keeps pounding and pounding in my chest. I need something to calm me down." He took another swig.

  "You were telling me about Mr. Weiss," Bellamy said.

  Waxman nodded. "Yes. He had his weaknesses. Who doesn't? But they were trivial compared to the good he did. He truly did have the power of God inside him. He healed people, and when it was necessary, he cast out devils."

  And always with a camera rolling, Bellamy thought. Two days ago, trying to get a sense of the victim, he'd watched one of the "exorcisms" on tape. What with the floating objects and the shadowy figures fading in and out of view, Weiss had put on a pretty good magic act, though nothing for David Copperfield or Penn and Teller to lose any sleep over.

  "And I helped him," Waxman continued. "He could hurt the demons, hurt them so badly they ran back to Hell, but most of the time, he couldn't see what they were up to. I could, because I'm a sensitive. A clairvoyant. We told the outside world I was just his secretary because we didn't want anyone getting the wrong impression. Some people might have thought that he was consorting with a witch." He peered at Bellamy as if expecting a reply.

  "That's very interesting," the agent said.

  "Don't patronize me!" Waxman snapped. "You don't believe. You're not even trying to keep an open mind."

  Bellamy sighed. "I'm sorry if my skepticism bothers you, Mr. Waxman.. I don't mean any disrespect for you or your beliefs. But I'm a detective, and a detective is a kind of scientist. We operate on the basis of facts, not faith or colorful speculations. As far as I know, there isn't any hard evidence supporting the existence of demons or psychic phenomena. And I can't help asking questions like, if you do have ESP, why did you need to peek through the peephole to see who was on the other side of the door?"

  "Because the power doesn't work all the time," Waxman replied. "It gives me flashes of insight. Symbols. Fragments. And it gets hazier when I'm like this." He took another long drink, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

  Bellamy wondered how anyone could guzzle so much sweet, syrupy liqueur. He was getting queasy just watching. "Maybe so. In any case, my personal beliefs about spooks and visions don't matter either. What's important is that I'm listening. If you can give me one new fact, one lead, I'll follow it up no matter where it takes me."

  "All right," sighed Waxman. "I've already put my head in the noose, just by asking you here. I suppose I might as well finish what I started. But you'd better follow up. You remember that I was the one who found Eric's body."

  "Of course," Bellamy said.

  "I told you exactly how it happened," Waxman said. "I didn't lie. But what I didn't say was that when I smelled the blood, I started having visions. I saw the black whirlpool."

  "You just lost me," Bellamy said. "What does that mean?"

  "You have to understand," Waxman said, "Eric and I fought the devils, but we didn't know much more about them than what we needed to know. Even when the spirits try to tell you things, it puts your soul in peril to listen to their lies. But over the year, I couldn't help picking up a little. And I found out that even the most dangerous demons are afraid of a terrible dark emptiness at the very bottom of Hell, a black pool that sucks down anything that comes too close. I think it might be Satan himself."

  "And that's what you saw."

  "Yes, Waxman said. "The whirlpool destroys anything that falls into it. Nothing can ever climb back out. But in the vision, something did, a host of shadows with the faces of animals and corpses, who walked uns
een among their fellow spirits. And a voice warned me that the fiends had risen from the depths to kill and damn a million souls. Your 'Atheist' murders are only the beginning."

  "Interesting," Bellamy said. "If these creatures are haunting the earth, do you know where they are right now?" It still seemed remotely possible that Waxman knew something about a real human killer, someone he'd identified with his imaginary bogeymen.

  The fat man shook his head.

  "Are you aware of any threats against Mr. Weiss's life, or any strange occurrences in the days leading up to the murder?" Bellamy persisted. "Something you neglected to tell me before?"

  "No," Waxman said.

  So much for this, then, Bellamy thought, the first twinge of a headache throbbing in his temples. This'1I teach me to be so gung-ho. I could have arranged for a local cop to waste his time on this fruitcake. I could be home in bed. "Well, then, I guess we're finished. Thank you for the information. You know how to contact us if you think of anything else."

  "That's it?" Waxman demanded. "What are you going to do with what I told you?"

  "Report it to my superior," Bellamy said, rising from the bed, "as you suggested.

  He'li decide how best to follow up."

  Grunting, Waxman struggled out of his chair. Bellamy wondered if the fat man meant to physically restrain him from leaving. "I told you, don't bullshit me! Whether you believe me or not, you promised to protect me!"

  Bellamy sighed. "And I would if I thought you needed it. But try to look at the situation logically. What have you actually told me? Just that a mysterious gang of spirits are committing the Atheist murders. Even if that's true, it's pretty vague, and even if the devils somehow learned that you passed along the information, I doubt they'd feel that you'd done them any real harm. If you can't get over feeling frightened, maybe you should see a doctor. He could prescribe you something for your nerves."

  "I don't need medication!" Waxman snarled. "I need—" He jerked around toward the door, the liqueur bottle tumbling from his hand to thud on the linoleum. He let out a shriek and backpedaled frantically, blundering into Bellamy and nearly knocking him down.

  The FBI agent flailed his arms and recovered his balance. Reflexively reaching for the Browning Hi-Power in his shoulder holster, he pivoted toward the door, only to see that it was still shut, the chain still engaged. Nothing had come through it. Evidently Waxman was hallucinating.

  Bellamy scowled, annoyed at the jolt of anxiety that had sent the adrenaline buzz tingling through his hands. He shouldn't have let Waxman spook him, not when he already knew the guy was nuts.

  At least Waxman was no longer blocking the way out. But Bellamy couldn't just leave the "sensitive" alone in this miserable place, not now that he'd lost it completely. He'd have to get him to a hospital. The agent moved to where the other man was cowering against the back wall, reflecting that he was lucky his informant, if that was still the proper term, hadn't decided to lock himself in the bathroom. "It's okay," he murmured.

  "No!" Waxman gibbered. "No, it isn't! It came through the wall! It knows I told!"

  "You have to trust me," Bellamy said. "There's nothing there."

  "There is!" Waxman insisted. He clutched Bellamy's forearm, his plump fingers gripping painfully tight.

  At the contact Bellamy's head swam, and his vision blurred. When the dark room swam back into focus, it looked subtly different. Puzzled, he squinted, and spotted an additional shadow looming between the window and the door. A gray- black form roughly the height and shape of a man, with pale streaks like glaring eyes and pointed fangs gleaming dully in its long, narrow head. Bellamy gasped and jerked backward. The apparition vanished.

  "You see it too!" Waxman said.

  No, I didn't, Bellamy insisted to himself. I just caught a touch of your craziness for a second. Gently but firmly, he extricated his arm from Waxman's grasp. "Maybe I did see it," he said. "And I don't want to stay locked in here with it, do you?"

  Waxman shook his head.

  "Then let's leave. I'll take you somewhere safe."

  "But we'd have to walk right past it!"

  "We're only a few feet away from it as it is," Bellamy said. "And so far, it hasn't tried to hurt us. Maybe it can't yet. Maybe it's gathering its strength. We should getaway from it before it does. Come on, I'll take care of you." He took hold of Waxman's arm and tried to lead him forward.

  The psychic yelped and resisted, pressing himself against the wall. Then to heck with this, Bellamy thought. There's no way I'm going to manhandle a guy this big out of here againsthis will, not by my self. I'm calling the local cops for backup. But then Waxman sobbed, squinched his eyes shut, and lurched forward.

  Bellamy guided the other man across the room. He tried not to move hesitantly. Assuring himself repeatedly that there was nothing blocking his path, he fought the urge to pull his gun. He struggled not to imagine the phantom intruder clawing at his eyes, or flinging its long gray arms around him and burying its teeth in his throat.

  When, after what seemed an eternity, his fingers closed on the cool brass security chain, the tension quivered out of his muscles. Now smiling ruefully, he thought, I need to get more sleep. Or drink less coffee. His psych instructors at Quantico had taught him that hysteria could be contagious; but until tonight, he'd never imagined that he himself might be susceptible.

  He and Waxman stepped into the night. The nude pink neon woman on the roof of the topless bar winked at them over and over again, as if she had a tic. A convertible with a crushed fender and no muffler snarled down the street. The pollutants in the air stung Bellamy's eyes. Still, after the claustrophobic confines and imaginary terrors of the dark little room, the scene seemed almost pleasant.

  "Is it following us?" Waxman whispered.

  Now that his own irrational dread had subsided, Bellamy felt a surge of pity for his charge. It must be awful to feel that scared all the time. "No, it stayed inside. Everything's fine. My car's right over here." He reached into his pocket for the keys.

  A low growl rumbled through the night, and then a black form rose from behind the Camry. The process seemed to take forever, as if the shape were huger, taller, than it had any right to be.

  Bellamy recoiled, unconsciously letting go of Waxman, fumbling for his automatic. He knew he was staring straight at the shape s—the creature's—face, and yet somehow, he couldn't see it. Because it was too horrible to see.

  Now Waxman was goggling at it too. He made a faint whining sound, then clutched at his chest and collapsed.

  The creature bounded lightly over the car. It glided forward, arms outstretched.

  Bellamy fired a single shot, then bolted. With each stride, he felt the world slipping away, his thoughts dissolving into chaos like a radio signal breaking up into static. Soon the crackle and hiss of the white noise swallowed everything.

  Blind, cold, and weary, Montrose wondered grimly just how long he'd been in the water. It felt like days. He wondered if he'd ever experience light and air again. Fearful that someone would shoot him, he'd discarded his cumbersome robe, When he became aware again, he was crouched trembling and weeping in the corner of a convenience store, between a freezer and the wall. The barrel of his pistol gleamed in the harsh fluorescent light. When a cop spoke to him, in the same kind of soft, soothing voice he'd used with Waxman, he shrieked and nearly shot him.

  pistol, and boots, then swum what he judged to be a good distance away from the Belleisle before striking for the surface, only to discover that the boundary between ocean and air didn't exist anymore. He'd kicked and stroked upward for what surely must have been hours, and the water had never grown a whit less black.

  Such a prodigy was possible because the Sea of Shadows wasn't simply an ocean. Rather, it was a manifestation of the Tempest, the eternal storm that surrounded and underlay the rest of creation, an unstable, hyperdimensional labyrinth where natural law didn't exist, and any condition at all could come to be. Evidently Montrose had blundered into an ar
ea where space curved back on itself, creating the illusion of a universe completely full of water.

  He ought to be able to navigate his way through. That was the fundamental purpose of the Harbinger's art. But the Arcanos wasn't infallible, and so far he hadn't had any luck.

  At least the Restless didn't need air, food, or, in the general run of things, sleep. But he suspected that if he were trapped in this hellish place for too long, he'd run into a Spectre or one of the other terrors infesting the Tempest. Unarmed, sightless, and floundering in the water, he'd be easy prey. And if the monsters didn't get him, despair or madness surely would, whereupon he'd plummet into the Void.

  Once again he labored to project his awareness as stooped, crotchety Adrain, his Harbinger teacher, had taught him: looking for currents and eddies, gaps and folds in the fabric of existence. And at last he sensed something, too distant for him to determine precisely what, below him and off to the right.

  Excited, but wary as well—Spectres frequently lurked in the vicinity of Byways and gates, hoping to snare unwary travelers—Montrose swam in the indicated direction. A gray smudge of phosphorescence bloomed in the murk ahead, so faint that at first he wondered if his light-starved eyes were playing tricks on him. But then the glow grew larger and brighter, making him squint, changing from a dingy blur to a sharply defined white oval floating untethered and unsupported in the depths.

  There didn't seem to be any creatures lurking around it. Eventually Montrose breaststroked near enough to determine that it was about four feet high and a yard across. And almost certainly a portal of some kind. This close, he could make out the patterns of fractured space coiling around it, like loops of iron filings defining a magnetic field. He tried to sense what lay on the other side, but to no avail. He wasn't surprised. It was relatively easy for a Harbinger to peek into the Tempest from outside, but usually impossible to spy from one section of the infinite storm to the next.