“And the report says no blood,” Griffin noted, looking at Charlie Oakley.
He shook his head. “She was in the water at some point, and all the blood was washed away. Whether it all washed into the water or if it was taken for...some reason, we don’t know. But it wasn’t in her when she was found. She was white and cold and...so white. Drained of blood. Excuse me.”
Charlie Oakley walked back to the car.
Griffin watched the water. He thought of the dead. He imagined Sheena Petrie, and Helena Matthews, and nothing came to him.
He walked back to the others.
“Does anyone get anything here?” Griffin asked quietly. “A sense of her spirit, anything?”
They all looked at one another.
And then at Vickie.
“Nothing,” she said softly. “But we’ve all talked about this. If anything of Sheena Petrie does remain, it just doesn’t seem likely that she’d be here, where her life ended.”
“But you saw her today,” Devin said. “You did see her at the cemetery. She is here...somewhere. She’s trying to help. She’s been dead years now, but I think she hates seeing this happen to anyone else.”
Griffin considered Devin’s words. “The dream that plagues Vickie over and over again is always about a woman on an inverted cross, her throat slit,” he said. “It’s certainly possible that Sheena Petrie died in such a manner, but not at the hands of those young adults playing at Satanism. I think we need to seriously consider that whoever killed Sheena was just getting started back then.”
*
There seemed to be a lot of silence during the day.
Alex had received his breakfast—a tray with cornflakes, milk, a banana and coffee—and the tray had been picked up. He had received his lunch—ham and cheese on rye with an apple—in much the same way.
Breakfast and lunch had been dropped off by a red-cloaked figure.
Breakfast and lunch had been picked up by a red-cloaked figure.
He didn’t know if the same person had brought the tray and picked it up; they had both looked pretty much the same.
He knew he was supposed to be reading. Perfecting the incantation that would bring forth the devil.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t looked at the massive and ancient tomes brought before him.
He had; he had admired every book, awed by the preservation.
He had to admit, too, that since he was a scholar, there was a certain thrill—almost euphoric, when forgetting to panic—to be reading books that had been handwritten by Ezekiel Martin himself.
The books declared that the devil was as real as God. As he had so nearly been a minister, Ezekiel knew about God. God, however, was destined to lose out to Satan. Worshiping Satan was much better than worshipping God; Satan enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh—through his priests, of course, except at such times when he came to earth himself, and his flock was then well-rewarded.
Alex did a lot of paraphrasing in his own mind, but basically, to Ezekiel Martin, it was ridiculously obvious that Satan would win the day. God was terrified of people turning to Satan. People were terrified of other people turning to Satan. Satan wasn’t terrified at all. He was amused. He didn’t care if people went to God, because he knew that he would be the supreme ruler in the end.
God had sent down His Son.
That hadn’t worked out terribly well.
It was Satan’s turn. And he was ready. He had whispered in the night to Ezekiel, and he was ready and waiting for the signs to be right, the ceremony to be performed. Satan had high expectations from his servants on earth; Ezekiel meant to see that they were fulfilled.
Despite his fascination, Alex began to feel a creepy sensation, as if he was being watched. He wasn’t, of course—he was in his cell. A cell once meant for someone criminally insane. There was a little slot—food trays or other such materials could be passed through it—and there was a little door, head-height. Of course, it could only be opened from the outside.
But it was open.
He left his book and hurried over to the door and looked out.
She was standing there. She was tall and slim and ethereal, beautiful and blonde.
She looked like an angel.
He thought at first that she was in the hall alone. But she wasn’t. A red-clad figure was at her side.
She started to fall.
The figure quickly swept her up into his arms.
There was a sudden, hard bang against his door and he jumped back; he realized that someone was just outside the door.
Watching him.
The door opened, nearly sending him flying back. He caught his balance.
The red-cloaked figure walked in. He was alone. Alex wondered if he had imagined the woman—if she had been real.
If she had been an image from the past.
“Have you already found out everything that I need to know? You’re supposed to be reading,” the red-clad figure told him.
“I have been reading. I’m learning quite a bit.”
He couldn’t see the figure’s face; it was the high priest, though. The guy calling the shots. Head honcho of Satan, or whatever. Strange thing, though. He wasn’t always there. Or, at the least, he didn’t always come to talk to Alex. When he did, Alex somehow knew. The others...they were lackeys. This guy was the main guy.
“Curiosity killed the cat, you know,” red-cloak said. “You really should watch that.”
“If I weren’t curious, I wouldn’t be such an amazing researcher,” Alex said. He was scared, so scared, in fact, that it startled him that he wanted to try to hold his own.
Idiot! he told himself. Right or wrong, cool or coward, none of it matters if you’re dead.
And he’d already seen one headless body!
Alex, of course, had no idea what reaction he had drawn from his masked jailor. At least it wasn’t fury. It might have even been amusement.
“I like you, Alex,” the man said. “Since I do like you, let me warn you. Don’t think you can outsmart us. There is nothing that you can do. I actually like you so much that I’m considering the fact that maybe you’ll come around to where you get to live. You should come around,” he added huskily. He threw out an arm dramatically. “Satan is coming.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Alex said. “‘Hell’s afire and witches are real.’”
Okay, now he was really an idiot. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Hey!” Alex added quickly. “Maybe he is coming. The more I read, of course, the more sense that it makes. I mean, it is his turn, right? Satan’s turn, that is.”
“You don’t believe.”
“I haven’t really believed in much of anything—other than man’s inhumanity to man,” he said. “As you know, I’m a historian. You can’t help but get a lot of that.”
“And most obviously,” the man said, “you were not an English major.”
There was something that suddenly struck Alex as odd; he couldn’t place what.
Did he know the man?
“Don’t play games with me, or you will die. I know when you’re lying, and when you’re telling the truth. And right now, you think this is all a bunch of bunk. Well, think of it this way, Alex. Satan is coming. And he will either arrive in a streak of brimstone—or he’ll enter right into my flesh and blood and bone. Either way, he’ll kill you, Alex. Unless, of course, he does decide to let you live. That’s all going to be in the way that you come around, and the way that you behave. So, I’ll go back to where we started. Forget the woman. She’s not going to be here for you.” Alex sensed his smile. “I hope you did get some reading in. We need the place, Alex—the precise place where Ezekiel had his altar. And the precise words he used in his rite. You’ll have more time tomorrow. I am patient. This evening, you’re not going to feel so well.”
“Why?” Alex asked, moving back nervously. “I’m feeling fine.”
“Oh, you’re not going to hurt or feel sick or anything, just a little weak,” the man said. He moved back and two of his followers entered the room. Alex felt his mouth go dry.
They grabbed him by the arms. He was leaving his little cell. He was being dragged somewhere; they were going to do something to him.
He began to scream.
No one seemed to care.