Feast of Fear
Page 9
“I will remember your words,” Isaac said before the line went dead.
The priest let the handset drop to the level of his shoulder, as if it had grown very heavy. After a long moment he put it back in the cradle. He picked the object out of his robe’s pocket and stared at it for a long moment before clutching it tightly and painfully in his fists. As he did so blood began dripping from his closed hands and splashing onto the ceramic-tiled floor at his feet. The pain was nearly unbearable. Even so, he did not loose his grip on it. He understood what had to be done, and soon.
The object was showing him the way just as it had shown another old priest the way so many years ago. He would follow the path, regardless of all the objections that were to come, regardless of all possible consequences. Somewhere in the distance he heard the raucous cawing of a large flock of birds. A cold sheen of sweat covered his body as he clutched the object tightly in his fists. He tried to ignore the pain it was causing as he knelt back down at the base of the shrine to resume his prayers.
4
The large business jet was waiting when they arrived at the airport. The small crew was cordial but businesslike. The flight left the ground within five minutes of boarding. An attendant, a smartly dressed woman in her forties named Greta with a pretty but smug face and shifty eyes handed Annie a phone.
“Daddy?” Annie said, her voice breaking, sounding oddly like that of a child’s. “Tell me what happened. Yes, I’m okay. I want to know everything.” Annie kept the phone to her ear for a long time, occasionally exclaiming in awe or grief. “Oh no. My God, no. Daddy . . . please don’t cry . . . please. I know. Yes, I love you too, Daddy.”
Slowly, as if in a trance, Annie put the phone down. Doug wanted to puke. He was pitting his love for Annie against his hatred for her father and in the process he was totally ignoring the fact that her mother was dead and that she was hurting. But he couldn’t help it. This was all wrong. They’d vowed never to go back there. Now they were being forced into it; De Roché was manipulating Annie’s emotions like a talented maestro conducting an orchestra.
Annie fixed Doug with a vacant, helpless stare. “Oh . . . Christ, Doug,” she said, and the words were choked in an odd way, as though she was trying to swallow them.
Doug reached over and touched her trembling hand. “God, Annie, I’m so sorry.”
“Daddy . . . heard . . . her . . . get out of bed around midnight. He drifted back to sleep and woke up to the sound of gunfire. He went . . . looking for her and someone shot at him. The gunman somehow escaped. Daddy found Mama on the bathroom floor with a . . . bullet through her heart.”
“Annie, that place is a fortress. How could a gunman get through security?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has anyone ever gotten through before?”
“I don’t know. Why are you asking me this now?”
“You know damned well why.”
She glared at him. “I think you’re wrong. And I think you’re a bastard for insinuating that my father was involved with the death of my mother!”
“Then who were those guys this morning, Annie? Tell me! They blew the fucking house up. They tried to kill us.”
“I don’t know who they were. My father would never do anything to hurt me.”
“Of course not! He knew I’d get you out. That’s why he called, for Christ’s sake. He set the whole thing up to trick you into going back there. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see. He called to tell me my mother was dead. I would have come home anyway. He didn’t need to blow the house up. He didn’t need to send gunmen after us.”
“Annie, my God, he told me to get you out of the house; he said that someone was going to try and take you. Tell me how he knew that?”
“I don’t know.”
“And obviously you don’t want to know.”
Annie did not reply.
“Why would someone kidnap you to begin with?” Doug asked.
“I don’t know that either. Maybe for the same reason they killed my mother. Daddy has a lot of money, and power. He has enemies. Maybe they want to ransom me. Maybe they want to get back at Daddy for some other reason. Years ago when I went off to college he warned me that something like this might happen. He said the rich and powerful need to be more careful than ordinary citizens, that enemies are a given, that’s why we needed to be constantly on guard. I did not want to believe him. I called him paranoid. Now I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Annie—”
“No, Doug. This is about you and your jealousy. My mother’s dead and you’re freaking out because you hate my father.” Annie burst into tearful sobs.
Doug felt like killing something. He knew that Annie had a point and he suddenly realized just how ingenious De Roché’s plan had been. Annie didn’t know about her father’s desire to possess her baby so therefore she would never suspect his real motives. Yes, it was pure genius. Doug should have suspected something like this from the start. How could he have been so stupid? De Roché was not the kind of man who would do anything on a sane level. Guns blazing and houses exploding. Yes, that was De Roché’s style to the letter.
Greta, the shifty-eyed attendant approached them. “I have something that might calm you, Mrs. McArthur,” she said, glancing reproachfully at Doug.
“What is it?” Doug said crossly.
The woman ignored Doug and looked directly at Annie. “It’s Valium,” she said. “Your father told me that sometimes you . . . have a need for it.”
“She hasn’t had a need for it since she left that bastard,” Doug said.
Greta shot Doug a look of poisonous hate.
“Yes, thanks, I’ll take one,” Annie said. “In fact give me two.”
“Awe, Annie, for Christ’s sake! The baby!”
Annie nodded at the woman, ignoring Doug’s objections. The attendant marched down the aisle and in a moment she was back with a bottle of water and two tablets. Annie swallowed them both, put her seat back and stared out the window ignoring Doug. In a few short moments she was snoring softly.
Doug wanted to scream. He wanted to tell Annie that her father, for whatever sick reason, wanted her first born and that she was playing right into his hands. But he couldn’t say a fucking word. If he did she’d accuse him of making it up, of being insecure, of hating her father. She’d be right on two of those counts.
Doug picked up the phone Annie had used to talk to her father and dialed a number. It rang three times before an answering machine picked up. “This is Rick Jennings” a familiar and friendly voice said. “I’m not in right now but please leave a message. If it’s an emergency dial the station, or try my cell phone at 207-893-6210.” Doug put his thumb on the off button and dialed the cell phone number but the call went immediately to voice mail. He did not leave a message and he did not call the station. He hung up and dialed a third number. Seth Baxter, his crew foreman picked up.
“Seth, this is Doug.
“Doug, what the hell’s going on?” Seth gushed. “Man, what a relief hearing your voice. I thought you and Annie were dead.”
“We’re both okay, so don’t worry. Listen, I’m going to be out of town for a few days. I’m counting on you to keep the crew going while I’m away.”
“Sure, Doug,” Seth replied. “You know you can count on me. But where are you? What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You know the cops are looking for you.”
“Yeah, I figured. Listen, Seth, I can’t talk now, but I want you to do me a favor.”
“Anything, man. I’m just glad you’re alive.”
“Get in touch with Rick Jennings, you know, my friend at the police station. Tell him we’re all right and that I’ll be in touch as soon as possible. But don’t call the station.”
“Why not?”
“Just do as I say, Seth, okay? I’ll give you his cell phone number.” Doug gave Seth the number. “And don’t talk to anyone but Jennings, understand?�
�
“Sure, Doug. Jesus, this is weird. You know they’re combing the wreckage of your house right now trying to figure out what happened. I tried to go in but they wouldn’t let me near the place.”
“Tell Jennings that somebody turned the gas on, and then lit a match.”
“Are you saying . . .?”
“Yes. I think somebody tried to kill us.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God. Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Listen, I’ve got to go.”
“Be careful, Doug.”
“Sure, Seth. You too.”
After making the call, Doug sat sipping coffee, trying to calm his rage, thinking about the circumstances that had brought Annie and him together in the first place. Suddenly something didn’t feel right. The world seemed skewed slightly off center. His house, and all they’d worked for was gone, they’d barely escaped with their lives. Just like that their world had been torn apart, and now they were winging headlong toward an uncertain future.
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Mark
“Mark Edward Hall writes like a master. Stephen King, yes, but also like Stoker, Poe, and Bradbury, yeah, even Shakespeare...all those good guys we’ve forgotten. His prose is hypnotic and seductive, visceral, and edgy. He’s the real thing.” —Kiana Davenport, New York Times Bestselling Author of Cannibal Nights and House of Skin
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Mark Edward Hall is the author of five books and more than fifty short stories. His new novel, Apocalypse Island is due out in early 2012. He can be contacted through his website at: http://www.markedwardhall.com