by Mike Cranny
“You got to get me some help, Arch.” The voice was soft, pleading, no defiance now. “Gut shot is not good.”
Archie leaned forward, slid his SIG Sauer into his jacket pocket, no need for it now. He sat on the edge of the sofa.
“I have to find out what you did with Patsy, Stoney?”
Stoney tried to laugh.
“Oh — her — I figured you’d come for her. You got a thing for her. I could tell. Streya could too.”
“You want me to call an ambulance, Jim?”
Stoney groaned, squirmed against the pain.
“Arch — she wanted to go to Parcelle and that’s the truth. I dropped her off. They wouldn’t have done anything to her yet… Shit — I need help right away, man.”
“I reckon you do — you’ll be dead in an hour otherwise. What do you mean — they wouldn’t have done anything?”
He saw the fear in Stoney’s eyes.
“What’s going on, Stoney?”
“Things got fucked up. Somebody fucked up.”
He almost spat out the words.
“And Patsy?”
“They have her — for the ritual…two birds with one stone.”
“What ritual? And who fucked things up?”
“Everybody, everything, Archie — Jesus, this hurts.”
“Tell me quickly, Jim. Give me names. Then I’ll call for an ambulance.”
Stoney nodded and then started to talk, words in torrents. He said he’d taken Patsy to Monkey Beach. He spoke about meetings on Monkey Beach, about the sacrifices, about using human heads to focus cosmic energy. When he thought Stone had said all he was capable of saying, the old cop picked up the pace again, sometimes cursing, sometimes pleading. He told Archie about Brother Eli’s children — the sons and daughters of the prophet. He passed out before he could tell Archie their names. Archie walked over, felt for a pulse but Stone was dead.
For a few minutes, he sat on a chair and studied Stoney’s inert form, a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind. Then he got up, and made a quick search of the apartment. In Stoney’s small office he found a photograph of three young men and a boy, brothers maybe. He recognized Stoney right away — Arnie Bulkwetter and Tom Estes too. The boy looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place the face. At last, he was starting to understand. With his gloves on, he took the photo out of its frame. Then he dumped the frame into the wastepaper basket near the desk.
He had lingered long enough. Hurriedly, he wiped his prints off everything he might have touched and then, disguising his voice, he called for an ambulance from Stone’s phone. He went out using the fire escape. When he found the opportunity, he would need to lose the SIG in the deepest water he could find. Otherwise he’d likely have to fight a murder charge. He was amazed at how complicated his life had become. With Thomas Lee in hospital and himself a pariah at the station, he would have to go find Patsy alone. He had to get to Cat’s Cradle Island as soon as possible if he hoped to save her. He didn’t want to expose Pete to the risk. Archie would have to get a boat himself.
What had happened at Stoney’s had shaken him. He drove awhile, pulled off the highway as soon as he thought it safe to do so. His hands shook. His state of mind worried him. He felt disconnected from events and he hated the sensation.
He was thinking about his options when Streya Wainright called him. He knew that she had a runabout that would get him to the island; she might also know something about the Children of Eli that would help him find Patsy. Stone had said as much. Without thinking too much about the possible complications, he asked her. He was obscure about his true mission. She said she would come with him, that she would meet him at the dock at first light. He ended the call. A faint coyote smell lingered in the air.
CHAPTER 34
He had parked close to the wharf and was standing beside Pete’s pickup when Streya drove into the lot. She smiled when she saw him. She seemed cheery, unnaturally so. Her mood bothered him; he knew that it could change in an instant.
Fatigue plus what had happened at Stone’s had him in a strange otherworldly mental state anyway — moments of fitful sleep had been a theater for disturbing and confused dream fragments. He almost told Streya more but decided against it. Her good mood wasn’t likely to last considering how he planned to use her. He made some small talk; he was aware that she was searching his face and watching his eyes. He turned away, motioned towards her boat, a battered, 12-foot Zodiac. He had borrowed a machete from Pete’s truck and he placed it near the bow and then climbed aboard.
“I’m ready,” he said.
She took her seat at the outboard and he cast off.
“I appreciate that you’re giving me a lift. You didn’t have to come. A loan of the boat would have been enough.”
She smiled.
“I wanted to come. I hardly see you anymore.”
It took time to get to Cat’s Cradle Island and when they had arrived a heavy mist smothered the light of early morning, deadening all sound except for the soft burr of the zodiac’s ten-horse motor. Streya steered for the beach. Archie turned to look at her. She was bundled up in her jacket against the cold and damp, as silent as the fog. He was still not sure how much he should tell her, but he had no real reason to doubt her — just a strong feeling that to do otherwise would be a mistake.
When the bow sighed up onto the sand, she followed him out and together they hauled the craft above the high tide line. He grabbed the machete to help with brushing. For a few moments, they stood together, isolated from the silent world by damp air. Suddenly, she leaned in and hugged him and whispered that she loved him.
“I have to level with you,” he said.
She put her fingertips on his lips to silence him.
“I’m glad you came to me. I know this island. Where do you want to go?”
“I want to get up near New Jerusalem using the back way,” he said. “I thought you might know the trail.”
Her face darkened and she looked sad.
“I do but I want you to tell me why we are really here.”
He had no choice now. He had a hard time telling lies. He did his best. He told Streya about Patsy’s disappearance, said that he felt responsible for his detective and why he thought that she might be on Cat’s Cradle Island because of him. He said he thought she might be following up leads he’d told her about and that he had aroused her curiosity about New Jerusalem. If her boat had run into trouble, than the old settlement is where she’d head. He also told Streya that Patsy was defying department orders. Some of his explanation was true. Streya looked at him long and hard. Then she shrugged, repeated that she was glad to help, that he should forget that she had ever been jealous of Patsy.
He nodded.
“I didn’t know how much you knew about this place.”
“Maybe you should trust me more?”
She turned away and started up a faint trail. He followed her. She said she recognized the shape of the rocks, and the strange forms in the sandstone that had been carved by wind and wave. She said she knew where he wanted to go and set a good pace. She walked quickly, singing softly to herself as she went. The song was strange to him and he guessed it must be in Finnish. She anticipated him.
“It’s a folksong — kind of like a love song but tragic.”
“It’s nice. Has a religious sound, like a benediction or something.”
“Yes.” She laughed. “There isn’t any blessing in it.”
“It’s still pretty.”
“Lots of sad things are.”
She stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Promise me you’ll always be careful,” she said.
He felt powerfully attracted to her at that moment. He was losing whatever distance he had cultivated. She turned into him, raised her face, lips parted, her white teeth perfect — her hot breath from deep inside. She pushed into him, crushing her down jacket, bent her head up to his and kissed him. After a minute or more, she pulled away.
“I
liked that,” she said.
He looked into her eyes but saw something unpleasant within them. That seemed to break the spell. What the hell was he doing here with her? What craziness, or power, had brought him to this place in this way?
She laughed softly, saw the confusion in his face, he guessed. Then she eased past him, turned away from him and walked on. She seemed so sure of herself, sure of her directions, that he almost stopped her to ask her what was up but he kept the question to himself. He followed her like a stunned sheep.
The trail was clear enough but other trails led off of it, each of which was deep and well used. Streya glanced back and seemed to anticipate his question. She told him that she knew where she was going because she collected art materials on the island and aside from that she had a good head for directions. As for himself, he was deeply affected by the place, but whether from some ancestral memory, or because of the tone in his grandmother’s voice when she had warned him about the island, at Kokishilah, he couldn’t be sure.
“Be nice if the mist lifted,” he said. “It bothers me.”
Streya laughed.
“I thought you’d like it — makes everything more secret.”
He wondered what she meant by that.
“I don’t want to be seen, that’s true.”
She stopped suddenly and he almost ran into her.
“What if the Children of Eli get you, Archie?”
Her comment surprised him and he was on his guard immediately.
“You do know about this, don’t you?” she said.
“I don’t know anything. I know the Children used to be a force here, that’s all.”
She laughed. He hesitated, not sure now what he should say to her now. He decided to play innocent.
“I’ll worry about them on Halloween when the goblins come out.”
“You’re so transparent, Archie. I think you should be very careful — really.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I love you.”
He didn’t know what to say about that.
“I’ll be careful,” he said. “Let’s keep going.”
He should have told her he loved her — maybe he did. Another man would have. She turned towards him and gave him a look that he couldn’t interpret, sadness or madness — something. The trail had become less distinct. She stood aside, pointed towards a screen of cedars and to the path faint beneath them
“Can you hold the branches for me while I go through? I’ll follow you.”
He hesitated. Then he nodded, pushed aside some branches and started through. A branch whipped back on him and slashed him across his cheek. He wiped moisture from his eye, said, “Damn.”
She followed him in. She laughed, hard-edged, cruel. The suddenness of her mood change chilled him.
“Poor Archie,” she said.
She peered up at him, false concern in her eyes. He blinked hard, tried to focus, waved her off. She dipped her head in mock reverence and almost ran off through the thicket, disappearing almost immediately. He could hear her singing the Finn song as she travelled. The sound grew fainter and then all was silence. He called out after her, but if she heard him, she didn’t reply.
He tried to decide what to do; he hadn’t anticipated that he’d be searching for two women on the island. Streya couldn’t have gone far and she knew more about the island than he did. She might just be in one of her moods. He followed her trail deeper into the forest, listening for sounds of her.
She came up on him from behind, silently, and startled him. He turned, glared at her. She laughed, brushed back strands of red hair that had pulled loose out of her braid. Her blue eyes were very bright — beautiful and strange, her voice soft and seductive. She talked as though nothing had happened.
“I like it here, Archie — just you and me all alone in the fog. I like the fog. It cuts us off from the world and everybody else.”
But he was angry.
“I haven’t got time for tricks. A fellow officer is in danger.”
Streya’s face darkened.
“A fellow officer — ha, ha, ha. Patsy Kydd, your new love.”
The husky softness had gone from her voice. She looked into the forest as if she expected to see someone. He looked where she was looking but saw nothing but the darkness of the trees. She looked back at him and smiled, a nice smile, not crazy like the last.
“Don’t be silly. I’m getting soaked from this damned fog,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sure you are.”
She looked away.
“Rose Mountain is over there,” she said. “Do you know about that? We can’t see it because of the cloud but it’s there right up behind New Jerusalem. There are caves under Rose Mountain. They say the Children used them for their rituals. Very spooky.”
“So, I’ve heard.”
He drew the machete he’d brought out of its sheath, sized up the bush ahead, but she took the big blade from him before he could think. He tried to read the look in her eyes, tried to figure out what was on her mind, failed in that. She grinned.
“I need the workout. You can take over when I get tired.”
She took a tight grip on the machete, hacked the dense Ocean Spray down, legged over a fallen log and then disappeared once again into the fog. He took off his cap, scratched his head and then followed the noise of slashing until, suddenly, the sounds stopped. He called to her. When she didn’t answer, he picked up his pace, following the trail she’d put him on.
Emile Pared was waiting for him in a small clearing backed by a wall of rocks. Archie stopped. Wes Means was there too. Means laughed, said,
“This has been too easy.”
Archie, sliding his hand back to his belt for his SIG Sauer, inclined his head in Pared’s direction. Pared grinned.
“We’re everywhere, Stevens, you poor, dumb bustard.”
Archie stretched for the SIG, and didn’t find it. He was wondering if he’d dropped it on the trail and was silently cursing his bad luck, but then Streya appeared with the machete in one hand and his SIG Sauer in the other. The crazy look was back in her eyes. Pared walked to her and stood beside her. For the first time, Archie saw the resemblance, knew that they were brother and sister. That was a surprise.
CHAPTER 35
Archie watched as the robed figures lifted their goblets and drank from them. He recognized that the cups were made from the calva of human skulls and knew now that the stories he had heard were true. The Children of Eli went about their ceremonies in their Pavilion of Stars in a purposeful and practiced way. At times, they stopped and seemed to meditate or to go into a trance. At last, after a long series of prayers, they seemed to relax and began to talk amongst themselves as if they were at an ordinary meeting. Archie had recognized those from Harsley, including Chad Reddin and Mayor Tom Estes; the others must have come from elsewhere.
It was all so fantastic. Archie tried to think of an escape plan but the numbers against him seemed overwhelming and escape was not likely. He had been under guard since Streya and her brother had brought him to the Presbytery in New Jerusalem where they had turned him over to Arnie Bulkwetter, Chad Reddin and Lisa Wainright. They had refused to answer his questions. They had hustled him downstairs. Reddin had insulted him; Estes and Lisa had actually criticized him for not leaving well enough alone. Then they locked him in a cellar room, turned out the lights and left him alone.
Archie remained in the dark holding cell for a long time. At one point, he even fell asleep. When, at last, they came to get him, he felt more rested than he had for a long time. The Children, now hooded and robed, had taken him out of his cell. Then they had hustled him upstairs, outside and into a dark night. Archie was surprised; many hours had passed since his capture.
At first, he tried to talk to them but they seemed intent on their purpose and did not respond even when he mocked them. They bound his hands behind his back and then led him up a trail to the base of Rose Mountain and to
what appeared to be the entrance to a disused mine. That had led into a network of tunnels. Now he was in a large, natural cavern, its ceiling decorated with hanging, silver stars. He sat in an elaborately carved oak chair, upholstered in faded red velvet. They had lashed his wrists securely to the arms of the chair so that he could not move. Seated, robed figures surrounded him and he knew that he was the centerpiece of some ritual. There were several women there; he couldn’t tell which one was Streya though one of them certainly was. He was also sure that she had led the men who had tried to kill him during and after his dive in the waters off Monkey Beach.
The Children’s costumes and chants were supposed to impress and terrify, but Archie saw shabbiness mostly, as if the costumes had been bought at a thrift sale. The participants reminded him of amateur actors playing parts. A woman bent and arthritic seemed to be the leader of the fifteen or so devotees. She wore a purple robe and had concealed her face with a mask that modeled the face of a beautiful young goddess. The old woman called for silence. Her old voice was high-pitched and grating, not, Archie realized, unlike Arnie Bulkwetter’s.
“I speak for all the Worlds and all the Messengers. We will begin. Bring in the other.”
A hidden door opened in the wall of the cavern and several more robed figures entered dragging Patsy Kydd between them. One side of her face was bruised and blood had dried on the corner of her mouth. She looked surprised when she saw Archie and even tried to grin. They brought out another carved chair, dragged it over so that it stood beside his and forced her into it. When they had secured her, they stepped back and away from their captives.
Archie was immensely relieved that Patsy was still alive. She shot Archie a wry look.
“Don’t trust Stoney Stone,” she said. “That bastard is one of them.”
“He was one of them,” Archie said. “He’s dead now.”
“That’s the best news I’ve had all day. How did that happen?”
