by R. L. King
“Dr. Stone! Look out!”
Grace’s terrified cry came an instant too late as Stone spun to face her.
Beal held a large revolver, pointed directly at him. His expression wasn’t pleasantly dotty now; his hard, cold eyes held a crazed light. Without another word, he pulled the trigger.
Chapter Sixty-Three
For Stone, everything moved in slow motion.
A deafening bang, followed by a sudden, excruciating pain in the right side of his chest.
A scream, muddy and indistinct.
The world tilted crazily and then he was falling. Archie’s pulsing heart slipped from his grasp and fell too.
They both hit the ground at the same time. He couldn’t get a breath.
Don’t panic. You can’t panic or you’re dead. The thoughts seemed like they came from someone else. His own thoughts darted and whirled, struggling for coherence. Pain was everywhere. Above him, the cracked remains of the wooden rafters rose, blurred and out of focus.
Beal’s calm face swirled into his field of vision. The old man bent down and picked up something next to him—the heart. He wrapped it in a cloth and carefully nestled it into his briefcase. “Thank you, Dr. Stone,” he said. “I’ll be taking this with me.”
Stone blinked, struggling to get a deep breath past the pain and the sudden feeling that he was drowning. He coughed, tasting blood. “Beal...” he whispered. “You—”
“I have you to thank,” Beal said. “I’d given up hope that the Master would ever resurface,” Beal said. “I’ve waited for decades, keeping up this research, sending out feelers, hoping desperately to discover something that would lead me in the right direction. When Patricia called me, I hardly dared believe my search might finally be at an end.”
He stood back up. “Shame we’ll have to go through the whole process of rebuilding the Master’s body again, but I couldn’t risk tipping my hand too soon. I never thought you’d be able to defeat him. Bravo on that. But with me to aid him, it will go much more quickly this time. You won’t be here to see any of it, though, so it hardly matters. Unfortunately, the Master will need to find another mage to provide his bookbinding, too, but I doubt that will prove difficult. Goodbye, Dr. Stone.”
He swung the gun around to point it at the terrified Grace. “And you, my dear. Apparently you’ve been quite a thorn in the Master’s side as well. Best if no one’s left, I think, to bear witness to what’s happened tonight.”
Stone didn’t think he had anything left. The pain grew more intense with each minute, blood bubbled from his lips and ran down the side of his face to pool beneath his head, and gray fog began to obscure his vision as he struggled and failed to draw in enough air. But the sight of that gun pointed at Grace fueled his rage at this old man who’d played him for a fool. He fixed his focus on the gun and let the rage provide the power. If it killed him, so be it.
Beal jerked as the gun wrenched free and flew out of his hand. “What—?” He actually managed to jump, trying to snatch it back before it rose out of his reach, but he didn’t succeed. The gun sailed up and settled on one of the wide beams of the rafters.
Stone slumped, coughing, as the simple effort exhausted him, barely aware of what was happening around him now.
Beal looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to attack Stone, attack Grace, or get the hell out of there with his prize. After a brief interior struggle, he chose the latter. “Fine,” he said. “It won’t matter anyway. They’ll never find us. And you,” he added, nodding toward Grace. “With Stone dead, you’re far too meek to ever do anything against the Master on your own.”
He turned and headed back down the aisle, striding quickly toward the doors. In a moment, he was gone. Around him, the parishioners remained unconscious, showing no signs of waking.
Grace fell to her knees next to Stone, looking stricken. “Oh, bendita madre Maria,” she moaned. “Don’t move—I need to call an ambulance—” She jerked her head around as if expecting to spot a phone inside the chapel.
Stone’s thoughts moved through mud. His breath rattled and bubbled in his throat as he tried to draw in air. He raised a hand that felt like it weighed several hundred pounds and gripped Grace’s arm. “No…”
“No?” Her eyes were huge, and even as his perceptions narrowed to a gray tunnel, he could hear the bright edges of panic seeping into her tone. “We have to get you to a hospital!”
“Too…late…” he rasped, and coughed again. Jagged knives of pain lanced through his chest, and he fought back a rising wave of fear. He was dying, and if he couldn’t make her understand in the next few seconds, there’d be nothing he or anyone else could do about it. “Ms. Ruiz…Grace…please…help me. They… they’ll… never get here…in time.”
“I’m trying to help you!” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Let me call an ambulance! Is your phone in your coat?” She moved as if to pull it aside and check.
He tried to tighten his grip, but instead felt it loosen as the grayness settled over him and his strength faded. “Your…magic…your…prayers…please…”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Oh! No, I can’t…you’re too badly hurt…”
“You…can.” He could barely hear his own voice now; he hoped she could. His hand fell away, refusing to obey his mind’s increasingly disjointed commands. He didn’t even hurt anymore, as his body began to shut down. “I…have faith…in you,” he whispered.
She swallowed hard, then nodded, bending over him. She took his hand in one of hers and put the other on his chest over the wound.
Stone’s vision was fading, but he saw her bow her head, and he saw her lips move as she began to speak in breathless Spanish. Her voice shook, but her words came out strong and confident. Her hand gripped his, warm and firm.
Almost immediately, something began to happen. Stone couldn’t understand anything she was saying beyond the occasional dios or madre Maria, but he closed his eyes and let the gentle, comforting rhythm of her words flow over him.
It didn’t make sense to his fogged brain—words couldn’t be warm. Words couldn’t slip into his consciousness and support him like the softest of beds. Words couldn’t reach into his body and flow around the pain, isolating it, massaging it, carrying it away on a gentle breeze. He had no idea what Grace was doing, but he no longer cared. If she couldn’t save his life, at least she could make his death painless and peaceful. It was all he could ask of her. Either one, he decided, would be fine.
Something shook him, jerking him out of the gentle, floating apathy that had settled over him. “You have to fight!” a voice begged. Was it Grace? He didn’t know anymore. “Don’t you dare leave us! Archie’s still out there! I can’t do this without you! Stay with me!” The grip on his hand tightened, and a heavier weight came down on his chest.
Archie.
What about Archie? He remembered something about someone named Archie…Right…that little git he’d gone to school with, all those years ago. Why was this woman going on about him? He’s probably an investment banker somewhere by now…if he didn’t get himself tossed in jail…No, that type never goes to jail…
Something slapped him. “Come back!” the same voice called. “Fight! You’ve got to fight!”
He heard himself mutter something under his breath—he had no idea what he’d said. It felt so good to drift…
Archie.
His body jerked as the realization and the pain flowed back into him at the same time.
Archie.
Archie was still out there. Beal had taken his heart, which meant if they didn’t find him, the whole cycle of murders would start over again.
No…I won’t let you…
“That’s it…that’s better…keep fighting!” And then she was back to speaking Spanish again, and his mind drifted once more on her soothing words.
He must have slipped into sleep or
unconsciousness, because someone was shaking him again. It wasn’t sharp or urgent this time, but gentle.
“Dr. Stone…wake up.”
He opened his eyes. Odd…the pain’s gone. Am I dead?
Grace’s worried face swam in his vision, hovering above him. “How…do you feel?” she asked tentatively. She looked tired and scared and overwhelmed.
“I—” He wasn’t sure how to answer that. But he could breathe again, and the pain was gone. How could that be? He brought a shaking hand up and touched it to his chest where the bullet had entered. His shirt was sodden, and when he raised his hand back up, his fingers were slicked with blood. More squelched beneath him as he shifted position, and he tasted still more.
“Did it work?” she whispered.
He risked sitting up. His head spun—probably blood loss—but no spikes of pain went through him. Around him, the parishioners were still unconscious. Hardly daring to hope, he pushed up his shirt and looked down at his chest.
There was blood everywhere, both wet and drying, but when he probed at the spot where the bullet had entered, he felt nothing but smooth skin. He stared at her in wonder.
“Let me see your back,” she said, already pushing his coat off his shoulders.
He slipped his T-shirt off completely and leaned forward so she could get a clear view. His brain still wasn’t processing things at full capacity, stuck on a loop between it doesn’t hurt and bloody hell, she did it. “How does it look?”
She touched him gently, at a spot corresponding to where the bullet had entered through his chest. “I think you’ll have a little scar here,” she said. “Hold out your hand.”
He did as he was told, moving by rote, and she dropped something into it: a bloody, deformed piece of metal.
“Souvenir,” she said. “If you want it. How do you feel?”
He twisted around so he could see her, clutching the bloody bullet in his shaking hand. “Ms. Ruiz…you are a wonder,” he said softly. “Truly a wonder.”
She shook her head. “All the glory goes to God. He did it. But...it worked? You’re all right?”
“I…I think so.” Slowly, mindful of his still-swimming head, he gripped the edge of a nearby pew and hauled himself up, looking down at the scene.
The floor beneath him was covered in blood. Archie’s earthly remains, nothing more than piles of dust and lumpy heaps of rotting organs now without the heart to sustain him, lay intermingled with the white clerical robes, the large crucifix piercing them. All around them, the unconscious parishioners were finally showing faint signs of waking. He put a hand to his head and took several deep breaths; he’d never realized before how much he took for granted the simple ability to draw in air without pain or the terrifying sensation of drowning in his own blood.
“We need to go,” he said. “Can’t have them find us here.”
She nodded, still looking shell-shocked by all that had occurred. She swallowed. “What about…all the blood? And him?”
“We can leave him here. I need to deal with this blood, though.”
“Deal with it? You can’t clean that all up—you’re in no shape for that. Even if you could, it would take ages.”
“Not…clean it. I need to make sure no one can use it against me. Won’t take long. Can you grab some of that dust from Archie’s remains, please?” His voice sounded shaky and faint.
“Why?” She looked like she didn’t want to go anywhere near it.
“I might need it later.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and moved toward the pile.
Stone stood a moment, getting his bearings. He still didn’t feel good, per se, but given the alternative of being dead, he’d take lightheadedness and weakness every day of the week. He picked up his T-shirt, holding it up for a look—the front sported a small neat hole, while the back had a much larger and more ragged one. The whole thing was blood-soaked, but fortunately his preference for black meant it wouldn’t show it too badly. He slipped it back on, followed by the coat, and set about neutralizing the coagulating puddle of blood on the carpet. He hoped nobody else showed up to threaten them, because that was about the extent of the magic he’d be able to manage tonight.
Grace returned, carrying a handful of dust from Archie’s body. “They’re starting to wake up. If you don’t want them to see us, we’d better go now.”
“Right, then.” Stone headed for the door, swaying and clutching the backs of the pews as he went to keep from tripping as he stepped over the unconscious bodies.
After a moment, Grace took his arm, helping him stay upright. “You should clean up a little,” she said, eyeing him. “You’ve got blood all over your face and hands.” As they exited through the double doors, she pointed toward a drinking fountain just down a side hall, then steered him over to it and helped him get rid of the obvious blood as best they could. It wasn’t great, but at least he no longer looked like he’d just crawled out of an abattoir.
Outside, the air was pleasantly warm, the silent parking lot deceptively calm. Stone glanced around, looking for any signs of approaching police cars, but saw nothing. “I guess this place is far enough away that no one saw anything from outside,” he said. Already he was panting with the effort of trudging back to the car, even with Grace’s support.
“Can you drive?” she asked, worried. “You’re really pale—are you sure you’re okay?”
“It’s probably just the blood loss. Could be a lot worse. I’ll eat something when I get home. That and rest will sort me out.”
She didn’t look convinced, but kept hold of his arm until they made it back to the BMW. By then, they could both hear the far-off sounds of approaching sirens.
“Someone inside must finally have come to. Wonder what they’ll make of all that,” Stone said as he fell into the driver’s seat.
“Do you think anybody will remember seeing us?”
“Doubtful.” He fired up the engine and drove off. Now that he was seated, he didn’t feel quite as bad—at least he didn’t think he’d faint before he managed to get home. “Archie had them all under some sort of hypnotic effect. I doubt they’ll even remember him being there.”
“Except for that…thing we left behind.” She shuddered.
“That should provide some interesting data for the police, though.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s just a guess, but I wouldn’t be surprised if those organs all came from different people.”
She stared at him, eyes wide. “You mean the murder victims? You think those are the actual—” She trailed off, crossing herself and murmuring a prayer under her breath.
“It makes sense…especially given the—er—state they were in. I wonder if they’ll find Beal’s gun and get any prints from it.”
They drove in silence for several minutes, back up 880 toward San Jose. Stone tried to keep his thoughts focused, not allowing himself to think about the fact that he’d come perhaps closer to dying tonight than he’d ever come in his life.
“You know,” he said eventually, “The more I think about it, the more surprised I am that actually worked.”
“What actually worked?” Grace had been staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts, but turned back to him when he spoke.
“Running Archie through with that cross. Remember before I told you that I didn’t think it was actual churches or religious items that Archie couldn’t cope with, but only things blessed or somehow imbued with power by people with abilities like yours and Father Eustace’s?”
“Maybe you were wrong,” she said.
“Maybe so. Perhaps I just got a lucky shot in—he was so busy guarding against magical attacks that he didn’t bother with the physical. But I wonder…” He glanced over at her. “Were you praying that whole time? Is that why I didn’t see you?”
“Yeah.” She look
ed down at her hands in her lap. “I was in the back the whole time, praying for you to succeed at whatever you were trying to do. I didn’t know exactly what that was, so I couldn’t be more specific.”
“I didn’t know either,” he said with a chuckle. “I was starting to lose a bit of hope there at the end.” He wondered if, somehow, her magic had been powerful enough to sense his intent and provide support to it, even at such a distance. That was some seriously potent stuff.
Another wave of lightheadedness swept over him and he gripped the steering wheel more tightly. He’d have to think about that later—right now, getting Grace and then himself home were his number-one priorities. Surviving a gunshot wound to the chest only to be taken out by a clapped-out minivan on highway 880 would be amusing to the universe, perhaps, but not to him.
More silence passed. Stone focused on driving until he’d pulled up in front of Grace’s apartment building.
She didn’t get out. “What are you going to do about him?” Grace asked into the darkness.
“About who?”
“Archie.”
“What do you mean? He’s gone.”
She paused. “But he’s not. You heard Mr. Beal. This is all just going to start over again.”
He didn’t look at her. “I know.”
“Well—we can’t let that happen.” When he remained silent, she gripped his arm. “Right? We can’t—you can’t—let that happen.”
“What do you want me to do, Ms. Ruiz?” Stone’s voice was tired, ragged. His hands shook on the steering wheel, and once again he wasn’t certain he could make it home safely.
She looked at him as if he’d suddenly gone mad. “You have to finish him.”
His chuckle was grim. “Suddenly you’re on board with my going off to Hell, are you?” He shook his head. “No. I’m not doing that. What I’m doing is going home, where I’ll have something to eat and get some sleep. And then, tomorrow, I’ll track down Beal. If I can get Archie’s heart back, you and I can put together another vessel to hold it. Your faith and my magic. This time, we’ll put it somewhere it will never be found. Find an office building under construction and bury it in a concrete foundation. Attach it to a brick and drop it in the ocean. Hell, we’ll play Lord of the Rings and find a bloody volcano to chuck it into. But I’m not going back to that place.”
