“Because we can do something to stop them,” he answered bluntly. Then his tone became more pacified. “I assume that, while you were here, you were tormented by the possibility that you’d never see Megan again. The anxiety of waiting for word must have been unbearable.”
Jim looked away. “It was a hell I’d never wanna repeat, I can tell you that.”
“There were four young women before Megan,” Michael continued. “Taken by them. And I couldn’t find them in time to save them. I’m sure, after what you’ve been through, you can imagine the pain their fathers now know.”
Jim closed his eyes as pity filled his heart. “I haven’t been to church since my wife passed. But I’ll pray for those poor girls’ fathers. No parent should ever have to go through losing their child. I don’t think there’s anything worse than that.”
Michael paused for a moment. “I… couldn’t agree with you more,” he finally replied in a soft but strangely hardened voice.
Jim shot him a glance at his unexpected tone, but then, thinking nothing of it, continued, “Hell, I know there’s nothing worse.”
Michael kept his stare fixed downward. He was very still as he spoke slowly. “Then you know why I need to stop them. If I don’t, you’ll be praying for many more poor girls’ fathers, Jim.”
The two remained silent for a while. Jim sat back and finished his beer as he considered the situation this young man had gotten into. He didn’t understand much of what Moonie had explained to him during his stay. He wasn’t really sure he believed any of it, at least not until Megan confirmed it, having seen inexplicable events with her own eyes. But whether these cultists truly held some supernatural powers, or it was just a bunch of smoke and mirrors, one thing that was real was their sadistic quest which ruined the lives of others. And there was no talking Michael out of aborting his own agenda. To him, it was a war. And war was something Jim did understand.
“Your kids are more than welcome to stay with me,” Jim offered. “If you won’t come, at least keep them out of harm’s way.”
“Thank you,” Michael answered sincerely, “but now that I’ve interfered with them, they may try to come after the kids to get to me. That’ll put you and Megan at risk. And I know you can take care of yourself… and her, but the kids are safer with me. Not only can I protect them, but I can also teach them what I know, so that they can eventually protect themselves.”
Jim got up from his seat and picked up his empty beer bottle from the table. “Well I sure hope you know what you’re doin’, son.”
“Me too.”
“At least think about my offer, okay?”
Michael gave him a faint smile, but nodded. “I will.”
Jim slid the glass door open, but turned around to him one last time before heading back inside. Michael had turned away, eyes now staring out into the dark nothingness beyond the ranch house. “Hey Fruitcake,” Jim said suddenly.
Michael turned his attention to him instantly.
“Thank you. Thank you for saving my daughter’s life.” Then, being a man uncomfortable with sentiment, he stepped through the doorway, leaving Michael alone with his unfinished beer.
Chapter XI
The first few days of hiding out at the Cirillo residence in Toms River were uneventful to say the least. Megan continued her introductory meditation exercises both morning and night, with Moonie remaining as her guide. And though Michael had first shared his sessions with the children, it soon became known to her that he eventually left them to continue their exercises independently, whereupon he carried on his own transcendental attunement in solitude. When Megan asked about this, Moonie simply answered, “He’s attempting to prepare his mind for a higher-level spell. Not sure he’ll be able to, but he insists that he at least try.”
“What spell?” she inquired.
“Nothing for you to worry about yet, Meg,” he replied with an innocent smile. “And not my place to say. He’ll tell you when the time is right.”
She decided not to worry too much, as she’d grown to trust her physically challenged host, but she wondered if Michael really would speak to her about it later, or speak to her about anything for that matter. As she had feared, he had remained distant with her. Cordial, but stand-offish. It wasn’t anything noticeable as an elephant in a room, especially since she spent most of the days catching up with her father, rekindling their family bond, and Michael was often spending long hours in the basement with Moonie; the two friends discussing “the business at hand,” as they put it. Not to mention Emily and Alex stole much of her attention, often requesting that she and Jim join them in one of their board games and other playful activities. And whenever Michael and Moonie emerged from their work downstairs to rejoin the group, their free time was also claimed by the children’s want for their attention.
Megan noticed that Michael gave his stepchildren his undivided attention whenever he could, and though she herself had wished for some of his time, she had to admit to herself, now that the initial shock of his actually having children had passed, that she admired him for his desire to make up for lost time with them. Of all the characteristics that drew her to her past relationships, this was the first time that she found the loving father type as an attractive quality. She supposed it was because of her young age that she had ignored this aspect in the past, not deeming it as anything important to look for in a man, or perhaps it was that she’d never witnessed her prior boyfriends, or crushes, around children, so it had never occurred to her before. She decided then, during those moments of watching Michael with the kids, that from now on, whomever she would date in the future would fall under her scrutiny when interacting with little ones.
Still, it bothered her more than she felt it should have, that he didn’t spare much attention for her, other than the “Good mornings” and “Good nights,” and the occasional checking in on her with questions like, “How you holding up?” She never noticed, however, that whenever her attention was elsewhere, such as her being engaged in a playful banter with Moonie, or her playing a game of Hide-and-Seek with Emily and Alex, that Michael would often throw a quick glance in her direction. On the other hand, Jim noticed it. Noticed it plenty.
****
It first happened on the third night of their stay, deep in the middle of the twilight hours. Megan, though still feeling the fatigue from the evening meditations, began stirring in her sleep as she experienced a disturbing dream. Once again she found herself in the sacrificial chamber below the one-room schoolhouse in Lancaster. Once again, dark figures and the smell of death surrounded her. Instead of an altar, the five Agents of Shadow hovered around an old, wooden chair. Tied forcefully to it with heavy chains was… someone. A silhouette of a person with no features, no color, only shadow and fear emitting from it.
But as she fixed her gaze on the scene, screams and cries from seemed like a thousand tormented voices pierced her eardrums painfully, and she tried to dampen the sound by pressing her palms against her ears. And behind the silver masks, which appeared to melt from intense heat, the eyes of the cultists changed slowly. Soon, they were no longer those of humans, but had morphed into dark, demonic orbs. Megan could almost hear Sonny’s sadistic laughter underneath the horrifying screams that now echoed off the stone walls of the chamber. As the dream faded, all that remained of the figure in the chair was a lifeless skeleton infested with worms and maggots slithering out of its crevices.
Megan shot up from her bed as another’s scream pierced her eardrums. It was not her own, but a deeper, masculine cry. A man in a nearby room crying out something inaudible.
Within seconds, as she quieted her hyperventilating and wiped her sweating brow, she heard footsteps pass by her bedroom door, then, somewhere else in the house, another door opened and closed softly. There was no mystery as to who else had awoken in the night. Megan quickly deduced that her psychic connection with Michael, though barely alive any longer, still lingered among them.
The glowing, red digits o
n her nightstand clock read close to 2:30 am. In the darkness of her room, Megan slipped out of bed wearing only a long tee shirt, not bothering to turn on her light and search for a pair of pants. Barefoot and barelegged, she sauntered softly out of the room and down the long hallway, passing several doors that opened several bedrooms, until she made her way to the other side of the house, where a white, wooden door in the living room remained shut. She knew it led to the basement, but heard nothing as she pressed her ear to it. Nevertheless, somehow she knew that was where Michael had gone.
As soon as she opened the door, she could hear a rapid thudding sound from below accompanied by short, exertions of breath with each beat. She shut the door again, and was astounded that she couldn’t hear even the faintest sound of it when she did. Assuming that Moonie had installed some type of perfect sound proofing, she opened the door again and slowly descended the steps. The stairwell was widely spacious, and she quickly observed a mechanical, flat platform to her right that appeared to descend diagonally parallel with the stairs using a lever. Megan supposed it was the method Moonie used to enter and exit the basement.
The thudding sound grew louder as she passed the first area, made out simply as a laundry room. As she continued through an open threshold, she noticed to her left a large array of computer monitors hovering over an expansive console with levers, buttons, a keyboard, and many other electronic hardware elements that she had only seen in spy movies involving the CIA or MI6. To her right was a large, steel door resembling that of a well-armored vault of some kind. Still, the rapid, pounding thuds against a soft surface increased in volume, coming from somewhere up ahead.
Megan continued making her way through the many sections of the basement, paying little attention to the other mysteries that inhabited them, as she neared an area that was well lit, and the closer she came, the more she noticed that it was the most open and expansive area, where the entire floor of this section was not lined with carpet, but with blue matting that one might find in a modernized martial arts dojo or gymnastics room.
Stepping through the threshold of this last area, she immediately observed many pieces of gym equipment. A complete set of weight benches and dumbbells, a treadmill, pull-up bars, an exercise bike, and many other fitness enhancing stations. From her right side came the source of the noise. With his back to her, Michael, donned only in athletic shorts and open-fingered, padded gloves, was beating mercilessly on a heavy-bag that hung by a thick chain from the ceiling. She stood in awe of him. Though she had once witnessed his uncanny speed not long ago, it was not something she could get used to quickly. His fists were like hyperactive pistons that sent a flurry of blows against the bag. He would bark out a sharp, crisp, grunt every second as if the guttural noise from his vocal cords channeled energy into his shots. Every now and then he would throw his right or left leg in a powerful roundhouse kick that would send the bag swinging to an almost horizontal position, and as gravity would send it back to him, he would meet it with a thunderous, open-palm strike.
Megan remained motionless, holding her breath, even when Michael came to a stop, panting heavily as his hair and bare back were drenched with sweat. The tattoo of the wolf howling at a yellow, full moon seemed to glisten as if the ink had recently been set into his skin, even though he had told her it’s been there since before he could remember. After he had inhaled and exhaled several very deep breaths of air, with his back still to her, he spoke as if he had known she was there the entire time. “If you think the gym is something, you should see the pool. Olympic sized. Completely underground. It’s just past the next door, though it’s a little late for a swim.”
“I don’t… have a bathing suit,” she said, almost trance-like. In her wonderment of his performance, she couldn’t think of anything better, and, feeling idiotic, wanted to slap herself.
“We can always go shop for one if you want,” he said simply. Then he resumed hitting the bag, this time at a normal pace, but the blows just as powerful.
She watched him for another several seconds until her thoughts finally cleared. “I had a bad dream,” she projected to him. As soon as the sentence escaped her lips, he stopped, stilled the heavy-bag, and lowered his head. “Did you dream the same thing?”
He said nothing at first, only hit the bag a few more times, slowly, with less effort. “It was the video in the email they sent me,” he finally answered. “That was my dream.” He walked away from her towards a plastic bottle of spring water that was resting on a padded bench with a barbell set upon its attached struts. “The vision Diana cursed you with, made you see Ben and Ryleigh’s murder over and over whenever you closed your eyes. My vision is the video I was forced to watch. I only saw it once, and it was long ago, but it replays in my head. Except it’s not a curse. Just the same damn nightmare.” He drank from the bottle thirstily.
Megan pushed back tears as pity filled her heart. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked vainly, knowing the answer even as she spoke. “Tell me. Anything you need.”
He shook his head, not bringing his eyes to hers as he returned to face the heavy bag. “I’ll be fine,” he said softly. “I just want to be alone for a while.”
“Okay,” she replied with a voice that nearly broke into a wounded cry. Then she took a deep breath to suppress the quivering in her speech. “If you need to talk, I’m here for you. You know that, right?”
“I know,” he said with a gentle sadness. “Thanks.” He waited a moment, but soon resumed inflicting punishment upon the bag. Megan watched him again for a few seconds, then quietly left the way she came, holding it together until she made it back to her bedroom. As soon as she threw herself onto her bed, she buried her face in her pillow and cried without restraint until she was able to slip into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter XII
Megan awoke the next morning to the sound of knocking on her door. Groggily, she opened her eyes to see that she had slept in, as the clock showed that the morning grew old to almost 11:00. “Y.. yes?” she answered the knock with effort to break the effects of her deepened slumber.
“Miss Megan?” Emily’s voice called from the other side of the door. “Are you gonna get up? Daddy made French toast and we saved you some, but if you don’t come out soon, I think Alex is gonna steal it!”
She stifled a simple laugh. “O.. Okay. I’m up. Just give me a few minutes.”
“Okay. You’ll have to heat it up in the microwave. It’s really good though! Daddy always makes French toast on Sundays. Hey, do you want to play Battleship with me after you eat?”
“Sure, honey. Just let me eat and get a shower first, okay?”
Megan heard the girl’s soft footsteps take off in a canter down the hallway, as well as the muffled sounds of the others’ voices engaged in playful conversation. Moonie’s of course, was the loudest. She sat up, pressed her fingertips to her temples, and rubbed them gently as she let out a final yawn. As she scanned the room for her slippers, she noticed a gray plastic bag decorated with the logo of a well-known department store resting on the dresser against the opposite wall. Curiously, she went to it as it had not been there when she had gone to bed the night before. As she picked it up and held it open, a tickling smile formed on her suddenly blushing face.
The bikini was of a fine, synthetic material dyed the color of royal blue. The outer edges of both pieces were lined with thin rows of sparkling sequins. Megan’s smile widened as she pulled it out and let the bag float down to the carpeted floor. Temporarily forgetting all about her awaiting plate of French toast, she undressed and tried it on. After shopping for necessary clothing for her during the night of her rescue, she was flattered that Michael remembered her size, as the bathing suit fit perfectly. The blueness of it, she observed as she gazed at herself in the mirror, complemented her long blonde hair, and the top exposed an appropriate portion of her cleavage well, giving her a faint, seductive yet classy look.
By the time she had finished her morning routine, had breakfast, and
finished a few rounds of Battleship with Emily, the day had progressed into the early afternoon. Michael and Moonie were nowhere to be found until then. She assumed they were working in the sound proof basement, but when she saw them, along with Alex and her father, sitting comfortably in the living room with the TV on, with a bowl of chips and a few glasses of iced tea, she stepped in. “Taking a break from your ‘business at hand?’” she asked the two younger men.
“Phils are playing the Mets this afternoon,” Moonie answered with his eyes glued to the flat screen in front of him. “So we ended early today.”
Before she could say anything else, the three men resumed their conversation, which Megan now comprehended to entail that of baseball players, statistics, and predictions for the season. All of which bore little interest to her. Alex sat on the sofa leaning against Michael’s side as his stepdad held him casually with one arm around him. Both were wearing matching red baseball caps with the white “P” stitched in the center. Moonie’s attire revealed he was rooting for the other team. Michael looked over at her and gave her a friendly nod, but said nothing as he was deep in the middle of an argument about the pitching rotation with his friend.
She decided not to thank him for the gift he had left for her in her bedroom, as she sensed no thanks were needed. It also would have been quite awkward for her to mention it, especially in front of her father, in the midst of such a “man-cave” event as watching a ball game with the guys. So she left them to it and soon found herself having a tea party with Emily on the back porch.
Even though Michael continued to refrain from any major interaction with Megan, as he had since their arrival at Moonie’s, she felt less perturbed by it now. His gift gave her a sense that whatever was going on with him, it had little to do with her and more to do with his need to work things out in his own head. Perhaps, she thought, his gesture of buying her the bathing suit was his way of letting her know that. A token of goodwill; an unspoken message that he held no ill will toward her by her suggestion that his tragic past was part of manifest destiny. Or perhaps, because of the tiny thread of connection they still shared, he sensed her aching heart as she cried herself to sleep that night, and he’d wanted to make it up to her. And that’s how it was with him. One moment he’s got her in tears. The next moment he’s got her smiling from ear to ear. Men.
The Paladin's Redemption (The Keepers of White Book 3) Page 23
