by Deena Remiel
“You Ms. Dutton?”
“Yes, I am. Did you know the first hair dryer was a vacuum cleaner?” The guy stood there with a “do you think I give a shit” look. Damn these facts swirling in my head! “Well then, you must have my boxes.”
“Yeah, five of ’em, right?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Sign here and here, please, and we’ll start unloading.” He offered her his clipboard.
“Sure, you can put them all right in this room.” Not keen on having him or any other strange man see her bedroom, she’d settle for bringing those boxes upstairs herself.
“Okay, give us five minutes and we’ll be out of your way.”
“Thank you.” She smiled and retreated to the kitchen to find a cup and poured herself some orange juice. By the time she downed her glass, they’d only one box left to bring in. As she watched the truck disappear down the road, she wished it would turn around, pick up all her boxes, put her in one, too, and take her back home. Her real home. Where she could feel the solid ground beneath her once again.
It seemed as though, from the start, transferring to Shelter Island had its share of problems. She had no idea that among the list of everyday acclimating endeavors, she’d be required to endure hazing, share space with ghosts, and become a party to a satanic cult investigation. Having the day off would give her a chance to reassess her position overall and strategize her next steps.
When she left this library, where did she go? She couldn’t go back to her old job. Or could she? They weren’t downsizing. She was lent to this library temporarily. But what if Nancy or Susan sent horrible reports back to her old boss about her? She wouldn’t put it past them. She decided to call him after getting ready for the day and formulated key points for their conversation.
Just as she stepped out of her clothes and into the shower, the phone rang. Damn it, no answering machine. She hopped back out and left a wet footprint trail as she ran while wrapping a towel around herself.
Breathless and wet, she picked up her phone and answered, “Hello?”
“Ms. Dutton?” A rich baritone voice seemed to sing her name.
“This is she.”
“Hello, this is Victor Langdon, President of the Shelter Island Library Board.”
“Oh, hello sir. You know, I’m not supposed to be at the library today. I already cleared a day off to receive my belongings from moving.”
“I’m not calling to check up on you. I’m calling to ask you to come to a lunch meeting today. The board wants to extend a hearty welcome to you and thank you for filling in while we find a permanent solution to our staffing woes. I can’t begin to tell you how much we appreciate the machinations you’ve gone through just for us. Please join me at my home at one o’clock. There will be light cocktails served on the terrace overlooking the lake.”
“Wow, I mean thank you. That’s very generous of you and totally unnecessary, but I’ll be there. Just tell me your address please so I can arrange a taxi.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll send my chauffeur around for you. You may not be aware of who I am beyond a name, Ms. Dutton, but do a simple internet search on me, and you will understand that this is a mere trifling in a day’s work. Enjoy the rest of your morning. I will see you shortly.”
She ran back to the shower and shuffled through the myriad of facts stored in her brain from the countless hours of reading she’d accomplished during her tenure with the library system. As she shampooed her hair, she recalled an article in Forbes magazine about a business magnate with the same name who’d made a killing in the microchip industry.
He was the Library Board President? Why would he even bother? Then again, Shelter Island was the convenient second home for many wealthy people. You had to have money to live here, or work for someone who owned property. Or like her, you had to provide a necessary service to the people living here. It reminded her of a symbiotic relationship where everyone needed everyone else to survive.
She toweled off and hoped to find an outfit suitable for such an event that hadn’t been too badly crushed by the move. If she made a good impression, maybe he could get the witches to back off and she could stay as previously planned. A few hours until the lunch meeting gave her plenty of time to prepare and get a good case of the nerves.
Chapter Seven
Nancy fluffed her bleached blonde hair in the reflection of the kitchen cabinet, checked her teeth for lipstick, and winked at herself. “Go to work on your own today. I’ll meet you there later.” She took a sip of coffee.
“Oh really? Why?” Susan crunched on her buttered rye toast.
“Victor has asked me to a breakfast meeting at his home.”
“Whoa, I’ve never been asked there. Any cult or library meetings I’ve been to happen at the library. Have you been to his house?”
“Susan, of course I’ve been there. He’s had parties there for important people on Christmas and New Year’s Eve.” She scoffed, took another sip, and then smiled wickedly. “And he’s had parties for smaller, more intimate gatherings.” She giggled like a wicked schoolgirl.
Susan rolled her eyes. “Have a nice time. Hmm. Wonder what he wants.”
“Probably wants to discuss Mission business. I am High Priestess. I should be involved.”
“Of course, of course. Do you want me to drop you off there on my way?”
“No, he’s sending a car for me. I’ll have him take me directly to the library after our meeting and you can drive me home.”
A knocking at the door silenced any more discussion. “It’s probably the driver. See you later. Don’t do anything disastrous at the library while I’m away, okay?” She smirked, opened the door and smiled at the driver waiting at the bottom of the stoop. “To the Manor, James.” She laughed as she slammed the door and sashayed past him to the awaiting car.
***
Victor watched as Nancy stood on the terrace tapping the toe of her left shoe on the slate tile and resting her manicured nails on folded arms. He loved to irritate her. She succumbed so easily. No patience at all, that one. Rather than enjoying the exquisite view, she chose to spend the last moments of her life stewing about his late appearance. What a waste.
“Enjoying the view, Nancy?” Flashing a toothy grin, he stepped onto the patio and leaned against the full-service bar counter.
“I was beginning to think I misunderstood your invitation.” Her response dripped with annoyance. “My word, Victor! What on earth happened to your face and neck?”
“Don’t let it worry you. I’m just one step closer to our Lord and Master’s side. As you know, I’m an important man and my time is in big demand. I was delayed by an important call from overseas. Please, come and sit down. Maritha has prepared quite a lovely breakfast banquet for us.” He walked over to the glass table beautifully appointed with silverware, crystal, and Royal Doulton china. Showcasing his suave manners, he pulled a chair out for her to sit on.
“Only the two of us for this meeting? I thought maybe there would be others.” She raised an eyebrow and nodded her approval as she sat down.
“Just us this morning.” He sat down, too, whisked a napkin into the air, and laid it across his lap. She did the same. “I thought we’d go over ritual proceedings that involve only the two of us.”
“What more do we need to review? Everything is in order for the boy. I know my part of the ceremony by heart as well as yours. What else is there?”
“Try a strawberry. Maritha says they’re unusually sweet today.” He took one from his fruit cup and groaned his pleasure. “She’s right. These are sensational. Anyway, that part of the ceremony, you’re right. We’re ready. But we have the secondary ritual that we must conduct regarding the Marked One. It is an extraordinary convergence of events this year. We must make sure that we are ready for her sacrifice, as well. Master is expecting it. As Overlord, I must be sure you, my High Priestess, are prepared for your part in the ritual.”
“Victor, this idea of yours abo
ut the Marked One, I wonder if it’s really necessary to go ahead with it. I mean, I’ve looked all through the old manuscripts and tablets, handbooks and liturgy, and I’ve found a scant line or two about it at most.”
“Its obscurity doesn’t make it any less important than the other rituals. Just all the more intriguing to carry out and see what happens.”
“It’s just one more person to go missing and bring old suspicions back when we’d laid them to rest years ago.”
“I shall take that under advisement, my dear. Do try the fruit, my love.” He stood up and crouched beside her. Plucking a strawberry from her bowl, he teased her mouth with the tip. “And if you have some extra comp time saved up, maybe you could linger here and I can have you with my fruit.”
She blushed and opened her mouth to accept his offering. He rubbed the strawberry around the edge of her lips before plunging it into her mouth. She bit down, closed her eyes, and moaned. Mere moments later, her eyes flew open and her moan turned into gasps. She grabbed the edge of the table with one hand and his shirt collar with the other, piercing him with the puzzled look he’d been anticipating all morning.
“Whatever’s the matter, Nancy? You look like you’ve eaten poison. These are the best strawberries in town. Maybe you should spit it out if you don’t like it. You don’t need to be dramatic about it.”
Convulsing in her chair, she foamed at the mouth, the whites of her eyes turned yellow, and her skin, ashen gray. Victor struggled but removed her hand from his shirt and stepped back to watch the ensuing deterioration of her body. She fell to the ground as her body continued to shake uncontrollably while burbling sounds escaped her blistered lips.
He knelt down beside her, and with as much menace as a servant of Satan could contain in his voice, he spoke his own version of her last rites. “There can be only one Overlord and that would be me. Now you know what happens to those who try to usurp my reign. Your soul is not good enough for Heaven and not loyal enough for Hell. May your soul remain forever restless with nowhere to go and no one to hear your complaints.”
Blood oozed out of her nose and ears as her eyes rolled back in her head. A blackening of her skin stole up and around her neck and face. And then, all was still.
“Damn,” he muttered. “That wasn’t long and slow at all. I must’ve mislabeled the bottle. A short and sweet affair rather than an epic death. Oh well, what’s done is done. Maritha!”
A short, gray-haired woman came scampering out and approached him. “Yes, Mr. Victor?”
“Ah, here you are.” He stood up to regain his mammoth height, arms opened wide. “My dear, phenomenal breakfast this morning. You really outdid yourself. Those strawberries were divine!”
She smiled proudly. “Thank you, Mr. Victor.”
“You may clean up now. We’re finished here. Ask Bart to help with the, uh, heavier items. I don’t want you hurting yourself. A good chef is hard to find, you know. Remember, lunch today is scheduled for one o’clock. I trust you’ll make something equally delectable.”
“Oh, Mr. Victor, of course. Only my best creations for you.” He grinned and grabbed her hand to kiss the back of it. “Now, now, you know I’m a married woman, sir.” She giggled.
He sighed. “Alas, yes. But it doesn’t hurt to flirt.” He winked, gave a last look at the unfortunate, misguided former High Priestess and shook his head. Susan should be able to fill her shoes well enough. At least she understood loyalty.
***
Derek stood on the front porch of Zachary Michael’s house, having finished the interview with his parents, and regarded the lake across the street. Every few moments, something from below broke through its glassy surface, creating gentle, unfettered ripples. He sighed. Who could be trusted to stop the rippling effect created by the cult here? At this point, he’d spoken to most of the parents either by phone or in person, and they all confirmed their missing children had a birthmark like the one mentioned in The Devil’s Handbook.
When he visited the police department on the island, a whopping force of two, they gave him access to their records, but curiously, a “flood” in recent years destroyed those he needed. He’d asked to see the computer backup files and they looked at him like he had two heads. Backup files were paper, too, and had been damaged beyond keeping as well. A closer scan of the small office area and he saw typewriters on desks rather than computers. How convenient for the cult to keep the police force here in the dark ages with antiquated tools.
Evil people stole those children for satanic rituals and now they were all dead. He knew it in his heart. The Mission Satanic Cult never folded as once thought. Rage and frustration swirled in his heart at the corruption that allowed these children to be exploited and murdered for the sake of evil. Hopefully, Zachary remained alive and could be found before any harm came to him.
Bounding down the steps, his thoughts drifted to Camille and it did nothing to soothe him. When she first showed him the handbook, it piqued his interest and wound up being a great lead. But when she opened her shirt and showed him the very same mark above her breast, warning flags waved before his eyes. She could be in danger, too. He needed to read more in that volume and see if anything indicated what role, if any, a person like her played in the cults’ rituals. And he needed names. Newspaper articles should have given him names of the Mission’s cult members who’d been prosecuted, but the ones he’d read through yesterday made no mention of them. The internet may wind up saving this investigation in the end.
At least he didn’t have to worry about his book waitress for today. She had the day off to unpack boxes. Hopefully he wouldn’t need her help. And even if he did, would she acquiesce and give it? She threw a mass of mixed signals to him last night. Or had he read those messages wrong in the first place? He hadn’t a clue. The last relationship he’d had wound up disastrous. She clung and needed and possessed. All three qualities he never wanted in a woman.
As he drove over to the library, thoughts of conspiracy and a massive cover-up swirled in his head, and he now believed the library to be at the center of it all. What did he already know? First, more than likely, the Mission still ran business as usual, and the police department shielded its activities. Second, they used the basement of the library to store one of their ritual objects and it used to be their meeting place. He bet they housed all sorts of paraphernalia across many places so that no one would be the wiser. Third, all the missing boys had the mark designating them as a sacrifice and were six years old when they disappeared. He didn’t know who led the cult at this point, or where they met. And did he need to be concerned for Camille’s safety given the fact she had the very same Mark of the Damned on her?
Chapter Eight
Camille looked forward to the lunch meeting with Victor Langdon. After the past few harrowing days transitioning to a new life that now seemed riddled with evil tidings, this kind gesture on his part gave her hope that all may not be lost here.
He lived on the other side of the island, a good fifteen minute drive away from the heart of the tiny town. As if the island itself wasn’t isolated enough, there were some people who went to great lengths to secure their privacy. Victor seemed to be one of them. A long, winding unnamed road twisted its way up and away from the main road. Flanked on either side by high cement walls cloaked in pine and oak trees, it said to people in no uncertain terms to stay out if you don’t belong.
Approaching his home rivaled Cinderella’s arrival at the castle. As the gates swung open, she gawked at the sweeping mansion, with its multitude of chimneys rising in splendor atop a slight hill. Victor Langdon came home from wherever to see this view every day. Utterly astounding. The chauffeur stopped at the front entrance with its marble steps leading up to the intricately designed front doors. He got out and opened her door.
“Here we are, Ms. Dutton. If you’ll please follow me.”
“Thank you.” She slid from her seat and grabbed her backpack. It wasn’t a matching purse to her outfit, a flowing
floral skirt and coral colored tank sweater, but she didn’t live that way, nor could she imagine living like Victor Langdon. Nice place to visit, wouldn’t want to clean it.
The chauffeur ushered her into the foyer that reminded her of a rotunda in an art museum, and left her to the care of a woman whose heels click-clacked her arrival a good ten seconds before she ever made her appearance. A cloying perfume preceded her, as well. Not surprising, she dressed in a conservative gray suit and wore a tight bun at the nape of her neck. The stiletto heels added enough height to make Camille feel like the small, insignificant child of her youth.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Dutton. Mr. Langdon is waiting for you on the terrace. Please follow me, won’t you?” Her soft as cashmere voice belied her severe appearance.
“Are you sure we don’t need a golf cart to get there?”
“Suit Lady” plastered a smile on her face but said nothing. Instead, she continued to guide her through a formal living space accented with crystal chandeliers and objects d’art, a monstrous state of the art kitchen, which teased her nose with wonderful Italian aromas, and finally, to the back terrace overlooking the lake.
“Here we are. Now, I just want to warn you,” she said in a hushed tone. “Mr. Langdon has some appreciable scars on his face from a camping accident recently. Please don’t be alarmed.”
“Okay, thanks for the heads up.” She didn’t recall seeing photos of him with scars in the Forbes magazine, nor could she picture the page where he might have talked about it. Were they that bad as to have needed a warning? She took a deep breath and sighed. She hadn’t been anxious before, but now? Now her clammy hands testified to her nerves getting the better of her.
“Mr. Langdon?” The tycoon, impressive in stature, with thick silver hair, turned when beckoned, a question on his disfigured face. “Ms. Dutton is here, sir.”
