*
Griffin’s phone was on vibrate; he caught it the minute it started to buzz in his pocket, looking up and silently thanking God that, somehow, the satellites in the sky were being kind—and they had phone service.
He answered in a whisper.
“We’ve caught a few men,” Rocky told him. “They were sent back to make sure that the men who were attacked along the way were dead.”
“You still close?”
“On your tail. Wendell Harper is just behind with his men. Those who need it are getting medical attention.”
“I’m almost there. I’m moving fast.”
“I’ve got your back.”
Griffin hung up.
He was ready...
Griffin looked to the sky again.
He prayed he was in time. He turned his focus before him, wishing that the forest wasn’t so thick—that there weren’t different ways to go.
Then he saw her again.
The beautiful blonde woman who seemed so sad.
She beckoned to him.
Griffin began to move through the trails again, following her as quickly as he could.
*
Vickie tried to figure out how to make her own getaway. She kept talking, switching from Latin—My, what a beautiful cat you have!—to English. “Follow in his ways, do what thou will! Follow, frolic, taste the pleasures of this earth!”
She stopped talking. One of the figures was coming toward her, head bowed.
He was followed by three others. Two went to Vickie’s left side. One went to her right.
She gripped the knife hilt tight in her hands.
The one red-clad figure was just across the garden table altar from her; he raised his head.
Satan!
He wore a mask. A ram’s head mask.
As if he were, indeed, a fallen angel, the embodiment of all evil.
Milton Hanson had been in the passenger’s seat of the truck that had hit them; this man—or at least a man wearing this mask!—had been driving.
She couldn’t see behind the mask—it hid all, except his eyes, and in the weird glow of the torches and the dying green-tinted light of the evening, she thought that his eyes burned like red fire.
“Well, well, well. Thank you, brave, sweet Vickie! You’ve cleared the table for me. Your friends are gone, and here you are.”
He stared at her; she felt her knees tremble. And she tried to place the voice, because it was, of course, a voice that she knew.
“Where’s Jehovah?” he asked.
“You don’t really give a damn about these people or Satan. You’ve sacrificed a number of women, and had people commit suicide, for pure greed,” Vickie said. She hoped that Alex and Helena had made it away. Far away.
She couldn’t see, but she felt sure that the face behind the mask was lit up with a wicked smile.
“More can die. All I do is say the word, and they slip little pills into their mouths, every last one of them.”
“I don’t know where Jehovah is.”
“Yes, you do. Alex was close. Hanson was close. You, looking for the both of them, hearing what was out here... I’m certain you know where Jehovah is!”
She smiled. “You don’t really give a damn about finding Jehovah in order to raise Satan. You’re looking for Ezekiel Martin’s family treasure. You think that if you find Jehovah, you’ll know where it’s buried.”
“It hasn’t been a bad gig, being high priest, Satan’s rep in the flesh. I do really enjoy sex, and I guess I’ve always had a thing for young blonde women. Of course, your hair is as black as sin, but I’ll live with that. I mean, at this point, there’s no time. You’ll do just fine as a sacrifice.”
Vickie realized that the figures close to her—his right-hand men or women?—were slowly creeping closer, hemming her in on both sides.
But others were milling around, watching. They all seemed to waver, as if they were uncertain.
Vickie raised her voice. “Did you hear that? He doesn’t give a damn. Satan is definitely not coming. None of this is real. It’s all a sham. There’s no reward here on earth for you for listening to this man—for watching him kill!”
“Um, actually, there is a reward,” the figure nearest Vickie said.
And Vickie turned. She studied the figure—a woman.
“Oh, Vickie, Vickie, Vickie!” she said. “Of course there’s a reward.”
“Audrey Benson!” Vickie said. “I wondered when we’d find you. But it had to do with the café—you were one of the first followers in this ‘Satanic’ cult. You were sent to get Alex—and to watch out for Hanson and me. The leader got to you first—whoever he is.”
“Doesn’t matter. You can just call me rich when we’re done!”
To her other side, one of the figures was laughing softly. Again, Vickie was sure that she recognized the voice, even in laughter.
“Cathy and Ron Dearborn! You two are good—how did you get sucked into this? You could have...done well.”
“Well?” Cathy Dearborn said. “Playing two-bit coffeehouses and parks where the kids spill grape juice on us and the babies poop and vomit in the middle of our numbers? Please.”
“Vickie,” Ron Dearborn urged, “you don’t have to die. If you just show us the way to Jehovah, we’ll drag someone else to the table.”
“Sacrifice another woman? For your treasure hunt?” Vickie asked.
“Lie down on the table, Vickie. Lie down,” the ram’s head mask, red-clad, would-be Satan said. “If you tell me where to find Jehovah, I may let you live. But hey, my faithful are gathering. You’ve lost me Alex and Helena. What I have is you. I suggest you start telling me everything you can about Jehovah. That way, you may live.”
She shook her head. “You were crazy before—now you’re as crazy as can be. The law is right behind you.”
“The law has been right behind me for years. They can’t find this place. No one knows it exists. Get on the table. Do what I say.”
“Why would I do that?” Vickie asked. “I’ve got the knife.”
“For now,” he said menacingly, as he and the Dearborns moved even closer.
“How the hell have you gotten away with this so long?” Vickie demanded. “Charlie Oakley! You killed her, didn’t you? You killed Sheena Petrie over thirty years ago. You let Syd Smith find her. You let the cult in Fall River take the blame—and then you used what you learned about the cult to start up your own. Why did you kill her, Charlie? Because she turned you down? You were a cop—you were supposed to protect her!”
“Sheena Petrie was a bitch. A frigid bitch. I know why her husband left her.”
“Did you kill her by accident?” Vickie asked.
“You need to hurry,” Ron Dearborn, sounding nervous, warned Charlie. “Cops are coming. They’re about to find this place. Come on, we’re in this for the money. Kill her or leave her, and let’s get out of here. We can keep looking—we can find Jehovah ourselves.”
“She’s going to give me Jehovah! Milton Hanson is dead. I just saw your precious Griffin Pryce, Vickie, and he thinks he saved Milton and I’m sure he’s going to think that he’s saved Isaac Sherman and Robert Merton, but my people were going back. They’re all going to be dead when the cops get to them. We’re always a step ahead!” Charlie said, waving his gun in the air.
He looked at Vickie and spoke again, fury filling his voice. “So, you want the story now? Sure! No, I didn’t kill Sheena Petrie by accident. I slit her throat—and I liked it. I liked seeing her blood flow out. Guess what? I get a kick out of drinking blood. And if you take blood from people and keep them on drugs, you can really do whatever the hell you want with them. And you can make them believe anything—anything at all. So, yes...when Brenda was found last year, people started snooping around out here. I started with the Boston attacks so people would look at Boston. Then I saw all the hype about Alex Maple in the news, after he was attacked. Figured if anyone could find the Martin family treasure, it would be Alex. But I was wrong. Then what about Hanson? But they’re both academic asses. And you’ve got about sixty seconds to tell me what you know.”