by Heath, Jack
"It was a nightmare."
"Yes," he said in a halting voice.
"But you think it was real somehow, don't you?"
He ran a hand over his face. "I can't help but think . . . I just don't know."
"John," she said, laying a hand on his arm, "you've been through unbelievable stress. We both have."
"I know," he said, wanting to believe that she was right and stress was the cause, "but I keep thinking about my last conversation with Andrew Card."
Amy nodded. "And he told you there are Covens other places."
"Yes."
"But they're not here. That counts for something."
John shook his head. "That's not true. I killed the leaders of the Coven, but I'm sure that wasn't all of them. We have no idea how many others there are. Rich Harvey, my friend, was one of them. I look around this city and every person I see, I wonder if they're a member of the Coven. I wonder who I can trust, who I'll ever be able to trust."
"You sound paranoid."
"That's because I am paranoid. Aren't you?"
She was quiet for half a block before she said, "Yes, I'm feeling very paranoid, too, but it really pisses me off. I don't want to worry that every person in this town might be a secret Devil worshipper. I don't want to think that this is just our problem."
"You're suggesting that we're supposed to ignore them?"
She shook her head and looked at the ground. "No, of course not. I just feel like these people have invaded our lives, and I want them gone. I want the world to be what I always thought it was before a week ago, a place where there were a few bad people but mostly good people and the Devil didn't really exist."
"But the world wasn't really that way at all. We just thought it was. Do you really want to be ignorant?"
She let out a humorless laugh and put her arm through his and gave it a squeeze. "No, but I also don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, wondering if the person behind me on the sidewalk or in the supermarket line is really a Devil worshipper who wants to kidnap me and kill me in a blood sacrifice."
"So, how do we keep from letting that happen?"
Amy shook her head, but then she seemed to get a fresh burst of spirit. "Tell me about your dream. Where did you think this girl was? Vermont?"
John shook his head. "It could have been, but I'm pretty sure it was England."
"Why England?"
"I don't know, maybe the stone walls or the hills and the sheep, maybe the gray sky."
"Where in England?"
"Haven't got a clue."
He felt a shudder go through her, and she asked, "What do you think you're supposed to do about dreams like that?"
"I don't know."
The walked another half block in silence, but then Amy let out a reluctant sigh. "You're right. If you have dreams like that and you think they're real, you can't just do nothing."
John nodded, finally putting words to what had been bothering him since he woke up. "I know. If I try to ignore them, they'll drive me insane, but how do I do something to save a girl who's walking on a road and I don't know where in the world it is?"
She squeezed his arm, but she could offer no good answer.
He stopped walking and looked at her, trying to fight the sense of panic that welled up inside when he confronted how little control he had over the direction of his life. "I already called Andrew Card before you came down."
"Good, that's what you should do."
"It's not the first time I've called him since . . . everything happened. It's probably the fourth or fifth, but he hasn't returned my calls."
"He's probably busy tying up loose ends. Calling Card is the right thing. I just don't think you should try to get involved any further, at least alone."
"What do I do if Card doesn't call back, or when he finally does he tells me he can't do anything?"
"Maybe there's nothing you can do, either. Neither you nor I have the resources to go flying around the world, and even if we did, we don't have the knowledge or the authority to do anything." She paused. "What do you think would happen if you ended up killing a bunch of Coven leaders outside the country? They'd toss you in jail and throw away the key."
John nodded. "I think it's strange that they haven't done it here, don't you? Five important people have vanished."
Amy glanced around, making sure the sidewalk was empty. "But they haven't found any bodies," she whispered. "There's no proof a crime has been committed. Maybe that's the reason Card hasn't called you back. Maybe it's his way of telling you your job is done where the Coven is concerned and you should keep your mouth shut and lie low for a while."
"Even though other people may be getting killed? And we haven't talked about this, but what about Jessica Lodge? What am I supposed to do about her? She's related to all of this you know."
"We think."
"Well, I think this girl was in England, and I think that's where Jessica is, as well."
"You think this girl has something to do with Jessica?"
"Maybe as a victim."
"Why do you think that?"
John was starting to get frustrated with her questions, but he was trying not to show it. He knew she really didn't believe him, and he realized they were close to having their first fight as a couple. "Because," he said, biting off the words, "Jessica went to Cornwall on her last trip. She didn't tell any of us, but Rich Harvey knew. He let it slip one day when we were at lunch. I didn't think anything about it at the time. Only later, when I knew he was part of the Coven, it seemed a lot more significant."
She looked at him, and her face softened. "I know how you feel. I just think that after everything we've been through, we deserve a little break. And . . ."
"And what?" he demanded.
"You ought to hear yourself. What you're describing isn't a story, it's just guesses and intuition, and it's coming in the aftermath of a huge shock to your system. It isn't anything you would pursue if somebody else told you this stuff."
He stopped walking and turned to face her. "Two weeks ago, I was a rational reporter who always followed the rules. I checked my sources, and I always verified the facts." He paused. "But then this woman's spirit started talking to me, taking me places, pointing things out to me. It seemed pretty crazy because I didn't believe in stuff like that, but the fact that she talked to me and I listened made it possible for us to stop a chain of horrible murders that had been going on around here for over three hundred years. And it made it possible for me to save your life."
Amy nodded. "Yes, but now I think we should let other people—"
"What if my dream was another message, but a different kind? What if nobody else gets these damn messages? What do I do, ignore them, say they're somebody else's problem? What if people are getting killed and there's nobody else to do anything? What would you want me to do if that little girl was your daughter? Think about that. What should I do, Amy? What would you do if you were in my shoes?"
Amy shook her head. "I don't know," she said softly.
"Yes, you do."
She reached out suddenly and gripped his arms. "Just please be careful. We got lucky as hell the first time around. If you get involved with those people again, you're going to be farther from home and everything will be more dangerous. Promise me you'll be careful."
"I haven't done anything yet, but yes, I promise I'll be careful."
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN JOHN WALKED INTO THE SALEM NEWS offices and onto the newsroom floor, he looked across the room through the glass walls of his office and spotted a stranger sitting in one of the visitor's chairs. The man looked to be in his fifties, with short gray hair and a dark suit, but he didn't look familiar. John glanced at several of the early arriving staffers to see if anyone was going to speak up and tell him why one of them had told a stranger it was okay to take a seat in his office when he wasn't even there; however everyone he made eye contact with shrugged and shook their head.
"He wa
s already here when we got here," one of them offered.
"He was already inside the building?" John demanded. "Yeah."
"How the hell did he get a key?"
"He said Mrs. Lodge gave him one."
"We'll see about that," he snapped and strode quickly toward his office.
"Can I help you?" he said in a curt voice when he came to his office door.
The man turned and gave him an appraising look as he stood. "Chester Cabot," he said, holding out a business card. John noticed that his shirt was very white and perfectly stiff with starch, his burgundy tie redolent of power but not overstated, his pants flawlessly pressed, his black shoes shined to a mirror finish.
John took the card as he went past Cabot to take a seat behind his desk. Without looking at it, he eyed Cabot. The man seemed cool and unruffled and very sure of himself. "Most people wait out in the lobby and only come in here when they're invited."
"I was invited."
"By whom?" John demanded, even though he was pretty sure he already knew.
"Your employer, Mrs. Jessica Lodge."
John finally glanced down at the card, which said that Cabot was a partner at the law firm of Cabot, Cabot, and Pilkington. It was a name John knew well, one of the whitest of all the white shoe law firms in Boston whose clients were known for their blue blood and deep pockets and whose partners were known for their equally blue blood, their professional discretion, and their intelligence. "I see. So what do you want with me, Mr. Cabot."
Cabot leaned down and removed a sheet of letterhead stationery from a briefcase that stood beside is chair. He handed it across. "Mrs. Lodge has issued us instructions to shut down this paper on her behalf."
John stared at the man for a long silence because his brain seemed to freeze. The lawyer stared back, appearing unfazed by the news he had just delivered. John finally managed to ask, "May I ask the reasons she has made this decision now?"
"I can only surmise that it is because the paper has been losing money for some time."
"It's also been Mrs. Lodge's favorite investment."
Cabot drew himself a little more upright. "Nothing remains a favorite forever, it appears. However, I cannot speculate any further on her motives or the reason for her change of heart. I am just here to see that her instructions are carried out.
"I assume the employees will be given reasonable severance."
Cabot reached down and withdrew a file folder with a bound document inside. "This will lay out the terms of each person's severance. You will note that each person is being offered two years' salary at their present compensation if they sign a non-compete agreement." He handed the document across to John. "Please read this and let me know if you have any questions."
In spite of the fact that Jessica's offer was extremely generous in dollars, John looked at Cabot in amazement. "She's shutting down the paper, but she wants people to sign a non-compete? That's crazy! Are you saying she doesn't want a paper to exist in Salem?"
Cabot cleared his throat. "Again, I am simply here to carry out her orders and deliver her offer. I cannot and will not speculate on her motives. We will expect the agreements to be signed and the offices vacated by Friday."
"This coming Friday? Today's Monday. That's only five days."
"I am aware."
"What about the printing equipment, the computers?"
"Mrs. Lodge will retain everything. It's all explained in the document."
John looked through the glass walls of his office at the newsroom and the staffers who were already hard at work. Twenty-four people worked at the Salem News, twenty-four people who would be out of their jobs this coming Friday. "I haven't read the fine print yet, but I'll hazard a guess," John said. "Everyone gets their severance as long as they don't go to work for another paper within say, a hundred miles, and if they refrain from writing about several disappearances that took place in this city just about a week ago."
Cabot just looked at him and didn't answer.
"Bingo," John said, "I hit it right on the nose, didn't I?"
Cabot still did not respond.
"Let me ask you one more question before you leave, Mr. Cabot. How do you feel right now? Do you feel good about yourself?"
"That has no bearing on the matter at hand."
"Sure it does. Five longtime citizens of this town disappeared, and another person killed himself. I believe the five people who disappeared are dead, and I know that there are unseemly truths that need to be brought out about why they died and how they died, and the things they did while they were alive that no one knows about. Mrs. Lodge doesn't want those stories told, and I believe you are abetting Mrs. Lodge's attempt to make sure those truths never see the light of day. I think how you feel about the fact that you are covering up terrible crimes is actually very important."
Cabot stood and picked up his briefcase. "Out by Friday, Mr. Andrews. Sign the agreement in the bound document if you wish to receive more than the minimum severance dictated by law. Good day."
Cabot turned and walked out. As John watched him make his way through the newsroom, he felt a fresh flash of paranoia and wondered whether Cabot was just a hired gun with a leathery, dead heart, or whether he was another member of the Coven, someone outwardly wealthy and successful in his own right yet secretly involved in Devil worship and blood sacrifice. There was no way to know, he realized, short of breaking into another Coven meeting and finding Cabot at the table.
For half a second he wished he was looking at Cabot's back through the scope of a gun, and as soon as the thought surfaced he sat up and gave his head a shake. That was exactly the way he could not afford to think. Paranoid reactions would eventually make him into a vigilante, one who shot first and asked questions later and found a way to forgive himself for the innocents who got in the way of the "cleansing" process. No, as hard as it was going to be, he had to continue to think like a journalist, and that meant getting the facts, the real facts, and not acting until he had them, even if those facts dealt with things that most of the world would view with utter skepticism.
He turned and saw Amy giving him a questioning look, and he signaled for her to come into his office. "What was that about?" she asked as she stepped inside.
"Let's get everyone together at ten a.m. for an announcement," he said, his voice terse with anger. "We're being shut down, effective Friday."
CHAPTER FOUR
BY EIGHT O'CLOCK THAT EVENING, AFTER HE had spoken to the entire staff, given them the bad news and dealt as well as he could with their mixture of stunned anger and tears and confusion, and then somehow managed to coax them to put out that day's edition, John sat in his office and looked out at the empty newsroom. Amy was the only other person still there, and when she saw him looking around she got up, came into his office, and gave him a sad smile.
"Buy you a drink?"
"How about ten drinks?"
She smiled and jerked her head. "Come on, let's get out of here."
He stood and they walked out together and through the dark streets. Amy buttoned her coat against the damp chill of the evening, and then she put her arm through John's and drew close to him. Her warmth and the scent of her perfume helped bring him back to the present. "Jesus," he muttered, "the past week has really knocked me for a loop."
"It's knocked both of us for a loop."
"I'm just glad you're with me," he said.
"Me too."
They went in silence for another couple blocks and walked into Victoria Station. Amy led John to a corner table near the back and when the waitress came she ordered two Hendrick's martinis, straight up with lemon twists. When they came she handed a glass to John and then raised hers in a toast.
"Here's to the next leg of our adventure."
John raised his own glass. "Let me amend that. Here's to a quiet, boring life for a while." He smiled and took a long pull, feeling the wonderful burn as the gin went down his throat.
He realized with a fitting sense of irony th
at his distress at the announcement of the paper's closing had begun to jar him from the shellshock of having killed five people and narrowly saving Amy's life and his own. At the same time, he realized that as much as the past week had been about welcome numbness, it was a luxury he could no longer afford.
Up until then, the numbness had been absolutely necessary. It had helped him get past the violence and horror of the night in the Coven's catacombs, and his grief at discovering that the Coven had been responsible for the car accident years earlier that claimed his wife's life, and for the years of betrayal when his ostensible friend, Rich Harvey, had actually been a member of the Coven. As much as he had needed the numbness, the announcement of the paper's closing now required him to have all of his senses engaged. He needed to be aware, to feel every bit of what was going on now. Deep down, what he was feeling most of all was rage.
He couldn't yet prove that Jessica Lodge was the seventh member of the Coven, the leader known as the Inquisitor, but in his guts he was certain of it; however, right then, he wanted something else even more. He wanted to confront her, to look her in the eye and force her to tell him why she had really destroyed the paper that for so many years had mattered more to her than all of the other companies in her family's vast corporate portfolio.
At no point in the past had profit been the slightest motivation where the Salem News was concerned. Jessica Lodge had loved that paper, at least assuming the things he thought he knew about her were anything but a network of carefully fashioned lies. Now he wanted to confront her and force her to acknowledge the hurt she had brought to so many people who had worked so long and tirelessly for her paper.
He took another long pull of his martini, looked down at the mostly empty glass, and signaled to the waitress to bring him another then raised his glass. "The next leg of our adventure."
"You sound like you already know what it's going to be."
"I do. Is your passport up to date?"
Her eyes became cautious, but she nodded.
"Good, I think we need to go to England."
