Maker's Song 3 Beneath the Skin
Page 23
CALLER ONE:
Hey, Mike, a big fan here. You always tell it like it is!
JILL CARR:
Thanks, it’s a dirty job, but some-one’s gotta do it. Am I right?
CALLER ONE:
Damned straight, man! I live in Portland, but a good buddy of mine lives just outside Damascus and he saw them northern lights just before dawn on March 25. He grabbed his digital camera and took pictures too!
MIKE CARR:
Fantastic! Is there any way your buddy can send us the photos?
CALLER ONE:
I’m sure he wouldn’t have a problem with it, Mike. I think he’d be honored! As soon as he gets back from his vacation, I’ll let him know you’d like him to e-mail the pictures.
MIKE CARR:
Vacation? In March?
CALLER ONE:
Yeah, well, he and his family usually take their vacation the end of summer so as to avoid the crowds, y’know? But I guess they decided to go early this year.
MIKE CARR:
Did your buddy tell you this?
CALLER ONE:
(hesitates) No, not exactly. He had a message on his answering machine saying they were all on vacation.
JILL CARR:
I have another caller on the line.
MIKE CARR:
Stay on the line there, partner, okay?
CALLER ONE:
Okay …
MIKE CARR:
Let’s see what Caller Two has to say. Go ahead, Caller Two, you’re on the air and speaking with Mike Carr.
CALLER TWO:
I saw what was going on that night, Mike. It wasn’t a UFO or a secret weapon. It was a rip in time.
MIKE CARR:
A rip in time? How many beers didja have tonight?
CALLER TWO:
I ain’t drunk, man, that’s kinda mean, y’know? I’m not a whacko like a lot of your callers.
JILL CARR:
Now who’s being mean?
CALLER TWO:
Sorry, ma’am. I saw things flying in the sky during that aurora borealis. Things too big to be birds. Unless they were a flock of condors, maybe. They were big and they were singing. I think they were pterodactyls.
MIKE CARR:
Ah, the rip-in-time factor. Everyone knows that ancient pterodactyls sang and chirped and flew in flocks. Caller One, did your friend mention birds or anything else flying in his pictures?
CALLER ONE:
He did, Mike—wow, I forgot about that! He didn’t say they was pterodactyls or anything like that. He thought it was birds attracted by the northern lights. Big birds, he said.
MIKE CARR:
Very interesting. Thank you for joining us, Caller Two.
JILL CARR:
We’ve another caller, Mike.
MIKE CARR:
Stay on the line, Caller One. Caller Three, you’re on the air and speaking with Mike Carr.
CALLER THREE:
They was angels flying and singing, not pterodactyls. Christ! Sounds like someone needs to get back on their meds.
MIKE CARR:
Sounds like he isn’t the only one. Angels? Seriously?
CALLER THREE:
I’ve taken my pills tonight, so it ain’t that. I saw the lights and I saw the angels flying and singing. I also saw blue lightning bolts zip up from the ground and knock them outta the sky.
MIKE CARR:
Blue lightning bolts? Whatcha you taking, partner? I sure could use some!
CALLER ONE:
My buddy mentioned blue fire too, Mike. And he said whatever was flying plummeted to the ground like ducks blasted with shotgun pellets.
MIKE CARR:
And you just remembered these little bits of info, Caller One?
CALLER ONE:
Well, I didn’t want you to think I was nuts, y’know?
CALLER THREE:
I’ve heard that all pictures of the lights and angels from that night are being seized and destroyed by the government. I also heard that people are disappearing too. Evacuated because of the toxic fumes.
CALLER ONE:
Maybe that’s why my buddy took an early vacation.
MIKE CARR:
What else have you heard, Caller Three?
CALLER THREE:
They ain’t being evacuated. Some are getting their minds wiped—
MIKE CARR:
Like in Men in Black? With the flashy-thingie?
CALLER THREE:
Haven’t seen the movie, Mike. But some are getting their minds wiped and others are being snuffed altogether. That’s what’s happened to your buddy, Caller One.
CALLER ONE:
Oh, Jesus! You’re fucking nuts! My buddy’s on vacation!
MIKE CARR:
You just earned me an FCC fine, Caller One.
CALLER ONE:
Sorry about that, but this guy’s a loon!
CALLER THREE:
I’m not crazy, but I wish I was. Your buddy and his entire family are getting their minds wiped or they’re being dumped in unmarked graves. Hell, maybe they’ll make it look like a car accident or something.
CALLER ONE:
You can just go to hell!
MIKE CARR:
Can you back up your claims, Caller Three?
CALLER THREE:
Just visit Damascus, Mike. Take a look around. Homes near the sinkhole are empty.
MIKE CARR:
Do you have friends who’ve disappeared, Caller Three?
CALLER THREE:
No, no friends. Safer not to have any.
MIKE CARR:
So let’s say for argument’s sake that angels fell from the sky. Are you saying this is the end of days?
CALLER THREE:
Naw. That happened a long time ago. We’re all living in the thousand-year span before the final battle.
MIKE CARR:
Of course, silly me.
CALLER THREE:
You can make fun of me all you want, Mike. Fact is, angels fell from the sky—no, they was knocked from the sky and the government is using them.
MIKE CARR:
Wait, hold on. You saying the government lured angels with a manufactured aurora borealis? Lured them, then captured them?
CALLER THREE:
I ain’t saying that, you are.
JILL CARR:
I have another caller.
MIKE CARR:
Hold a moment, Jill. Maybe I am saying that, for argument’s sake. You said the government is using the angels. What would it use them for?
CALLER THREE:
Any number of things, from using them to communicate with God, to using their powers against their enemies.
MIKE CARR:
Why wouldn’t God rescue them? Just smite the government?
CALLER THREE:
Because God doesn’t realize He’s God yet, of course. He’s still growing up.
MIKE CARR:
(laughs) Of course. When do you think God’ll realize He’s God?
CALLER THREE:
How the hell would I know?
MIKE CARR:
Sounds like you know everything else that’s going on, just figured you’d know that too. Hold on there, Caller Three, we’ve got another caller. Caller Four, you’re on the air and speaking with Mike Carr.
CALLER FOUR:
(Woman’s voice) My sister disappeared. She lived in the area near the sinkhole and I’ve been trying to reach her to see if she’s all right, but I haven’t had any contact with her.
MIKE CARR:
Maybe she was evacuated.
CALLER FOUR:
That’s what I thought too. But she doesn’t answer her cell phone.
JILL CARR:
Maybe she left it behind.
CALLER FOUR:
That’s what I’ve been hoping. I contacted the emergency number listed online for information about my sister and I was told she was in a secure site and not to worry.
MIKE CARR:
&nb
sp; So evacuees aren’t being allowed to contact their families?
CALLER FOUR:
That’s the way it sounds to me. My question is why? If it’s just a sinkhole, why are people being taken away and not allowed to contact anyone?
MIKE CARR:
Maybe the toxic fumes are actually radioactive waste.
CALLER FOUR:
But that wouldn’t be a reason to block all communication!
MIKE CARR:
It would be if people had been exposed. Especially if some of those exposed died or are dying.
CALLER FOUR:
Oh my God.
CALLER THREE:
He doesn’t know that He’s God yet. Give Him time.
MIKE CARR:
Keep trying to reach your sister, Caller Four, okay? Contact the media, raise a big, stinking fuss over her whereabouts.
CALLER FOUR:
But … if I draw too much attention, will I disappear too?
MIKE CARR:
No, not if you draw public attention. They wouldn’t dare touch you then. They’d be forced into answering your questions.
CALLER FOUR:
Okay. Thank you.
CALLER THREE:
You know they’ll come for each of us now.
MIKE CARR:
Thanks for all your … insights, Caller Three. Good night.
CALLER THREE:
I wish you well, Mike and Jill. I’m going underground. I advise you to do the same.
MIKE CARR:
That’s all we have time for this early morning edition. Until tomorrow at the same time, same place, keep digging for the truth!
23
ILLUSIONS
March 25–26
WITH NIGHT-WOVEN AND STAR-PIERCED illusion wrapped tight around him, the Morningstar glided through the sky, following the forest green SUV as the creawdwr ’s fetching and flame-haired lover steered the vehicle from the truck stop and onto the interstate.
Heather, the older sister of pliable and more-than-willing Annie.
He’d gleaned more than a little information about Dante from both minds.
Wybrcathl silenced, the Morningstar wheeled higher into the sky. Ice crystals hissed and steamed against his heated skin and beaded like diamonds in his white hair.
Annie’s miswired mind had allowed her to see past his illusions. Had left her immune to his Word … ah, but not to his touch, his suggestions—especially not when she desired both. Without her willingness, he couldn’t have planted careful little seeds in her subconscious.
You won’t hurt him, right?
Of course not. He will be cherished.
Good. Um … you ready to go again?
Vicious and urgent in her coupling, Annie had worked hard to punish them both. She’d only half succeeded. Her tears afterward had puzzled him, as did her self-loathing, but even after millennia, he still couldn’t claim to truly understand females, mortal or otherwise; a part of their allure.
The Morningstar’s wings stroked through the dying night. Breathing in the crisp scent of frost, he reworked his illusion to match the coral sunrise streaking the mountain-peaked horizon.
Annie’s knowledge of Dante had been sparse, however. So after she’d returned to her bed and had curled beside her sister, pretending to sleep, the Morningstar had delved into Heather’s dreaming mind.
A treasure trove, lovely Heather.
When he finally winged down into New Orleans, the Morningstar would become the father and mentor missing from Dante’s life and help this misused and tortured creawdwr fulfill his destiny.
CELESTE UNDERWOOD FINISHED HER coffee, barely tasting the Sumatra Mandheling’s sweet roasted-caramel flavor, then rinsed the cup out in the sink. She gripped the counter’s polished granite edge and stared out the kitchen window. Heavy, gray rain clouds hid the sunrise, stealing color from the horizon except for a lighter shade of gray.
She knew how to work gray, used it often in her job. Indeed, she was required to think in shades of gray instead of absolutes like black or white. And she even enjoyed it.
But Director Britto’s call last night had muddied gray into black.
Call your people off S and Wallace. Immediately.
Bill, what’s going on? I don’t have a problem with letting Wallace or Lyons slip away, but I suspect S has been triggered and used. We absolutely need to bring him in and assess—
Celeste, listen to me, and listen carefully.
All right, Bill.
S is not to be brought in. He and Wallace are free to go wherever they damn well please, understand? Surveillance can continue, but it’s essential your operatives aren’t spotted.
I understand, but what happened? What’s changed?
You mean aside from a missing house, an enigma of a cave, and a circle of stone-sculpted angels that are, even now, on their way to HQ?
But that’s the point. S and Wallace must know what happened, how and why those things occurred. Interrogation would—
No. No interrogation. No pursuit. No arrest. Am I clear? Call your people off right now. If you turn up Lyons, make sure he truly becomes an official casualty of the sinkhole/toxic fumes cover story. S and Wallace are no longer your concern.
Ironic choice of words, given that she’d delivered the same orders to the Bureau’s ADIC Rutgers. But officially or not, Prejean very much remained Celeste’s concern. Especially since her former daughter-in-law might vanish with her granddaughters, her Stephen’s girls.
What troubled Celeste even more than the director’s command was the fear she thought she’d detected in his voice. Controlled, yes, but still present.
Who had the juice to put the squeeze on the director of the Shadow Branch?
What galled her to no end was the fact that Gillespie and his agents actually had Prejean and Wallace in their gun sights when this goddamned order came down.
Sighing, Celeste pried her fingers away from the sink’s counter. She crossed to the center island and finished putting together her lunch on the gold-veined green granite. She had a feeling that today would be an eat-in kind of day.
The curry, tuna, and tomato salad she prepared quickly filled the kitchen with a welcome and spicy odor. A few Ritz crackers and a generous slice of apple pie completed the meal.
Carrying her insulated purple lunch sack into the living room, Celeste rested it on the sofa. She picked up the report Gillespie had e-mailed her late last night. Some of the things it contained disturbed her, to say the least.
Gillespie claimed that Prejean had transformed a child shot in the crossfire into another child entirely. If not for the forwarded statements from witnesses to the event, including field agents, the motel manager, and the child’s mother herself corroborating Gillespie’s claim, Celeste would’ve assumed he’d had a six-pack too many.
As it was, she had no idea what to think of the transformation claim or how such a thing could be possible. Perhaps a mass illusion cast by a True Blood? Provided they possessed such an ability.
Should she pass the report on to the director or just sit on it for the time being? After all, S—Prejean—was officially no longer her concern.
Celeste slid the report into her briefcase, then latched it shut. Might be best to study it for a bit first. Look for any discrepancies. In truth, it sounded like the director had other worries on his mind.
Her cell’s ringtone—a sophisticated and European trill—ended the silence. The ID named the caller as Purcell. Celeste flipped the cell open and said, “A bit early for you, Richard.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid I have bad news. Sheridan died last night.”
Celeste rubbed her forehead. Of course. When it rains, it goddamned pours.
“Before or after debriefing?”
“During, ma’am. An autopsy was performed right away and his death was due to multiple aneurysms in the brain. Possibly due to traveling with a bullet wound.”
“Did Díon get anything useful from him before he died?”
/> “No, ma’am.”
“Dammit,” Celeste sighed. “Well, I would leave out the flight bit when you inform Monica Rutgers at the Bureau about the loss of her agent. She’s going to be unhappy in any case, but no reason to give her ammunition for her I-told-you-so shotgun.”
“Will do.”
“And meet me at my office in two hours. We have a few things to discuss.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ending the call, Celeste slipped her cell into the right-hand pocket of her black blazer. She wondered how quickly Purcell could get to New Orleans. Bringing Prejean to Alexandria was out of the question now, but maybe Purcell could make other arrangements. Maybe somewhere closer to where Valerie worked.
An image from a crime scene photo—the crime scene—developed behind her eyes, an image she’d forced herself to remember in every heartrending detail.
Sprawled facedown in a pool of his own blood on the gray slate entryway floor, one shoe—a brown tasseled loafer—behind him like he’d stepped out of it, one hand bent underneath his chest, Stephen looks like he never knew what hit him.
But Celeste knew better. Her son’s murderer had confessed to a cellmate that Stephen had pleaded for his life and had offered his wallet before the bastard had shot him in the head. Then he’d placed the gun muzzle against Stephen’s temple and fired again.