The Hidden Key (Second Sacred Trinity)

by S E Holmes

  “Are you kidding, Ayatollah? You could raise chicks in that bush.”

  “Mrs Paget’s created a monster. Speaking of which, there he is.”

  Shirtless, Riven climbed into the ring. He moved like mercury, sinuous and deadly. Blinking against the glare, he massaged bandaged knuckles and then stood poised, a challenging leer on his face. His opponent was of a bigger build, but less toned and he bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders. Tiffany pushed herself to the front row with a dazed aura. Prue and Priscilla squashed behind her in the jostling mob.

  The bell rang out, but before the crowd could cheer, Riven took three long strides and planted a vicious punch. Teeth and spittle flew from his rival’s mouth, his mashed nose spurting blood onto the crowd, who surged backwards. He fell unconscious to the floor. There was utter silence over the music, except for Tiffany who cheered and whistled. A friend darted in to the ring and hurriedly checked for vitals, before throwing Riven a glare of disbelief and hauling the comatose youth away.

  Bickles and Hud exchanged a shocked glance. “At this rate, he’ll be finished and home with a cup of tea by the time we climb down.”

  “Yeah, after a total massacre of anyone dumb enough to step up.” Larger, better-muscled guys in the audience hustled to be chosen, unaware their wagers were lost before the game had begun. “What do we do, Hud?”

  “We’ve got to do something or it’ll be a slaughterhouse.”

  Fortescue crackled in their ear-sets. “Poor fellow needs his jaw wired. There’s an ambulance on the way. The police will soon follow. We’re low on time. I will intervene before others are hurt or killed. Get closer and ready the solution.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Hud said. “Fortescue!”

  “Holy mother,” Bickles groaned. “The silly old goat’s stepping up.”

  “Come on. They have to clean the ring before he can fight again.”

  Hud packed the binoculars in his satchel, dropping to the ground. With Bickles his shadow, they ran the perimeter of the compound. Bickles commentated, while Hud fumbled in his bag for the atomiser, marvelling at the stupidity of such a vague plan now it was falling apart. And if he thought waiting for an unspecified opportunity to spray Riven with Mrs Paget’s concoction was stupid, then it really must be rock-bottom foolishness.

  “Riven’s laughing at him. Bastard.” The bell rang and a moment later applause and shouts of encouragement reverberated across the lot. “Yeah!” Bickles whooped. “Not laughing anymore, are you?”

  “Does that seem incognito to you?” Hud came to a crouched halt behind an industrial bin ten metres from the fight arena, which provided him a slanted view without being obvious. “Not bad for a butler. He’s giving that turd a run for his money.”

  “Riven doesn’t look like he’s ever been challenged properly before. I don’t think he likes it much.”

  A feeling of foreboding grew, Hud positive that enraging Riven to such a degree was a very poor move. “Go rescue the girls and bring the van closer. Watch out for that other hell-hound.”

  “No way. I should be the one to do this. They know you. They’ve targeted you.”

  “The best reason for me to give him the squirt.” They both grimaced in distaste. “Yeah, that sounded weird. I know what to expect and I’m better prepared. And if any crap goes down, it’ll only expose the one exposed already. Think of it as penance for stuffing up in the first place.”

  Bickles blew out a slow breath. “I don’t like it.” He held his fist out reluctantly and Hud bumped it with his own. “You know where we live.”

  “On the edge.”

  Bickles took off for the murk behind a forest of wire on wooden spools. Hud returned his attention to the ring, immediately sorry he had. In the seconds the conversation had stolen, Riven had bested Fortescue and inflicted a savage beating. Screams and boos filled the night, several watchers shouting for Fortescue to stay down.

  The old gent was badly bruised and bleeding heavily from a cut above one eye, a split, swollen lip, and his bent nose. He hauled upright using the ropes, but as soon as he got shakily to his feet, Riven attacked and hurled him to the mat. He cracked his knuckles and smiled like a man who enjoyed his work. Fortescue curled in a ball on his side, fending kicks to the gut as best he could. At this rate, he’d be dead in minutes.

  Just as Hud stepped out, not caring if he was caught, a colossal figure parted the masses. Hugo stripped his black t-shirt over his head and threw it down, slipping the leather belt from his combat pants to wind it around his right hand.

  “Get the fuck off him, arsehole.”

  “Oh no,” Hud muttered.

  Slowly, Riven pivoted to face his latest combatant, an evil grin stretching his mouth. “Well, well. Christmas has come early.”

  “No little girls for you to pick on? Had to resort to an old man? You’ve always enjoyed a mismatch, coward.”

  “Or maybe that should be the Crucifixion. And you’ve always pitied the weaklings, Hugo.”

  Police sirens wailed in the distance. Hud saw their flashing lights racing towards the long road that led to the end of the peninsula. The mob dispersed in shouts and panic, knocking a spotlight that shattered across the concrete, leaving the ring in semi-darkness and shards underfoot. Teens sprinted for their cars and peeled rubber from the compound like a stream of gassed bugs from the nest.

  They needed to depart before the authorities blocked the road. But Hud couldn’t worry about that now. Where was Riven’s sister?

  “Take Latoya, for instance. Oh wait, Tate did, didn’t he? Over and over and over again. I’m looking forward to going home and giving her some long-awaited devotion.”

  Hugo dropped the gun belt from around his waist and vaulted into the boxing ring. “Crucifixion is too good for you,” he growled. “I intend to strip the hide from your weaselly, craven bones.”

  “Shoot him,” Hud murmured. Why didn’t Hugo just shoot him?

  They slammed into each other with snarls of hatred. Hud darted for the belt fifteen metres away, his breath whistling in his ears. Clots of stoned adolescents making a tardy retreat from the scene lumbered into his path, forcing him to scramble low through a crush of limbs to keep the gun in sight. In the ring, Hugo pounded Riven with clinical precision, no part of him spared a battering. Riven limply absorbed the blows as if they had little effect on him, beaming crazily.

  “You.” He punched Riven in the upper-left ribs. “Will.” Then the jaw, snapping his head back at a sharp angle. “Never.” Next, a flurry to the lower abdomen, doubling him over. “Touch a girl again.”

  The lot was now almost devoid of people. Hud had finally earned a clear run to his objective, when a skinny, acne-faced boy scooped the belt up. With no patience for persuasion, Hud dived to tackle the kid.

  “No you don’t.” They scrimmaged around on the gravel, playing tug of war. “Give it to me.”

  “I found it, it’s mine! Get off me or I’ll report you to the cops.”

  “Really, numb-nuts? While holding the guns you’ve just stolen?”

  That did the trick and he yielded, bellowing for Hud to let him up. His yells drowned abruptly by a rattle that almost forced Hud to lose his bladder. He lifted his focus to see Riven looming over a felled Hugo, oily streamers dripping from his fingers and spreading out like a throttling disease.

  “Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do, disloyal pissant.”

  Dread pressing the air from his lungs, Hud reefed the gun belt from the kid, whose fright showed in the whites of his eyes. Leaping up, he raced back and flew into the ring, dragging out a revolver that would have shamed Dirty Harry.

  Riven was bowed over Hugo, whispering obscenities, and too intent on murdering his victim to notice a trespasser. Pitch tendrils radiated from him, slashes of malevolence more profound in reality than Hud could ever have conceived. They curled about Hugo and where they touched, his skin burned and blistered and broke open. Their rattle vibrated in Hud’s psyche, thr
eatening to tear his brain apart, instilling bottomless despair.

  “Your spineless heart’s always been a hindrance, traitor scum.” Riven stroked Hugo’s chest, which bruised black and bulged outwards. “I’ll free you of that burden.”

  Fear would have paralysed anyone else, but not an individual who gained thrills from facing it down for fun. And not a person whose anger had always been leverage for reckless action.

  “Hey! Flower delivery.”

  Riven spun, confusion crossing his features. Recognition dawned briefly, before Hud slammed the butt of the gun against his temple with all the force he had in him. The enemy blinked once, his eyes rolled back in his head and then he tottered and hit the deck. Hud provided no second chance, belting him twice more in the forehead to extinguish his lights. His grotesque scourge vanished. Hud battled the temptation to shoot him point-blank in the head, but if Hugo hadn’t, there must be a good reason. Plus, there was the small matter of having never killed anyone: Hud wasn’t certain he could.

  Instead, he sprayed Riven liberally in the face with the atomiser, droplets of cerise liquid merging with blood from his scalp. Hud scurried to where Hugo lolled on the mat.

  “Fortescue,” he wheezed. Raw welts pulped his torso, his sternum a ragged mess of contusions. Oozing lacerations wound up his neck. Hud hated to think what would have happened had the worms reached his mouth or eyes. Hugo grinned through a wince. “Idiot.”

  His eyelids fluttered shut, but his heartbeat was strong beneath Hud’s fingertips at his carotid. “You’re welcome.”

  At the edge of the ring, Fortescue was in far poorer shape. Barely conscious, the pulse in his wrist was feeble and his breathing shallow, blood leaking from his mouth. He guarded on each inhalation and Hud knew that he’d at least suffered broken ribs. His skin was pallid and clammy, sure signs of shock. His eyes were purpling and bloated shut, his nose was out of alignment, and his lip was fat and split like a grilled sausage.

  “Such undignified brawling,” he whispered. Hud had to bend low to hear. “A gentleman adheres to the Marquess of Queensberry code of boxing.”

  Hud eased him up, tilted against the ropes. “I don’t think Riven has ever met a gentleman. Forget about being one.”

  “If anyone should refer to me as a silly old goat again, I shall demand pistols at dawn.” Fortescue coughed, flinching until the spasm passed. His undervest was a spattered wreck.

  “Hold on, Fortescue. Bickles is on his way and we’ll get you out of here.”

  “So are the police.” He passed out.

  As if on queue, the van squealed to a stop next to them, sirens screaming in the background. Bickles hopped out and surveyed the carnage, hurdling into the ring and giving Hugo his arm to heave him upright. Hugo groaned, dwarfing Bickles’ lanky form as they staggered to the van. Hud gathered Fortescue up as gently as he could, thinking it lucky the old boy had sunk into a coma so they could move him without pain. He shied from darker thoughts about what this could mean.

  “Here, Hud, let me help.” Bickles returned, taking Fortescue’s arm and draping it about his shoulder. “Did you fight, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re all cut up.”

  He peered down at himself. “Damn, I liked that shirt. Had a bit of a tussle in broken glass.”

  “Smart.”

  “Like I did it deliberately. We need a hospital.”

  “And some tweezers. I don’t think a hospital is an option. Mrs Paget is a doctor, she will fix everyone.”

  The van’s side door flung open, Hugo recovering sluggishly inside. Priscilla propped up next to him anchored by her seatbelt. Bound and gagged, her eyes darted, her scowl ferocious. On spotting Hud, she issued a muffled tirade.

  “Where are the other two girls?”

  “Scarpered, apparently.”

  “This gets better and better. What are we going to do with Wankenstein?”

  “Leave him,” Hugo muttered.

  “What?” Hud said, readying for an argument. “What if Mrs Paget’s spray doesn’t work on him? He’s confirmed beyond doubt you’re here. They’ll stop at nothing to hunt you down. We’ve still no idea where his crazy-arse sister is.”

  “Just get us out of here, before we’re arrested.”

  Bickles’ mobile vibrated in his shirt pocket. Desperate for news, he whipped it out and put it on speakerphone. “Andie?”

  “Ty!” she howled and blubbered down the line. It took several moments and much reassurance for Ty to calm her to intelligible.

  “Mrs Paget’s been shot!”

  Too late, they discovered precisely where Rebel had been.

  Twenty-Seven

  The allayver was wearing off. We’d punted for two hours through nature-infested swamp in a flimsy metal barge. The puttering outboard gave me no confidence. There were numerous dragonflies, but no mosquitoes much to my relief. Loud splashes announced alligators nearby and the drone of our motor advertised our tasty presence.

  “They’re unusually agitated for wintertime,” Daniel commented.

  “That’s not disconcerting at all.”

  The Keepers swelled and faded, making it hard to concentrate. But it was important I allowed Bernadette back, so we could play a game of ‘getting warmer’. I suspected, as we navigated through the eerie forest of water-bound cypress, ice-cold was the verdict.

  “Focus, Winsome.”

  I turned back and offered Daniel a frustrated glare, my bruised spine protesting. His legs almost bent double, but he occupied his space as though reclining on a banana-lounge in St. Tropez. I, on the other hand, looked as though I’d taken a spin in a clothes drier. His easy grace made me more irritable.

  “What do you feel?”

  “I feel we’re about as close as the Crusaders got to the Holy Grail.”

  The bayous were a living entity, the geography fluid with the movement of sediment and trickling water. Bernadette’s centuries-old map was next to useless.

  “That’s not helpful,” Daniel said.

  “Ease up, Daniel. I’m sure Winnie’s doing her best. Listen for Bernadette, Bear. Is she getting louder or softer?” Smithy smiled from the stern where he piloted.

  It was true what they said. You could catch more bees with honey than vinegar. I tried to reward his faith in me. Bernadette was so faint, I almost couldn’t hear her at all.

  “We’re heading away from her tree. I wish they didn’t all look the same.”

  He slowly U-turned and edged us back the way we’d come. “That’s good, Bear. Which way?”

  The light dwindled in the dying afternoon. This would be impossible at night, the canopy of leaves and moss-draped branches obliterating the stars and the moon.

  “Head to your left.”

  Smithy picked up speed, dodging the chicane of trunks and roots. Occasional snakes slithered through the water in front of us, reminding me to keep my hands inside. After fifteen minutes, I led us back to the start of our search.

  “Are you sure?” Smithy scanned the jetty and the intact lawn running down from the back of Raphaela’s house. He removed his sunglasses and swiped his brow. “What now?”

  “Bernadette’s practically screaming at me. I’m sure,” I lied.

  I faced the land, feeling hopeless. The embankment formed a circular overhang thickly fringed by reeds. There wasn’t a tree, the only wood present, the jetty itself. It was not exactly the view I saw in my mind, but with some creativity they could be the same. Or maybe I was so desperate I imagined it.

  “Guide us to the wharf, please. I need to touch it.”

  Daniel slipped to my bench, scrutinising the jetty with renewed interest. How did he stay so crisp in tight leathers, not a hair out of place?

  “You think the tree in your vision was used to build the pier?”

  “It has to be. And, if that’s true, Raphaela built her house on top of where the Key’s hidden.”

  “That has a strange symmetry.” He peered at me intently.
>
  I kept my eyes ahead, relieved by the camouflage of a hat and sunnies. “Can we gain access here without setting those things off?”

  “There are no Echoes this side of the house. But the Sentinels go where they please,” Daniel said.

  “Any good news?” I snapped.

  Smithy killed the motor and we floated to a pylon, colliding with a gentle bump. He tied us to it. I touched wood slick with damp, its past life flickering through my consciousness.

  “This is the tree and that was the hillock.”

  I pointed to her lawn. Weirdly, I’d rather hang with the gators than tour Raphaela’s house. Since we’d arrived, an unspecified fear churned my gut, becoming so intense a shot of antacid wouldn’t go astray.

  “Did she have a root cellar, Daniel?” Smithy asked.

  He nodded. “Older than the house.”

  “Why don’t people ever hide things on the roof?” I complained.

  Smithy jumped nimbly from the boat, holding out his hand to haul me up on to land. He braced my shoulders, until my sea-legs got with the programme, kissing my sweaty neck before releasing me.

  “I won’t let you go. Okay, Bear?” He inspected the house. “No Sentinels.”

  “So far …”

  I really wanted to get back in the stupid boat. We proceeded cautiously up the slope, Daniel vigilant in front, and gained the covered veranda. One side was boarded up where Raphaela’s body had been removed. I triggered my Maglite in the evening gloom, its powerful beam illuminating elegant garden furniture and lush potted plants, now drooping. Such neglect would upset Mrs Paget. Only a week ago, this had been Raphaela’s sanctuary, her home, and with the realisation came a wave of sorrow.

  “From now on, no proper names lest we’re overheard,” Daniel whispered.

  “If I’m Bear and he’s Smith, who are you?”

  “Exactly who I am. Daniel. It’s not who they know me to be.” I stepped up to open the door.

  “Stop. Daniel first,” Smith said, his arm flung across my chest.

  “No talking unless absolutely necessary. Stay close.”

  We entered a long, wide corridor, eventually turning right towards a kitchen glimpsed in bobbing torchlight. Try as I might, I couldn’t avoid looking left to the other end of the hall, where Raphaela had met her fate. A plastic-covered chasm gaped where the wall had been, police tape everywhere. Masonry unceremoniously scattered the floor and a trail of gritty footprints spoke of people going about the business of investigating a murder scene. I pulled my gaze away and occupied myself with the décor.