by Bryan Davis
I blinked. What an odd collection. Were the coffins stage props? Maybe a group had recently performed a play with a graveyard scene.
As we closed in on the coffins, a body in each box came into view, barely visible in the lamp’s weak glow. Even in the dimness, their identities were unmistakable — Solomon and Francesca Shepherd.
Clara gasped. My legs buckled. I lurched between the coffins and clutched the side of one to keep from falling. The bodies lay motionless — pale and quiet. A dark blotch covered Dad’s breast pocket, and a hideous cut ripped Mom’s throat open. Blood soaked her lovely gown, the same one she had so gracefully worn onstage only moments ago.
I dug my fingernails into the wood. “It … it can’t be.”
“It is.” Clara pointed at an ornate gold band on Mom’s finger. “Look at her ring. There’s not another one like it in the world.”
A stair creaked somewhere above, followed by a familiar British voice. “Clara, I distinctly told you to meet me in the lobby. Coming down here was a big mistake.”
She looked at me and whispered, “Dr. Simon?”
Nodding, I drilled a stare right through the wall in the direction of the voice. If that creep had anything to do with this, he would … The thought died in a swirl of confusion.
“I intended to explain what happened here without exposing Nathan to this carnage.” Simon reached the landing and aimed a flashlight into the room. “It is most unfortunate that events have played out this way.”
Clara pointed a shaking finger at a coffin. “What do you know about this?”
“Everything. I arranged it. You see — ”
“You what?”
“If you will calm down, I will be glad to explain everything.”
I pointed at Mom’s body, my voice a blend of nervous laughter and trembling words. “They’re fake, right? Mannequins. Wax copies.”
Dr. Simon let out a sigh. “I’m afraid not. Their deaths are a most unfortunate — ”
“You monster!” Clara slapped his face, knocking his glasses askew.
He calmly repositioned his glasses, then glanced at the doorway and whispered, “Now that my plan has gone awry, I need to make sure that your accidental discovery doesn’t hinder our pursuits. I had planned for Nathan to join his parents, but if you continue shouting, we could all end up in coffins.”
I pointed at myself. “You planned for me to join them?”
“In order to protect our secrets, Dr. Gordon and I decided — ”
“Who cares about your secrets?” I lifted a tight fist. “Just back off. I’m walking out of here, and I’m taking my parents’ bodies with me.”
Clara picked up a baseball bat from the floor. “You’d better not try to stop us if you know what’s good for you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dr. Simon said, “but you have far greater obstacles to overcome.” With beads of sweat dotting his bare head, he nodded toward the tri-fold mirror standing behind the coffins. “We will soon have company, a man we must not rile. I insist that you remain silent and let me do all the talking.”
I gritted my teeth. “Why should I do what you say?”
“Look.” Dr. Simon pointed at the mirror. “You will see.”
In the reflection, the three of us stood in the dim props room. Two other figures had joined us, the pair who earlier stood at the performance hall exit.
I swung my head toward the door we had entered. The other men weren’t in the room.
Footsteps clopped along the hall above our heads. I wrapped my fingers around the neck of my violin and hissed, “Someone’s coming.”
Dr. Simon folded the mirror. As he slid it behind a bookshelf, a door creaked in the direction of the top of the stairs. He waved at Clara, whispering, “Hide your weapon.”
She laid the bat at her feet. Heavy footfalls rumbled down the steps. When a man entered the props room, Dr. Simon’s flashlight beam swung to him and illuminated an emblem on the newcomer’s blazer — three infinity symbols in a vertical stack, close to each other so that their lines intermeshed.
“Dr. Gordon,” Dr. Simon said, flashing a nervous grin. “You have come just in time. Where is Mictar?”
“He’s nearby.” Stroking his chin, Dr. Gordon scanned the room, first eyeing me, then Clara before calling out, “Mictar, it’s safe.”
More footsteps sounded from the stairs, slower and lighter this time. When Mictar entered, his thin, pallid face seemed to hover over Dr. Gordon’s shoulder. His hair was slick, white, and pulled back into a collar-length ponytail.
As Mictar gazed across the room, a half smile turned one of his hollow cheeks upward. “What have we here, Dr. Simon?” His words echoed, though the air seemed to dampen everyone else’s voice. “I hope you have not acted too hastily.”
I shuddered. This guy seemed more like a ghost than a man, a walking corpse fresh from the graveyard. I tightened my grip on my violin. Now I had to get past three guys.
Dr. Simon laughed nervously. “I wanted to wait for you, but they were getting suspicious. I had to make sure they didn’t run.”
As if floating along the floor, Mictar padded up to the coffins and leaned his tall body over the lifeless forms one at a time, studying them from top to bottom. “A bullet in the heart and a slashed throat,” he said, caressing Francesca’s colorless cheek. “This is lovely work, Simon. Did you do the deed yourself?”
Folding his hands in back, Simon raised up on his toes. “Of course. No one else knows of your plan.”
I boiled inside. I had to find a chance to attack, maybe when at least two of the creeps had their backs turned.
“Is that so?” Mictar licked the end of the finger that had touched Francesca’s cheek. “Show me your palms.”
Dr. Simon lifted his hands. Mictar drew close and latched on to each of Dr. Simon’s wrists with his spindly fingers. After taking a long sniff of Simon’s palms, Mictar furrowed his brow. “I smell the blood of your victims as well as the gun’s residue, but the sweet aroma of residual fear is missing.”
Simon cleared his throat. “The Shepherds displayed no fear at all.”
Mictar nodded. “I see. But your fear is strong. I would wager that even the ungifted can detect its odor.”
“Is that so unusual?” Dr. Simon jerked his hands away and wrung them more vigorously than ever. “Anyone who has seen your power would be frightened at your displeasure.”
“That is true of my enemies. My loyal friends have no reason to fear me.” Mictar reached into Mom’s coffin and lifted her eyelid. “Her light is extinguished. They no longer have value.”
“No value?” Dr. Simon said. “I don’t understand.”
Mictar stepped away from the coffin. “You disappoint me, Simon. I wanted Francesca’s eyes while they still breathed the light, her eyes above any others. And I was hoping to keep at least one of the Solomons alive long enough to learn their secrets.”
Simon squirmed. “I didn’t know. I mean, if I had known, I would have — ”
“You have no need to explain.” Mictar turned to me and smiled. His pointed teeth revealed ravenous hunger. “I see you have brought an offspring to replace what has been lost. An excellent gift, indeed, for he will likely possess what I wanted from his mother.”
“Of course I brought him,” Simon replied. “Never let it be said that Flavius Simon leaves any task undone.”
Mictar’s rapacious smile widened. “You have spoken well, for your tasks are now complete. With the four adult Shepherds dead, I no longer have need of your services. The fewer people who know about my activities, the better.”
Dr. Gordon grabbed Simon and twisted his arm behind his back. Mictar glided closer and raised splayed fingers. His cadaverous body seemed to become a shadow, darkening with each step.
I heaved deep breaths, trying to quell the shakes. What was this … this thing? I slid close to Clara and whispered, “Just stay cool. We’ll get out of here somehow.”
Dr. Simon thrashed to no avail.
“Just give me another assignment,” he cried. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“Anything I want?” Mictar covered Dr. Simon’s eyes with his dark hand and spoke softly. “I want you to die.”
Dr. Simon’s body stiffened, and his mouth locked open in a voiceless scream. As sparks flew around Mictar’s fingers, brightness crawled along his hands and toward his shoulders.
I spread out my arms, shielding Clara. There seemed to be no way to stop whatever was happening to Dr. Simon, at least not without risking harm to Clara.
After a few torturous seconds, Mictar pulled his hand back, revealing Dr. Simon’s eye sockets, blackened by emptiness. Something had consumed his eyeballs and left behind nothing but gaping pits. With the sickening odor of charred flesh permeating the room, Dr. Simon collapsed.
CHAPTER THREE
Mictar took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The combination of fear and death is an aroma surpassing all others.” He turned to Dr. Gordon. “Collins and Mills stayed on guard in the hallway upstairs. Call them down. You will need help to dispose of five bodies.”
Once again I readied my violin as a weapon. Five bodies? Not if I could help it.
Gordon pulled a phone from his pocket and pressed a button on the side. “Collins. You and Mills get down here.”
I whispered to Clara. “It’s now or never.”
Clara slid off her high-heeled shoes and crouched toward her bat. “You get the tall one.”
I lunged and swung at Mictar’s head. The wood smashed against his thin cheek with a loud crack, and the tight strings sliced into his skin. The violin shattered into pieces, leaving only the fingerboard in my hands.
He fell against the wall and covered his mouth as dark blood poured between his fingers and dripped to the floor. Clara bashed Gordon in the groin. He collapsed to his knees and let out a loud groan, his eyes clenched shut.
We dashed out of the props room and looked up the stairs. Two men descended, a gray-bearded man in front holding a gun. We turned and ran through the other doorway into the dim air-duct room. Lowering our heads, we clattered along the narrow catwalk under a maze of interconnected duct work.
Dr. Gordon called from behind. “Don’t worry about us. Get them.”
When we reached the end of the room, a single bulb attached to the low ceiling cast light on a wooden door that rose no higher than my chest. I shoved the door with both hands. Although it bent a few inches, it snapped right back. I dropped to my bottom and thrust my feet against the latch. The wood cracked but stayed put.
Behind us, footsteps rattled the catwalk. I kicked again. The door splintered and banged open, revealing a four-foot drop to a hallway below. I sprang to my feet, ducked into the opening, and jumped to the tiled floor. When Clara followed, her white evening gown poofed out like a parachute as she dropped to my waiting arms.
I pointed at a fire-escape sign hanging above an open door. “That way.”
We ran into a long alcove that ended at a tall window. I threw the sash up. Cool air blasted in. After stepping out onto a wobbly fire escape landing, I helped Clara through. Just as I pushed the window closed, the gray-bearded man appeared at the alcove entrance, his pistol drawn.
I gave Clara a push toward the stairs. “Go!”
While she clambered down, I looked back. The gunman fired. A bullet shattered the window pane and zinged past my ear. I leaped halfway down the first flight, shaking the entire framework. As my footfalls rang through the metal stairs, a shout came from above. “You follow. I’ll get the car.”
The moment Clara turned down the next flight, another gunshot cracked through the whistling wind. I hopped onto the railing, slid past Clara, and dropped feet first to the landing. “Come on,” I said as Clara caught up. “He can’t get a good shot through the steps.”
When we reached a long, horizontal ladder near alley level, I leaped out, grabbed a rung, and rode the metal bridge to the ground. When the lower supports smacked against the concrete, Clara hopped on the rail, slid down, and joined me at the bottom.
As the rusty span sprang back up, Clara pointed down the alley. “The limo’s that way.” We broke into a hard run. I stayed one step behind, glancing back constantly. After a few seconds, the black Mustang we had seen at the motel careened around a corner three blocks away and roared toward us.
“They have wheels now,” I said.
“So do we.” Clara turned left down another alley where our stretch limo idled, its rear toward us. A stubby man in a chauffeur’s cap leaned against the front fender, tipping back a bottle of Mountain Dew.
“Mike!” Clara waved her hands as she slowed. “I’ll take the car.”
Mike opened the driver-side door. “In trouble again?”
“More than usual.” Puffing heavily, Clara slid behind the wheel. I leaped onto the hood and vaulted to the other side, then threw open the passenger’s door and jumped in.
The Mustang, its convertible top folded down, skidded to a stop in front of us and blocked the alley’s exit. Clara lowered the window and glanced between Mike and the Mustang, her eyes wide as she tried to catch her breath. “How do I get to the expressway?”
Mike pointed at the street in front of us. “That’s Congress. Turn right, cross the bridge, and you’re there.”
“I saw Nathan’s pack in the backseat. Are the suitcases still in the trunk?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Perfect. Now get out of sight.” As the window hummed back to the top, Clara smacked the floor stick into gear. “Strap in.”
I clicked my buckle and braced myself. “Ready.”
She slammed down the accelerator. The limousine lurched forward, its tires squealing as she angled it toward a narrow gap between the Mustang and a lamppost.
As we closed in, the bearded man stood on the seat, propped a foot on the window frame, and aimed his gun.
Clara ducked behind the wheel. “Get down!”
I scrunched low but kept an eye on the action. A bullet clanked into our limo. Our fender clipped the Mustang, shoving it to the side.
Clara barged into traffic, raising a cacophony of honking horns, and accelerated. After weaving through a network of pickup trucks, various sedans, and yellow taxis, she settled in the left lane. “Tell me if you see them.”
To the rear, the black Mustang roared into view, shifting back and forth as it darted past car after car. The bearded man set his fists on top of the windshield and aimed his gun at us again.
I shouted, “Step on it!”
Clara jerked the car through traffic, zigzagging from lane to lane. We bumped a Mercedes on one side, then a pickup truck on the other. Tires squealed. Horns blared. A bullet ripped through the rear window and into the dashboard, shattering the radio.
I ducked low and peered around the headrest. The Mustang continued giving chase about fifty feet away, the gunman now seated next to the driver. A pickup truck and two other cars merged into our lane and blocked its approach.
Clara slowed to a halt and pointed ahead. “They raised the drawbridge over the river.”
About four car lengths in front, red-and-white crossbars had lowered. The pickup sat behind us, preventing escape in that direction. “Any ideas? We’re sitting ducks.”
“Not if I can help it.” Clara jerked her thumb toward the rear. “Keep watching.”
“What do you have up your sleeve this time?”
She clenched her fingers around the steering wheel. “Survival.”
Behind us, the Mustang angled toward the left, inching back and forth to get enough room to escape the line of cars. “Looks like he might try to cross the median.”
Clara scrunched down. “Tighten your strap, kiddo. We’re taking off.” She wheeled to the left and floored the pedal, sending the limo lurching across the median and into the oncoming lanes.
I grabbed my seatbelt and pulled it tighter. “You can’t jump the gap. There’s no way this tank can make it.”
“And neither can tha
t Mustang.” With no crossbars in our lanes, we zoomed up the steep metal incline. The limo launched over the edge and into the air. It flew for a brief second before falling.
We splashed into the river. My head rammed against the ceiling, but my seatbelt pulled me back into place. When the bouncing stopped, the car settled into a slowly sinking drift.
Clara lowered the two front windows. “Shoes off. Get ready to swim.” She squeezed through her open window and rolled out.
“Dad’s mirror.” I reached over the seat and grabbed my backpack, then slipped off my shoes and dove out my window and into the current. The icy water snatched my breath away. I paddled furiously with one arm, trying to keep my head above the wakes of passing sailboats.
A tiny splash erupted next to my shoulder, followed by a loud Crack! from above. At the drawbridge, the bearded man stood atop a supporting pylon, the pistol again in hand.
Clara spat a stream of water. “Dive!”
I submerged into the cloudy river. Saturated, my backpack felt like an anchor, but I couldn’t let it go, not with Dad’s mirror inside. The thought resurrected his words. If you ever get into trouble, look in the Quattro mirror and focus on the point of danger.
A bullet splashed above and glanced off my shoulder, slowed by the watery cushion. With cold stabbing every inch of our bodies, we couldn’t stay down long. Barely able to see Clara in the murky water, I signaled for her to rise.
I popped back to the surface and shook the water from my hair. A second later, Clara appeared next to me. As the limo’s roof sank below the rippling waves, I unzipped the backpack, grabbed the wrapped mirror, and released the strap. Shivering so hard I could barely breathe, I threw off the shirts that wrapped the mirror.
Clara flailed in the water, sputtering, “What are you doing?”
