He caught the eye of a stunning woman. He winked at her and admired her form. Shiny black hair lay in tight curls along her shoulders. She returned his smile with shiny black eyes. Jake got up and sharked his way through the crowd to her table.
“Do you want to dance?” He offered her his hand.
“Sure.” She slid her manicured hand into his.
“I’m Jake… and you are?”
“Deirdra.” She spun to the strong beat, popping her hips, her hair arching in perfect rhythm.
Jake gripped her waist, and she bent over backward so that her hair touched the floor, and then she sprang up to the music. This girl definitely had some hip hop background, Jake thought, though the music wasn’t hip hop.
They broke apart a bit, and Deirdra shimmied to the music, her butt out and her hands popping to the time. Jake spotted Garrett watching him closely and keeping an eye on his beer.
They finished the fast dance when the music slowed down. Deidra grabbed him, and they continued to dance slowly. Her body pressed up against him, and the heat it generated made things low in his body tighten. Suddenly, a scream from the promenade broke into his reverie.
Garrett sprinted for the door, drawing his gun to investigate. Jake raced after him, leaving Deidra on the dance floor. He skidded to a stop next to Garrett.
Stumbling down the walkway of the promenade was a man wielding a machete. His orange hospital-issue pajamas had the Futhark logo printed on them, with LOU stenciled on the back. He swung the machete at a girl and made a connection.
The girl fell to the ground, a huge gash down her torso. She grabbed at her intestines as she slid to the ground, her blood pooling about her. Several other bodies dotted the promenade.
Garrett tripped over a bench as he maneuvered to get a better shot and fell hard, his head cracking against the sidewalk. A small pool of blood spread out. Suddenly the man stood over Garrett, his weapon raised over his head.
“No!” Jake cried as the man swung his weapon.
It hit Garrett poorly, the flat of the weapon making contact with his head. The man raised his weapon for another try.
Jake grabbed an iron rod from a planter, leaped over the downed bench, and blocked the machete as it swung down. The blow jolted him to his shoulder and he stumbled back from the impact. The escaped patient lumbered forward and took a monstrous swing. Jake ducked the telegraphed blow, feeling the air whistling over his head as he darted to one side. Girls screamed and scrambled out of the way. In the distance rose the wailing of police sirens.
Shit, Jake thought, this must be Benjamin Walkins. I feel like I’m in a Friday the 13th movie. He brought the iron rod up to block another herculean sweep of the machete, then danced back, keeping the man’s attention on him. As he fought and dodged, he heard a small buzzing that solidified into a knot in his gut. The discordant sound pushed him to the brink of rage.
The sound, he thought. The sound invaded him, changing pitch as Benjamin swung again. He can hear it, Jake thought, and so can I. What is going on?
A gunshot rang through the promenade, drowning out the sound. Jake glanced back and saw a line of deputies with the sheriff at the far end of the promenade. Benjamin staggered back from the impact of the bullet and raised the machete again. Jake ducked under the swing and threw himself to the ground, rolling away from the man. Several more gunshots deafened him.
Benjamin jerked each time a bullet hit, his eyes wide with surprise. Blood blossomed on the back of his pajamas as he slowly fell forward and landed with a thud next to Jake.
Jake kicked the machete from Benjamin’s hands. The man lay there, his blood bubbling around his mouth as he whispered something. Jake crab-walked back out of the way as two cops wrenched Benjamin’s arms behind him and clicked handcuffs into place.
Jake crawled back to Garrett and cradled his head in his lap. Garrett opened his eyes and stared up at him, and Jake heaved a sigh of relief as he drew his friend closer to his chest.
“Gar.” Jake took out a handkerchief and dabbed the wound on his head. “I thought you were supposed to be the bodyguard.”
Garrett snickered. “Who would have thought all those sword-fighting classes would have paid off?”
“Stay awake, buddy.” Jake shook Garrett. “You might have a concussion.”
Laya walked by Benjamin and slid the machete into an evidence bag. A paramedic checked Benjamin’s pulse and signaled for another medic to come over and help. Christ, Jake thought, does this guy ever die?
Laya knelt next to Jake and Garrett. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Her balled fists dug into her hips.
“That it was better than letting people die.” Jake gently lay Garrett’s head down.
“Dammit, you know how important it is that you live, at least for the time being. Too much is at stake.”
“I tried to tell him,” Garrett whispered.
“Well, you did a great job.” A paramedic came over and whispered to Laya. “He’s still alive.” She stood up abruptly and went over to Benjamin and fastened the handcuffs to the gurney, locking them through the bar. “Take him to LOU at Futhark. We don’t have the facilities to deal with him in the jail, and I can’t risk him at St. Sebastian’s. Notify Dr. Blyman that one of her escapees is being returned.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?” the medic asked. “Since they let him escape in the first place?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll contact Western State Hospital in Lacey to take him and the other dangerous patients until a full investigation can be completed. He needs to be somewhere with medical attention and restraints. I’m sure he’ll need surgery. I don’t want him to wake up at any moment without the mental health professionals looking at him first. After they have sedated him appropriately, we’ll take him to St. Sebastian's.”
The medics did not look happy, but they wheeled the gurney to the ambulance. The sirens wailed as the ambulance pulled out into the streets. Another medic flashed a light in Garrett’s eyes, studying them. “You need to go to the hospital to get checked out.”
“I’ll take him,” Jake said.
“I wouldn’t wait too long. His pupils aren’t reacting equally. That usually means a concussion.”
“After you get done with Garrett I need you to come to the police station for another statement,” Laya said, her lips pressed in a tight grin.
“Of course,” Jake said.
“What a homecoming, eh Jake?” Laya stared at the scene. “Two violent crimes in one day and you’re a witness to both.”
“Yeah,” he said, “and I’m not able to leave town for another ten years. This is just one massive prison sentence for being the nephew of a founder.”
He helped Garrett up and swung Garrett’s arm across his shoulder. Garrett groaned, and his eyes rolled back in his head as Jake helped him to the car.
Chapter 4
Dinah entered the Firemountain Tribune newspaper office, and it felt like she had been transported to a strange mixture of an old-fashioned newspaper office and the most technologically advanced newspaper in the world. Top-of-the-line editing computers lined the halls of the building, and lengths of negatives hung over the cubicles of reporters. Amidst the hum of laser jet printers printing copies of stories was the clack of electric typewriters. Copyboys scurried between the desks, taking copies of the stories to the various editors.
The lobby was dominated by a receptionist’s desk. The nameplate called her Kathleen D’Contadini. She flashed Dinah a dazzling smile. “What may I do for you?” she said in an Italian accent.
“My name is Dinah Steele. I believe Mr. Emery is waiting for me.”
“Welcome to the Tribune.” Kathleen beamed up at her. “You must be Don’s replacement. If you would have a seat, I’ll call Mr. Emery.”
Klinton Emery marched through the newsroom to the lobby. He wore an outdated brown tweed sports coat and khaki pants. Dark chestnut eyes stared out from under graying brunet hair. The fingers of his left hand were stained brown from n
icotine, and the smell of cheap alcohol was faint under his aftershave. He addressed reporters and photographers as he walked, approving copy and demanding rewrites. Dinah watched him talk to three reporters, two photographers, and a copyboy as he made his way to the lobby.
“Miss Steele.” He gripped her hand in a strong handshake. “Welcome to the Firemountain Tribune. I’ll show you around.”
Dinah and Klinton wove their way through the maze of cubicles and staff. Staff members clutched copy as they tried to get Klinton’s attention. He shook his head, and they returned to their duties. “This is your office. I hope it works for you.”
Dinah gasped. “I didn’t think I would get an office right away. Surely someone with more seniority—”
“You’re the new investigative reporter, aren’t you? You took Don Hatchett’s place, so you get his office. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you start organizing your space?” He turned and disappeared into the controlled chaos of the newsroom.
Dinah looked around her office. It hadn’t really been cleaned since Don had died. Some of his personal belongings had been removed, but his research notes were piled up on the file cabinet. A window overlooked the town square. Dinah studied the piles of paper on the desk and on the floor and shuddered. Well, I may as well get started. She tackled the big pile on her desk. ‘The cult of Gleebelix is growing more active in Chehalis,’ was written in barely legible handwriting. There were pages of notes in shorthand that she didn’t recognize. Crap, she thought, this must be his shorthand. I wonder if anyone else here can read it.
She was rifling through the stacks on the desk and in the drawers, trying to find a key, when a newspaper slammed down in front of her. She looked up at Klinton standing over her with a newspaper in his hand.
“Nothing I can tell you will make it any easier, so I will let you read what we really do. I know that Richard assigned you to cover Caedon Willis’s death and the new Willis and his story. It’s rumored that Caedon was investigating rumors of a demonic cult in Chehalis. We know that he took possession of a certain fetish and that the cult will do anything to get it back.”
“Uh… demonic cult, sir?” Dinah stared at Klinton in disbelief.
“Yes, Miss Steele. Get used to it—things like that and worse do exist in this world.” Klinton leaned on her desk, his hand balled up in fists, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. “Read the paper and study the back issues—you have access now—and learn that there is more to this world than what you knew. What you know of Firemountain will change. This is our second newspaper. It covers occult and esoteric phenomena from all over the world. That is how we get such prominent seats. We are not some trash tabloid, but a hard-hitting investigating newspaper.”
He paused at the doorway and turned back to Dinah. “Are you baptized?”
“Not that it is any of your business, but yes.”
“Good. Consider going to church.” He closed the door behind him, leaving Dinah to stare at it.
Dinah sank into her chair and studied the paper in front of her. On the cover was an article about escaped patients from Futhark Institute. The article was standard until a particular passage caught her eye.
Blood tests on the recovered patients revealed the presence of an unknown drug. The police obtained a sample of a new drug from another source. The drug was tested at Crenellian University’s laboratory, and it was discovered to have a strong sulfur component. Further testing in the occult laboratory revealed that the drug, codenamed Melody, enhanced hearing the paranormal. The demonologists at Crenellian University believed that it was connected to Occipitone, one of the dimensions in the Abyss. This led the experts to believe that there was, in fact, a demon is behind the cult—Gleebelix—and quite possibly Caedon Willis was killed before he could tell anyone how to destroy it.
She leafed through newspaper trying to find some indication that this was a hoax. She called an advertiser, located in Great Britain and specializing in medieval texts; not only did the bookstore exist, but she reached the occult department.
A quick glance revealed other articles of things happening throughout the world. One article included evidence of a Faustian contract… with the current president.
Dinah laid the paper on her desk. She folded her hands and rested her chin on the cradle of her fingers, then took out her contract from the messenger bag. She studied it again and found an escape clause. If the job didn’t work, she was welcome to leave in the first month with no penalty.
“I hope you don’t,” said a soft voice from the doorway. Klinton leaned on the door frame. He had returned, and Dinah had not heard him. “I’m never sure how to break this news to newcomers. There is no easy way. Either you sink or you swim.”
“I’m not sure what to believe. This sounds so crazy.” Dinah looked up.
“You need to be aware that, now that you know the preternatural exists, you won’t be able to escape it. You’ll see things haunt the people in power. You’ll seek out answers to things that no one else can see. We can help you here at Firemountain, something another newspaper won’t be able to do. You’ll continue to see, with nothing to ground you and no one to believe you except for this place. If you leave, you will wind up stringing for us anyway because you would have to write what you see. Give it a story or two. Find out more about what is going on, and after that, if you still want to leave, we will pay for you to move to wherever you wish.”
Dinah leaned back in her chair. “Does this have to do with Caedon Willis’s death?”
Klinton sank into the chair across from Dinah’s desk. “It’s all connected. You’re the best in your class. The Dragons, Dartmouth's most reclusive secret society, made you a member, even though you were a woman. When you got close to Mount St. Helens, you started to see the shadows that influence our lives. This is war, and you are on the front lines, reporting.”
He motioned around the office, including the top-of-the-line computer and the stacks of research. “This comes with a price and responsibility. You know what’s out there, and you won’t be able to escape it. You’ll see things in shadows and learn the truth. No other paper will publish your articles but the tabloids, and, like it or not, you’ll be compelled to write the truth. So, one way or another, you’ll write for us. At least here you get good benefits, a lot of money, and hazard pay. As a stringer, you’d only get money.”
Two men knocked on her door, and Klinton motioned for them to come in. “This is River Houston and Mack Storman. They’re reporters and will share Alis Silva, your assistant. She’s at her desk. She can get your research and press releases.” He leaned forward and said in a low tone, “She’s really good with the computers and can get all kinds of information from encrypted files.” Klinton winked a long, slow, deliberate wink.
River and Mack greeted Dinah and shook her hand. River was the younger of the two with deep blue eyes and light brown hair that was cut in a crew cut. Mack was in his fifties and heavy set. He had a walrus mustache that draped over heavy jowls. His tie dated back to the seventies, and his coffee-brown sports coat had corduroy arms patches.
“Good luck,” Mack said as he shook her hand. His cheeks jiggled, and Dinah noted his fingers were stained with nicotine. He had the jaundiced look of a heavy drinker.
River, on the other hand, looked like he had been part of some special tactical team in the military. He was in great shape, and he held himself at attention and seemed to notice everything. “Welcome to Firemountain Tribune. I work the crime desk.”
Dinah raised an eyebrow. “Why did you come here?” she asked.
River stood up even straighter. “My tour in the Middle East was up, and I was in a firefight. My buddy was shot in the throat. I’m not sure what I saw but there was a flash of golden light, and I thought I saw a woman in armor standing over him with a spear in her hand. And then he died, and she was gone. I’m not sure who or what she was, but I have spent my time looking for her to understand. I have a degree in journalism. I researched
different stories, looking for information on her. My search eventually brought me here to the Tribune.”
“Where are your offices?” she asked.
River and Mack looked at Klinton. “We didn’t want your job.” Mack adjusted his tie over his ample belly. “Too dangerous. Everyone who’s had your job has either gone mad and died or became an alcoholic and died.”
Klinton cleared his throat and started to speak up. “No sir,” River cut him off before he could say anything. “It isn’t fair. She needs to know what’s happened so she can prepare for it.”
Dinah looked at her contract again. “I have a month?”
Klinton nodded. “This job is as dangerous as they say. I hope you stay, but we won’t make you.”
Dinah looked at River. “What about you? You were in a war. Why didn’t you take this job?”
River paused a moment before answering. “I have my own search. I work here for leads; your job would take me away from what I’m really searching for. Maybe when I have found my answers, I’ll try your job. That is, if you’re no longer with us.”
Dinah leaned back in her chair. “Could you please leave? I need to absorb this.”
“Of course,” Mack said the two reporters left her office.
Klinton stayed for a moment longer. “You’ll find the back issues of the Tribune in our database. We’ve archived all the papers going back to when the paper was founded.”
With that, Klinton left and closed the door behind him. Dinah stared at her contract and that day’s paper. Finally, she reached over to the computer and turned it on. On the keyboard were the instructions for accessing her computer, including the temporary password. She logged on and changed her password, then perused the back issues.
They spanned over a century, from the first single-page sheets to the present. During the eruption of Mount St. Helens and right after there were several brutal unsolved murders in Western Washington, which some authorities tied to the Green River Killer. However, the Firemountain Tribune reported that the killings were actually the result of an escaped Qulantian, a type of demon that resided in the lake of fire. After the eruption had opened a portal to the Abyss, several of them had escaped. Even though the volcano was still active, the founders of Firemountain worked closely with the Carolingians, a priestly order of demon hunters. Their numbers have been on the decline as the church has been renouncing the existence of demons. They had managed to slow the things escaping from the lake of fire.
Whispers in the Woods (Firemountain Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
