The first tremor of misgiving whispered through him.
But wasn’t this exactly what he’d imagined? If his theory—first posited by his mentor, the late Richard Clay—about Gabriel Blackwood was correct, the scent of wild animals was precisely what one should smell when exploring this godless domain.
Wasn’t it?
Only…while the notion of such an odor was logical and even edifying in the realm of logic and academic theory, the reality of it was a bit overwhelming.
For pity’s sake, Peter, he heard Richard Clay saying. Don’t you want to be proven correct? Or would you rather spend your life cloistered in that airless little study of yours, whiling away your time rather than shoving the proof of your beliefs in the faces of those who scoffed at you? Good God, man, don’t you want to be right?
Of course I want to be right.
Then stop being a ninny!
Yes, he told himself. Stop being a ninny.
But the odor bored its way through his nostrils, into his head, and seemed to permeate his entire being. Not only was the smell repugnant and, far more disconcertingly, fresh, but the sight of the pit’s floor suffused him with a spirit-crushing dread. He shined the light at the old stone and thought he could make out tufts of black hair, a large spot near the rear of the chamber that was smoother than the rest, almost as if something had spent many nights sleeping there. And nearer him…on the ground a few feet away. Was that…
Was that blood?
Quit stalling! Richard’s voice bellowed in his mind. Look for the lever!
Okay, he agreed. I’ll look for the lever.
He directed the amber beam of the flashlight at the wall beside the door. If anyone hurried in here and needed to pull the lever, it would be in a spot adjacent to the door.
But well hidden.
Yes, Peter agreed. Concealed from anyone who might follow.
He inspected the wall to the right of the doorway and found no suspicious ridges. He stepped to the left side of the door and began to run his fingers over the wall. But there was nothing there, no fissures or divots he might—
Above the doorway, he thought.
He reached up, immediately located the small wooden lever.
I knew it! he thought. I knew it would be near the door.
Peter wondered what the lever would do.
Pull the confounded thing and find out! Richard snapped.
Peter reached for the dark wooden handle and paused.
But Richard? he thought. There’s just one more thing.
Well? Richard asked. Have out with it.
When you came to the island?
What about it?
You died here.
Richard had nothing to say to that.
Stomach fluttering with dread as well as excitement now, Peter reached up and grasped the lever. The wooden handle was clammy, almost slimy to the touch.
That’s just the moisture down here. It’s a basement, remember?
Yes, Peter thought. Moisture. There’s no way it’s…I mean, it can’t be…
“…animal grease,” he muttered.
Peter took a deep breath and pulled.
And the entire floor of the pit began to descend.
Chapter Three
Ben fought off the vertiginous sense of déjà vu that threatened to overtake him as he made his way down the single castle tower, the one from which they’d heard music emanating last summer despite the fact that the damned thing had been walled up in 1925. Having found no sign of Julia in the tower—or anywhere else, for that matter—he again made for the forest.
As he passed under the arched pine boughs and the towering old growth oak trees, he struggled to remember the way to the clearing, the one in which he and Claire had faced the beast last summer and had won back his kidnapped son. He’d crisscrossed the island twice already, and thus far he hadn’t located the site.
Ben stopped, a frown creasing his forehead. The song was in his head again, its clarion melody dominating his thoughts. Ben compressed his lips, concentrating on his baby girl’s face, the silky feel of her skin. Music was the last thing he needed to worry about right now. Who gave a damn about the deadline? Composing was a job, and what use was a job if the people he worked to support, his reasons for living, were in danger?
But still the music persisted. The melody was subtle, elusive, but all the more haunting for those reasons. As often happened, the creative urge was like a nagging itch in his mind. The longer he waited to let the music out, the more severe the itch became. Until it grew maddening. Until it overwhelmed—
“Enough,” he growled.
Aware that he’d spoken aloud, he glanced about the forest, suddenly sure someone or something had heard him.
So take care of it, an angry voice demanded. Get the notes down on paper, or at least get your phone out and record yourself humming the melody. The music’s like a sickness. Once you get it out, you can concentrate on Julia.
Ben paused on the path, a rush of conflicting emotions swarming over him. He recognized that voice. It was the one who’d hovered over his shoulder for five years before the change occurred…the change that deprived him of his best friend…
Ben closed his eyes and thought of Eddie Blaze.
He never uttered Eddie’s name around the house, at least not when Claire was around. Sometimes Nat Zimmerman would talk about Eddie when they were on the phone, but never within earshot of Claire. To Claire, Eddie’s name was anathema. To Claire, Eddie was the boogeyman.
Ben couldn’t blame her.
The first time Claire had met Eddie, they’d had an argument at Lee Stanley’s party. This had been before the four of them—Ben, Claire, Eddie and Eva Rosales, Lee Stanley’s assistant—had traveled to the Sorrows and had apparently awakened an ancient evil.
Before Eddie had seemingly lost his mind.
The Eddie he knew had been arrogant, reckless. He’d been a smartass and a difficult guy to get along with sometimes.
But Eddie had also been Ben’s lifeline.
Not only was Eddie Blaze the only one who seemed to understand how Ben’s mind worked, and was thus the only one who could help Ben blast through that impenetrable bedrock of writer’s block that so frequently walled him in; not only was Eddie an indispensable cog in their bizarre creative machine; not only was Eddie a collaborator and a savvy politician with the studio brass—he was a good friend.
No, that didn’t quite capture it either, Ben thought, moving slowly down the path now. He remembered Eddie’s cocky smile. His easy laugh. His stupid, goofy sense of humor. Yes, Eddie was much more than a friend. He’d been like a brother.
And now Eddie was dead.
Ben ducked under a low-hanging branch and moved down the path, which trended left and up a steep incline. He’d forgotten how large the island was, how deep these woods were. Gaining the top of the rise, Ben glanced behind him and beheld the dark forest unrolling like a sable rug, the trees only vertical glimmers of paleness on the shadowy landscape. Ben continued on, his footfalls becoming steady, metronomic. He felt the earth under the soles of his sneakers, breathed in the rich piney air.
He realized he was humming.
Ben cut off the sound, aggravated with himself. This isn’t like last time, he thought. You’re not here to find inspiration. You’re here to save Julia. There’s no telling what kind of trauma that monster has inflicted—
Stop fighting it, Eddie said.
“Shut up,” Ben spat. He pressed his palms to his eyes, dug into the sockets to get Eddie’s voice to go away, to get that stupid music out of his head.
Why do you want it gone?
Because I want my daughter!
What if one could help you get the other?
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. He set off at a jog, thinking the
motion might knock the unhelpful thoughts loose. He needed to navigate. He needed to look for markers. Anything that might help him remember where that clearing was.
Help you remember, huh? Eddie asked. Isn’t that what you told the agents? Isn’t that why you jeopardized Christina and Teddy and their whole party? Isn’t that why you brought them all here, as fodder for the beast?
No! he thought.
Knock off the bullshit, Eddie said. Something happened to you last summer, but you don’t wanna admit it.
The only thing that happened, Ben thought, is I almost lost my boy. And Claire. And I don’t mean to lose Julia.
And you’ll sacrifice anybody to save her. As long as they can help you achieve your ends, you’ll offer them up.
I didn’t make them come.
But you sure as hell didn’t stop them from coming, did you?
Ben shook his head, but the voice would not be silenced.
You’re not that different than I was, Eddie went on. I wanted a woman, I did whatever it took to get her. I wanted you to write music, I pushed you as hard as I needed to get you to do it. Lacking a killer instinct, you never would do it for yourself.
“Shut up,” Ben said. There was another opening in the forest, one stretching in the direction he thought was west. The redwood grove and the clearing might be in that direction. He set off through the dense underbrush, trying to outrun Eddie’s wheedling voice, but the words trailed after him like a stench.
But you’ve got it now, don’t you, Ben old pal? You found your killer instinct.
The music began to trickle in the back of Ben’s mind. He gnashed his teeth, kept his eyes on the ground ahead to make sure he didn’t trip over a hidden rock or a tangle of vegetation. Weeds lashed at his legs as he passed, branches whipping his knees.
Can’t run from yourself, can you?
Ben shoved ahead, the bough of a spruce as big and sharp as the tail of some prehistoric animal whipping the side of his arm. It felt like it had drawn blood, but Ben welcomed it, welcomed anything that would distract him from the music, from Eddie Blaze.
Just look at you, Eddie muttered. You brought them here and now you’re facing the beast alone anyway. What a fool you are. You’ll die, Julia will too, and the beast will pick off those unsuspecting sons of bitches one at a time. Great plan, Ace!
His thoughts broke off abruptly. Ben whirled, listening hard. He’d been so focused on Eddie that the sounds of the forest had nearly escaped his notice. There were the occasional calls of nightbirds. The frantic rustle of small animals fleeing his approach.
There were men’s voices.
Ben frowned into the darkness.
He screwed up his eyes, studied the trees, the shadows, the occasional slivers of moonlight.
Nothing. There weren’t men over there, he told himself. There couldn’t be. Because the voices he thought he’d heard were moving in the opposite direction, moving toward the castle.
Ridiculous.
Sighing, Ben proceeded until he reached another trail. It wound for a couple minutes through the woods before he noticed how much better he could now see, how the scant illumination had grown. Now the slivers of moonlight penetrating the forest were incandescent pools.
The trail moved up a steep incline, and beyond that the world seemed to open up. He had reached the ocean.
When Ben crested the hill and beheld the sparkling sea, the beauty of it didn’t even register in his mind. The only thing that did was down by the beach.
Next to Christina’s yacht, the one called the Blackie, was another, smaller boat. This one didn’t appear to have a name.
But Ben thought he knew who it belonged to.
It belonged to the men whose voices he’d heard in the forest.
Marvin Irvin and his henchman.
Ben sprinted for the castle.
Peter Grant no longer felt much like Indiana Jones. If anything he felt like Jones’s inept sidekick…what was the character called? Marcus. Yes, he thought it was Marcus. The character was entertaining, but when it came down to it Marcus was simply a type: the helpless academic. He was always bumping into things and causing problems. A bumbler of the first order.
Which was how Peter felt now.
The descending pit floor had been a surprise; he’d merely expected a door to open up to some passageway. That the whole floor would descend a full twenty feet was something he decidedly had not expected. He would have reversed the gigantic elevator immediately had Richard Clay’s trenchant voice not bullied him forward. But after venturing only five paces into the opaque gloom that awaited him down here, what mettle he’d possessed had vanished. For perhaps the first time in his adult life, he wanted his mommy.
The ceilings down here were much higher than he would have suspected, and though there was a dampness, a disquieting fecundity in the air, he was also surprised at how dry the area was overall.
Yet the animal smell was overpowering. If the pit had reminded him of some sort of dog kennel, being down here was like being inside the dog. The odor was an incredible brew of diarrhea, vomit, semen and unwashed flesh. With each step Peter took, his sense of foreboding increased. He was out of his depth and he knew it. There was little joy in having his decades of work vindicated. And could one actually be considered vindicated if no one else was made privy to the evidence? Peter didn’t think so.
No, the thing to do now was to return to that pit elevator, locate the ascent lever and return to his party. And it wasn’t as if he’d be returning empty handed either. Granted, they might wonder why he hadn’t explored the area more thoroughly, and perhaps they’d even think him skittish, but wouldn’t their gratitude at his discovery exceed their contempt? Yes, he thought it would. Furthermore, the federal agents would help him reconnoiter the area. And they were armed.
And even more importantly, it would give him the chance to spend more time in the company of Jessie Gary. What a fascinating person she was!
Yes, going back was just the thing—the only prudent course of action.
Peter was just turning toward the pit elevator when his flashlight beam picked out an opening ahead.
Peter paused, considering.
Would it hurt to do just a tiny bit of exploring before returning to the others?
Yes! a frightened voice within him cried. It damn well could hurt, could hurt very badly. Could get you killed, as a matter of fact. Now find that lever!
Ninny, Richard Clay said.
“Damn you, Richard,” Peter breathed. Keeping his light trained on the opening ahead, he discovered that the passage turned right. Peter crept closer to the turning until he reached the corner. Taking care to move as stealthily as possible, he aimed the beam down the new corridor.
Ten feet ahead the hallway opened up. Peter felt the sparse hair on his forearms rise.
This wasn’t merely a tunnel that wormed its way through the bowels of the castle.
This was a labyrinth.
With a cursory sweep of his flashlight he picked out five, six, seven arched doorways. Whoever had constructed this maze had not spared any expense. Despite the fact that no one had likely glimpsed this labyrinth in perhaps ninety years, the walls seemed in excellent shape. The chances of there being a cave-in were virtually non-existent. And the smell, he abruptly realized, might have nothing whatever to do with the legends. Who knew where the tunnels went? They might honeycomb the entire island.
Yes. But he needed some way to mark his progress. The last thing he wanted was to become lost down here. Every cell of his body alight with a twitchy energy, Peter tapped first one hip pocket, then the other, searching for something he could use for a trail. In one of them he found something.
A pack of breath mints. He always kept them on hand in order to keep his breath inoffensive. He’d made a vow to himself as a young professor to never disgust his pupils w
ith the sort of halitosis many of his own teachers—not to mention a good many of his colleagues—were guilty of broadcasting. Rowena Garth, particularly, had a habit of puffing out clouds of garlic-tinged coffee breath, which made speaking to her even more unpleasant. Like he’d been forced to converse with some unhygienic dragon.
There were ten mints in the pack. If he broke them in half and left them at the various branches of the tunnels, he could do plenty of exploring without fear of being lost.
He made to snap a mint in half, but it was too thick and his fingers weren’t up to the job. Instead, he placed it between his molars and bit down until it cracked. Then, his mouth tasting pleasantly of wintergreen, he tossed one half of the mint on the floor and pocketed the other.
Then he made straight for the archway across from him. Peter smiled, thinking of the others’ reactions, of the treasure trove of mysteries he was about to unlock. This would be the biggest find of the twenty-first century!
Just as importantly, his students would no longer think him a fool. His colleagues would respect him. And by the time the full import of his discoveries was realized, Rowena Garth and her dragon breath might just find herself answering to him.
Dr. Peter Grant, Head of the Stanford English Department.
It had a lovely ring, did it not?
Almost at a run, Peter passed under the archway.
And crashed into something with immense muscles and wiry black hair. Peter landed on his ass, his shoulders and head smacking the floor, the flashlight skittering uselessly off to the side. Its beam came to rest on the black, gnarled hooves of some giant steed.
Only he knew this was no horse. This was…this was…
“Come,” the creature growled.
Peter groaned in a paralysis of terror as the beast snagged one of his legs and began to drag him deeper into the labyrinth.
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