Three Degrees of Death: A Colby Tate Mystery (The Colby Tate Mysteries Book 3)

by Allen Kent

  All but three appeared to have been through this ritual before, moving without instruction so that the lines were far enough apart to allow all to hold the torches inward. Starting with Jamie and Claire, Colum walked between the rows, touching the fuel-soaked fabric to flame with a grill lighter. With flares ablaze, we fell in behind our leaders and started up a wide path that climbed gradually to the edge of the basin.

  As we neared the rim, the path broadened into a wide grassy flat where sections of PVC pipe had been driven into the ground to form a half circle. The far side of the clearing rose again above the expanse of recently trimmed grass. It was crowned by a massive stone table that stood at the crest of the rise, its four sides framed by long slabs of rough-hewn rock topped by a foot-thick altar stone the size of a dinner table.

  As we entered the clearing the lines separated, one left and one right, and turned to face inward. From a speaker hidden somewhere near the stone altar, strains of The Skye Boat Song wafted into the night air. I had to be impressed by the choreography of the whole thing.

  On a command from Rust Beard to “Set Torches,” we all turned and placed the wooden handles in a pipe holder, finding beside it a glazed ceramic mug. I used the moment to glance back down the hill toward the shepherd’s hut, praying to see dark shadows creeping toward me through the heather. Nothing moved.

  Six feet to my right, Lizzie picked up her cup and turned back to face the center of the clearing. I grabbed mine and followed. Like a half-circle of fleshy, castoff androids, the clansmen extended their mugs toward the center of the circle while Colum and Rust Beard moved around the ring with heavy clay pitchers, filling our tankards to overflowing.

  “Mead,” Lizzie whispered.

  Mead with a shot of something, I guessed, my mind racing for some way to dump the brew before I drugged myself into an uninhibited stupor. So far, the night was following the pattern of the videoed gatherings. I suddenly had the gut-churning feeling that Grace was about to watch me tangle with the amorous Lizzie or bolt off through the heather, hoping to find my way back behind friendly lines before being run down by Jamie’s enforcers.

  “To the clan!” Jamie shouted from the far end of my side of the clearing, raising his mug high. As the others lifted their cups, I jerked mine upward to a quick stop, sloshing half the contents down my naked arm and chest.

  “Buggers,” I muttered for Lizzie’s benefit, half-turning as I switched hands with the mug to shake the spilled brew from my soaked arm while emptying the rest beside my foot. I was back around and swigging deeply from the empty vessel before the others had lowered their own.

  Claire stepped forward from the far end of her line, gracefully swirling into motion as the other women followed, dipping and swaying their way around the circle with everything from the elegance of a ballerina to the energetic breaching of humpbacks. To my left, the man who had identified himself as Murtagh began to waltz side-to-side, arms swinging to the haunting voice of the singer as the spiked mead worked its way up toward the halo of short stubble that crowned his otherwise bald head. I fell into the rhythm and for what seemed like an eternity, swayed and hummed with the others.

  What does this look like from 500 feet? I wondered. And how am I going to extract myself from what’s looking more and more like a wilderness romp for people desperately seeking any kind of human contact?

  As the recorded voice finished a verse, the music stopped with a suddenness that startled even the mind-altered dancers.

  “All return to your places,” Jamie called into the confused silence. Lizzie moved unsteadily back to her position beside her torch. Jamie, who seemed unaffected by the grog, strode with a noble gait to the center of the clearing, standing erect with the shadowy silhouette of the stone altar on the rise behind him.

  “Bring forward the virgin,” he called in a commanding voice, directing his gaze down the path that led to the stone hut.

  All eyes turned to follow.

  Halfway up the hill, Colum and Rust Beard bore a white-draped stretcher bearing the sleeping figure of a girl, her slim body thinly covered in the same gauzy lace, her black hair spread above her head like a dark halo. The blood in my face rushed downward into my stomach with such force that it left me staring through a dizzy haze at the solemn procession, struggling to stay upright.

  Though her face was partially hidden by Colum’s massive elbow, I knew without seeing it clearly that it was Miriam Haddad.

  The men carried her in lockstep into the circle and past their master. They mounted the rise and laid the stretcher on the edge of the altar top. Gingerly they lifted the limp body onto the slab, laid the cot at the base of the stone table, then turned together like a pair of sentries. Together they descended the slope, taking a position at Jamie’s sides, burly arms folded across their chests.

  For the first time in my brief life as an officer of the law, I felt desperately and completely powerless. This sick cult leader was about to rape a girl I was responsible for and cared for like a little sister. And the ceremonial initiation would not end there. The girl could not be allowed to live to tell of her ordeal.

  None of the three men, I noticed, was barelegged. All wore the calf-high socks of Scottish ceremonial dress. And in the top of each right stocking protruded the staghorn handle of a sgian-dubh, the ritual dagger of the highland fighting men. To try to reach the girl would be suicide.

  I hope you are seeing this, Grace, I prayed silently, with a sickening feeling that the drive and ceremonial dance had outlasted the life of the drone batteries. It had to be more than an hour since we’d left the park. If the drone was still watching, could they distinguish the girl from any other member of the clan? And where was Danny?

  At the far end of her line, Claire gave Jamie a subtle nod. He backed away from his bodyguards, climbed to the altar, and turned to look down over the curve of expectant faces.

  “One of the ancient ways to pass through the portal was through the initiation of a young virgin to the ways of the flesh,” Jamie called to his followers. “Tonight, this young woman, who has known no man, will return with me to Midhope where I will stay for a time before returning. She will remain, becoming part of my ancient clan.”

  He paused dramatically, sweeping the gathering with the eyes of a man about to make the entire altar disappear. “Find a partner,” he commanded, “and prepare to celebrate with me as we bind souls together and invoke the spirits of the ancient Druids.”

  Lizzie was moving toward me before he had finished his order but was cut short by an equally commanding voice.

  “That one is mine,” Claire called sharply, moving quickly across the open ground to take my elbow and pull me away from the charging Englishwoman. “You may have him later. But for the ceremony, he is mine.”

  Lizzie gave a resentful, obedient nod and brushed past me to collar a willing Ian. Claire turned me toward the altar where Jamie had stepped up beside Miriam. Four women now stood beside Colum and Rust Beard in the center of the circle, one clinging hungrily to each arm.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Claire murmured, running a hand down the center of my back and leaving it firmly planted on a hip. “I’ve been waiting for this since we met yesterday. And from your look, I thought you might not object. Do as I tell you, and I may have bigger things in store for you.”

  I glanced furtively off into the dark heather that surrounded the clearing. Was anyone out there? How far were they going to let this go? I slipped an arm about her waist.

  Jamie drew the dagger from his shin, gripped the hem of Miriam’s thin covering, and slowly slit it from bottom to top, laying the halves aside to expose the girl’s naked body. She lay with head turned toward us, a mask of fear creasing her troubled face as if, even in her drugged sleep, she knew something terrible was about to happen.

  Jamie let his kilt drop to the ground, his arousal visible to all below. Slowly he pulled himself up onto the stone bed.

  “Stop!” The shout was as involuntary as my surg
e toward the altar, compelled by the knowledge that I could not live and let this girl be savaged. Claire’s nails ripped at my elbow as Colum and Rust Beard shook off their startled consorts, reached for their knives, and surged forward to intercept.

  I bolted to my right, grabbed the nearest torch from its mount, and sprinted into an end-run around the charging guards.

  “Get him” Claire shrieked from behind me as Rust Beard angled to intercept from my left. Colum lumbered toward the base of the rise to cut off the climb to the altar.

  Gripping the shaft of the torch with both hands, I swung at the bearded giant, sending a flaming spray toward the tangle on his chin. He ducked and pitched forward into a surprisingly agile shoulder roll that brought him back to his feet only steps behind me.

  Colum squared across my path, tossing his dagger easily from one hand to the other, sneering with devilish anticipation. I slid to an unsteady stop on the damp grass, the burned shin screaming as if it had again been seared by flaming timber.

  “Maybe we can still have that blood sacrifice you were wanting tonight, Miss Claire,” Rust Beard called back to her with a hoarse laugh. The two guards began to shuffle around me in a half-crouch like a pair of circling hyenas, thrusting threateningly inward with their daggers as I held them at bay with the torch.

  Claire moved to the edge of their stalking circle, her eyes cruel reflections of the flame in my hands, the filmy dress clinging to her enraged body.

  “Quit playing with the bastard,” she hissed again. “I want him on the altar—now!”

  Both of her henchmen crouched to attack.

  “Everyone! Stop where you are!” an amplified Scottish voice boomed from behind her. I glanced toward the altar where Jamie was kneeling above the girl. He dropped flat onto her, appearing to twist to the side. The bodyguards took a step back, turning to squint into a dozen blinding flashlights that swept the circle from midway up the hill. Around me, clansmen stumbled toward the center of the circle in panicked confusion.

  “No one move,” the voice boomed again. A man I recognized from my glimpse across Bridge Street as Conall MacKay was first into the circle, now dressed in black boots and fatigues and carrying an automatic rifle. Three armed men followed and quickly surrounded the two men who threatened me. All around the half-circle, dark-clad men and women materialized into the flickering light of the torches, some carrying weapons, all armed with batons and wide-beamed lights.

  The naked clansmen huddled in the center of the ring, cowering together in a shivering cluster, suddenly stricken by a night chill. Last into the circle of light was a tall, raven-haired beauty in jeans and a dark shirt that covered the most enticing body I had seen all night. Around her neck hung the silver orthodox crucifix given to her by Lilia Haddad.

  “You!” Claire snarled, lunging toward me. Two female officers grabbed her arms, pulling her away. She shouted back over her shoulder. “I should have known—someone looking like you and joining us so late.”

  Grace hurried up beside me, her eyes falling on the clawed elbow and bandaged shin. “Are you alright, Tate?”

  For no reason that I could understand, tears were streaming down my face. “I wasn’t sure you were going to get here in time,” I stammered. “I don’t think I could have saved her. Why did you wait so damned long?”

  “We had no reason to move in until we were sure it was Miriam they were bringing up the hill. The drone died on us about the time you all got up here. We had to hike in from the road and have been watching through binoculars. Things happened a little faster than we’d expected. But when you rushed the guy . . . Well, you pretty well kicked things into motion.”

  I took her arm, guiding her across the circle. “He was about to rape her,” I blurted, “Were you going to wait until . . ?” I stared desperately through the tangle of police and clansmen that filled the clearing. “Where’s Miriam?” I shouted over the commotion. “Where is the girl? And where’s Jamie?”

  On the low rise above the circle, the stone slab was empty.

  34

  Conall MacKay joined us as Grace and I scrambled up the rise to the stone table. Jamie’s discarded kilt still lay at one end, the litter along the side, and the sliced drape that had covered Miriam’s body spread across the slab like a delicate altar cloth. Immediately behind, the ground dropped away into scattered brush, now bathed by a moon that stood almost directly overhead. I shook off the impression that the place did indeed look enchanted.

  MacKay shouted down to his troops.

  “Quickly! Some of you up here!”

  When five stood beside him, he directed them to fan out through the heather, sweeping it with their lights.

  “He can’t have gone far,” I told them. “He’d have to be carrying or dragging the girl, and they’re naked. To move fast, he’ll have to drop her.” As I looked down at the clansmen who had now been herded into two groups with three officers guarding each cluster, Claire glared up at me with a curled smile. I pointed down at her.

  “Have your men bring that woman up here,” I ordered. “I think she’s the real leader of this bunch. She’ll know where he’s gone.

  Grace was also scanning the crowd below. “But where’s Danny?” she asked frantically. “Have you seen anything of Danny?”

  Things had moved so quickly since I turned and saw the litter being carried up the hill that I hadn’t thought of anything but how I might save Miriam. “I haven’t seen Danny,” I confessed, “or any sign of him. But this woman will know where he is.”

  Two Scottish policewomen led a surly Claire up to the altar. As she approached, she spit a bitter stream onto my chest. Grace’s arm was in motion before I could stop her, catching the woman’s jaw with a full-fisted blow that jarred her head backward and crumpled her knees. She struggled back upright, supported by the officers, and glared first at Grace, then at Conall MacKay.

  “That’s police brutality,” she snarled.

  Grace stepped between them, leaning into the woman’s face. “I’m not police, and you have my brother. Where is he?”

  Claire ran her tongue over a lower lip that was beginning to swell and ooze blood, smiling menacingly. “He’s where you will never find him without my help. And I’ll want something for that.”

  Inspector MacKay eased Grace aside and glared hard at the surly woman. “Let’s start with your partner. This Jamie. If you want anything from us, you had better begin by telling us where he’s gone with the girl.”

  Claire straightened between the women who held her, her thinly-covered body glistening in the moonlight and mouth a swollen, challenging line.

  “He’s not my partner,” she said dismissively. “He was my play thing. And he’s gone. Passed through the portal and taken her with him.” She tossed her head back toward the clansmen below. “Ask them. We told them he would take her through, and they watched it. You can see that he’s gone. Your men won’t find them.”

  MacKay waved the officers who held her back down the hill. “Take her to one of our cars,” he ordered. “If we don’t find them soon, we’ll see what a night in lockup will do to her.”

  We followed the three back toward the path that led from the half-circle of sputtering torches. Black smoke now curled from the charred cloth, clouding the clearing in an acrid, misty haze. The Scottish inspector paused in the break between the curve of improvised pipe holders and looked grimly back over the trampled ground.

  “I used to come up here as a lad,” he muttered. “The legend was that the Druids used the altar for human sacrifice. But tonight, we got here in time. I’m sure we will find the two before long.”

  He nodded up toward the stone platform. “We used to climb all over and under that thing. My mum was always concerned the top would collapse and squash us. I can’t say I expected to come back here to actually have to save a girl.” He turned his attention again toward the parked vans. “Let’s have a look in the hut and see if we can find anything that will help us find your brother.”

/>   The Scot’s reminiscing triggered a memory of my own—a much more recent comment by Grace about Outlander’s magical ring of stones, Craigh na Dun. I grabbed one of the torches from its holder and, with Grace and the inspector following with puzzled frowns, sprinted across the clearing and back up the slope to the altar. A quick rap with the wooden pole on the flat top sent a sharp, hard click echoing across the shallow basin. The stone supporting one end emitted the same, rock-solid echo. But when I slapped the handle against the long slab that sealed the underside of the crude stone table, the pole bounced away with a dull thud.

  Conall MacKay bolted for the closest constable and grabbed his baton, ordering two others to follow him. Together they scrambled back up the rise. With wooden probes thrust into gaps at the top corners of what appeared to be a heavy stone front, we pried away an expertly carved and painted six-inch styrofoam veneer. Behind it, sprawled on his side with a crazed gleam in his eyes, the naked Jamie held Miriam Haddad’s limp body tightly against him, the edge of his short dagger pressed against her throat.

  “Put the knife down before you injure the girl,” MacKay snapped. “There’s nowhere for you to go. And if you so much as nick the lass, the charges will be much worse for you.”

  The man’s eyes darted from the officer to me, then to Grace who had come up behind me. Slowly he lowered the hand with the knife. He gave it a slight toss out onto the ground at our feet. As he pushed the unconscious girl after it, Grace leapt forward to gather Miriam into her arms. One of the constables turned and rushed down the hill, calling for a coat or blanket. MacKay reached down and pulled the naked clan leader onto his feet, turning him as he rose to cuff his wrists behind him.

  “Bring a coat for this man too,” he shouted after the retreating policeman. “Something long!”

  As we approached the hut at the bottom of the hill with the prisoner, another of the black-clad lawmen was prying the lock clasp from the plank door with a metal bar. Two others with flashlights followed him into the black interior.