The Portal

by Russell James

Two gunshots rang out from inside the car. Scott’s stomach sank to below his knees.

  “No, no, no,” he whispered in horror. “Not now.” He slammed a hand against the steering wheel.

  Milo’s head wasn’t visible above the cruiser’s seat anymore. Kyler got out of the car, smiling. He pointed a pistol at Milo. The truck window rolled down, and Oates barked an order to Kyler. Kyler went to the rear of the cruiser, fumbled with the Portal a bit, then lifted it out and put it in the back of his truck.

  Scott curbed his growing panic and dread, and tried to think through his situation. Allie was trapped in the church. Milo was dead. Animals were running wild. Kyler had the Portal, which meant that a coven of witches was about to open a passage to Hell, protected by a gang of psychos. His first thought was to drive up to the O’Reilly place and somehow bring all that to a screeching halt. Of course he’d be doing that alone with information based on his interpretation of a three-hundred-year-old scroll.

  He needed a Plan B.

  He realized his father had already thought this scenario through. Gary Tackett knew Oates would return someday, and when Oates did, he’d have to keep Oates separated from the Portal. Using the Summoner to lure Oates into the demon’s trap was his father’s Plan B.

  Scott spun the truck around and headed into town down another road. His father had committed murder and become beholden to Satan, but was ready with a double cross, a trap for Satan that no doubt wouldn’t hold forever, and would cost his father his life when it finally gave way.

  He wished his father had shared something about this with him, given him some insight; more important, given him some warning about the dangerous future Stone Harbor had. Was his father sure about this demon’s trap, or was the description in the store just some myth he’d transcribed?

  Scott was about to bet on it working. Because once the Summoner delivered Oates, Scott really wanted something between him and the power of Satan.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Oates sat in the passenger seat as Kyler steered the Dodge Ram into the O’Reillys’ driveway.

  “Unload the Portal and place it next door by the cross,” Oates said. “I’ll get the ladies.”

  Assault rifles crackled off in the distance. Kyler looked in that direction, then down toward the smoke rising from the marina.

  “Things are coming unhinged around town, sir,” he said. He was sure he was understating what was actually happening. He’d left psychos armed with automatic weapons unsupervised for the better part of a day. He was surprised that the town was still standing. “You want me to take care of the crew?”

  “They’re immaterial,” Oates said. “Let ’em have their last bit of fun. Little Scottie, however, is another story. He could slow things up, and time is of the essence. You’ll need to find and kill him now.”

  Oates got out of the truck and entered the house. Kyler thought Oates’ request was a little odd. Not the intent, of course. Oates ordered people killed all the time. He just never asked for it that way. There was always a euphemism, a clever turn of phrase, an obvious innuendo. But here, Oates had been blunt and specific. Kill him now.

  Kyler went around to the back of the truck and slid out the Portal, making sure the linen cloth still covered it. He carried it to the charred remnants of the Greene house. In the back yard, Kyler found the inverted cross in the ground. It was made of steel tubing and was about four feet tall. He placed the Portal near the base of the cross, sliding it out of the linen wrapping without touching it. He wadded up the sheet and tossed it behind him. A breeze sent it rolling off to the edge of the yard. It looked like it was trying to escape.

  He walked back to the truck. As he did, he passed Camille and the other four witches. Camille looked him up and down, smiling. Each of the witches did the same, giving their hips an extra swing as they passed. The last in line gave him a slow wink along with her smile.

  Five women, irresistibly attractive, and completely poison. And they all knew it. Oates ordered no touching, but Kyler had a feeling that even without Oates’ inevitable retribution, those women always made short work of any man who crossed their paths.

  Oates was the last one out of the house, following the coven to the steel cross and the Portal.

  “What about the woman with Scott?” Kyler said.

  Oates did not reply. He just stared straight ahead, focused on the five, apparently lost in the moment. If Kyler hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he sensed some glee in the perpetually emotionless face of Mr. Joey Oates.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The thirty minutes since Milo and Scott had left seemed like hours to Allie. It was less than fifteen minutes to the bank and back. Her mangled arm felt like it was stuck in a bonfire.

  She lay across the front pew in the church. She clutched her right arm close to her body. Blood ran through her fingers from where the attacking dog had mauled her arm. Tears ran down her cheeks. She shuddered and feared that shock’s onset was moments away. She couldn’t let that happen.

  She stumbled back to the sacristy and found a red stole worn on certain high holy days. The long, thin cloth would have to do.

  One at a time, she pulled her fingers away, like a window drape sliding open. She raised her left palm. The dog had done her some serious damage. Some flesh was missing and it looked like Allie’s hand was the only thing holding another chunk of it in place.

  “Aw, hell.”

  As best she could with one hand, she wound the stole around her forearm. With one end in her teeth and one in her left hand, she tied the makeshift bandage tight. The pressure sent the pain level from excruciating to unbearable, but it kept the remnants of her shredded flesh in place. And the blood flow seemed to slow to a trickle. She walked down a side aisle and back to the rear pew.

  With the problem of bleeding to death at least minimized, she refocused on the missing Scottie and Milo.

  There could be a hundred reasons they could be a little late, she thought.

  But every one of those reasons was bad news.

  Allie picked up the police walkie-talkie. She held a finger over the transmit button.

  Radio silence was the plan all along. Not hearing from them didn’t mean anything bad happened. Maybe not hearing from them was good news.

  Just a quick shout, one ‘Milo?’ No one would even hear it if they weren’t listening at that very second.

  But what if someone was? What if that tipped their hand, and they hadn’t locked the Portal away yet? Oates and his crew might get to them before they got to the vault.

  I’ll use the code, Allie thought. I’ll key the mike twice and not say anything. He’ll key back three times and then I’ll know that he’s all right.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she picked up the radio, and keyed the mike twice. Two loud bursts of static filled the church.

  Seconds passed. No response.

  Rationalization took over. Maybe he left the radio in the cruiser when he went into the bank. Maybe he’s in the vault right now. She couldn’t convince herself. A bad feeling took up residence in the pit of her stomach.

  Allie leaned back into the corner of the pew and closed her eyes. She raised her throbbing arm and propped it along the backrest. The elevation eased the pain. She was kind of glad that the binding around it was red, so she could stay unaware of how much blood might be seeping though. Climbing the steeple stairs for the relatively safer bell tower was out of the question.

  “Dear Allison!”

  The gravelly voice rolled across the pews from the front of the church. Allie opened her eyes. Oates sat on the altar, looking just as Scott had described him, feet dangling like a little kid. His all-black outfit, so similar to Reverend Snow’s clerical garb, added to his abominable disrespect of the sacred location. But any anger Oates kindled in Allie paled in comparison to the sheer terror his presence inspired, some in
stinctual fear, surfaced from some deep primal level.

  “Long time, no see,” Oates said.

  “We’ve never met.”

  “Only in last night’s nightmare,” Oates said. “But we’ve done business. You can feel it. That special connection.”

  She could. The man seethed with malevolence; it came off him in palpable, powerful waves. But that familiarity she felt scared her the most, an association with something repugnant.

  “How can you be here,” she said. “In this house of God?”

  Oates laughed a guttural, mirthless chuckle. “House of God? All houses are houses of man. Man deludes himself into thinking he can sanctify something.”

  He hopped off the altar and disappeared before he hit the ground. He reappeared in the aisle beside Allie. Startled, she stood and stepped back. The fire in her arm reignited. Oates’ irises flickered red. The stench of sulfur and charred, rotten meat filled the air. She flashed back to the same smell in her nightmare last night. Oates pointed over his shoulder at the broken cross on the floor.

  “I had the rev killed, right here, in his own church, strung up on his own replica of his false prophet’s destruction. This place ain’t nothing special.”

  Maybe the searing pain in her arm made her apathetic, maybe it was her resignation that she wasn’t getting out of the church alive, maybe she thought she needed to buy Scottie and Milo more time. Bravery bubbled up inside her. “Whatever you want, I won’t help you.”

  “You already agreed to,” Oates said. He feigned offense. “Have you forgotten our deal?”

  He snapped his fingers and a table-sized hologram began to run between them. Allie’s bravado evaporated. She recognized the scene.

  Her silver Jaguar raced up Topanga Canyon Road north of LA. The headlights sliced the night like a set of knives. The car headed into a curve, well over the posted speed limit and straight for the guard rail. At the last second, the wheels yanked left. Tires squealed and the car jerked back to hug the double yellow centerline.

  “I’ll set the stage,” Oates said. “Rushing home after a long day at the studio. Little too tired, little too fast. Coming down off some uppers. Up around the corner we go and….”

  Allie’s heart sank. She’d seen it before, once live, and a thousand times after in her nightmares. The Dark Thing.

  In the hologram, a little girl in pajamas stood by the mailbox at the side of the road. An unmailed letter glowed in her hand against the darkness. Later the investigators would find it in the canyon below, the address to Santa, North Pole done in crayon.

  The approaching Jag cut the corner too sharp. Tires hit gravel and lost traction.

  The view switched to through the windshield. Out of the blackness materialized the girl, on tiptoes, mailbox door open, letter held overhead. She turned into the headlights. She squinted and her soft face, still perfect as a porcelain doll’s, registered confusion, then panic. She screamed as the Jag’s bumper cut her off at the knees. The mailbox snapped off, flew over the fender, and off into the yard. The girl rolled up over the hood. Her head hit the windshield with a sickening crack before she sailed over the roof and down the car’s rear.

  The scene cut back to the exterior. The Jag screeched to a halt. The little girl lay on the side of the road, still as stagnant water. Oates snapped his fingers and the scene paused.

  Allie’s lips pursed. Her lower jaw started to tremble.

  “Now, dear Allison,” Oates asked, “did you help that poor girl you ran down? Did you call 911? Refresh my memory. Your first thought was about…let me see….”

  Tears streamed from Allie’s closed eyes. “How it would ruin my career,” she whimpered.

  Oates snapped his fingers again. In the hologram, the Jag’s brake lights winked out, and the car fled the scene in a cloud of dust. The hologram vanished.

  “Yes, of course,” Oates said, affecting enlightenment. “You asked that you not be caught, I made your wish come true, and so we made our little deal. Ah, Los Angeles. Always easy pickings. So you’ve already signed your soul away to me.” The red flicker in Oates’ eyes danced brighter. “True nature shows itself under stress, and yours is selfishness. Don’t deny it, don’t be ashamed. I applaud it. Humans reject their nature and miss all the fun.”

  Allie’s eyes focused on Oates like a laser. Despite the pain in her arm, the tears stopped.

  “That’s not who I am anymore, you bastard,” she said. “That was a mistake. I snorted my way into rehab trying to forget that moment, that weakness. It cost me my career and nearly my life. I’m sorry and I’ve suffered for that sin.”

  Oates laughed.

  “Sorrow and penance?” he said. “Two separate things. Only one delivers forgiveness. You have only sorrow. Your soul is still firmly mine. And you have a role to play in opening the Portal.”

  Allie answered without hesitation. “Not in a million years.”

  Oates grasped the air and twisted it. A horrible snapping and tearing sound came from Allie’s good arm. The jagged white bone of her ulna tore through her skin in a compound fracture. Pain ripped through her like a lightning bolt. She collapsed into the pew with a piercing scream.

  Oates stepped over next to her and bent down, his face inches from Allie’s. His breath smelled of decay and blew hot as the air from an open oven door.

  “I can take you anytime, any way that I choose,” he said. “Sure you want to do this the hard way, one bone at a time?”

  The excruciating pain nearly blotted her senses. She gritted her teeth. Better to die, no matter how horribly. “Do it.”

  “Your call,” Oates said. “But first I’m gonna raise the stakes. The guy who did his handiwork on your pal the rev? He’s itching to get started on your boyfriend, little Scottie. And Scott’ll last much longer than that old man did. He’ll be a lot more fun.”

  A vision of Scott peeled alive like the reverend flashed through her mind. She couldn’t let that happen. And if she agreed, he’d still be free, free to try and stop what Oates had in motion.

  “I’ll do it,” she managed to whisper.

  “Wonderful.”

  Oates waved a hand over her. Her right arm returned to normal. Then from underneath her makeshift bandage, her left repaired itself as well.

  “What black magic does, black magic can undo. Opening the Portal requires all volunteers, though I don’t lose points for coercion.” Oates reached down and touched her forehead. His fingers felt reptilian-cold. “And off we go.”

  They both disappeared and left the church empty.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  They reappeared in the bedroom of a house. Oates stood next to her. It took a second for Allie to orient herself. She looked at the floor, gasped and stepped back.

  Ben and Carole O’Reilly were sprawled on the floor. The woman had two gaping holes in her chest and lay in a puddle of dried blood. Beside her, her husband’s dead face was frozen in a rictus of agony. His glasses sat on the floor, lenses down and arms up like a dead insect. In one hand, he held an open amber pill bottle. Little blue capsules lay scattered on the carpet by the white lid.

  “She’s the one?” someone said behind her.

  Allie spun around. A lean, scary man stood tall against the closed bedroom door. He gripped an automatic rifle in one hand. He looked utterly cold, like a statue, unfazed by two corpses at his feet or by the instant appearance of Satan and a stranger.

  “Poetic justice,” Oates said. “You’d be surprised how few of the truly damned I have to pick from in this town. Kyler, you keep her here, alive and unharmed, ’til I call.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oates disappeared. Allie backed away from Kyler and the dead. Kyler studied the fear and revulsion on her face and cracked a small smile. He pointed at Ben’s corpse.

  “He saved me two rounds,” Kyler said. “Funny as hell, really. I sh
ot the wife, and before I could finish him, he grabbed his heart and dropped to his knees.” Kyler laughed. “He goes fiddling for his pills to save his life, like I’m not about to kill him anyway.”

  Allie backed against the window and averted her eyes from the O’Reillys. She sized up Kyler. He looked all business and all psycho. A bad combination. She glanced out the bedroom window. The old Rogers farmhouse stood in the distance. She’d been away awhile, but she knew where she was. Right near where all this started in 1720.

  “It’s going to happen here, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “And you’ll have a front-row seat. Won’t miss a thing.”

  “Why does he need me here? He has his coven complete.”

  “He didn’t tell you? You volunteered without knowing? Wow. Well, it takes more than just the witches. They open the Portal, but he’s got to wedge something in there to keep it open.”

  “Which is?”

  “A little human sacrifice. One beating heart of the damned.” He pointed his rifle at her chest. “Like that blackened one in there. He’ll rip it from your chest and then he can keep you living and it beating as long as he wants. I’ve seen him do it.”

  “No, that can’t be. The witches before—”

  “Never got that far. And five little girls, naïve as they were, wouldn’t accept the human sacrifice of one of the townspeople as part of the deal. It was going to be Oates’ surprise.”

  And now it’s mine, Allie thought.

  How few of the damned I have to choose from. That’s what Oates had said. Probably true. People here weren’t perfect but she doubted that many of them rated eternal damnation. She could be the only one, or at least the only one Oates could get in time. Without her, the Portal would slam shut again. She could end this. She just needed to be dead.

  The guy with the rifle hit every note on the sociopath scale, but no matter what she did to provoke him, he wouldn’t kill her. Oates had specifically denied him the pleasure, and he hadn’t gained so much of Oates’ trust by marching to the beat of his own drummer. Dying would have to be her do-it-herself project.