chapter XV
Boise, Idaho, present day
THE WHITE FBI AS-350 helicopter climbed quickly, accelerating to its cruise speed of 130 knots—about 150 miles per hour. At that rate, Reid would cover the roughly 300 miles to the scene of the incident in less than two hours.
Harry sat there, his nose buried in his Kindle eReader.
She wondered what he could be reading that was more interesting than real life. It irritated her. He was probably reading something hideously nerdy. She snatched the gadget out of his hand and glanced at the display. Seniority had its privileges, its prerogatives. On the “ePage,” or whatever you called it, was something by some idiot Frenchman named Beaudelaire; something about The Flowers of Evil or some such rot. She snickered and handed the absurd device and its absurd content back to him with a sneer. He meekly took it without the slightest sign of protest, which made her despise him even more. There are so few killers in the world, she surmised. Most people are just ignorant sheep.
She was drawn back to the present situation, to what really mattered. It was such an incredible career opportunity, she realized. She could ride in on her white stallion and claim to be concerned for Tom Rawlins, to offer to take up the loose threads of his investigation, all in the name of esprit de corps, for the FBI, for the team. Meanwhile, no one had to know that her real motivation was to look good to the bosses, be on her game, be the go-to gal, get things done in spite of her (slightly) evident grief for her (most likely) fallen comrade-in-arms. She had developed a feel for these things. Her gut was telling her that Rawlins was dead and that opportunity therefore awaited, yawning supinely before her.
Hey, she thought, life’s a contest and to the conqueror go the spoils. And she could be a ruthless gangster when she needed to be. When it suited her. She reflected, a little egomaniacally, on herself: What was your best moment, your favorite promotion, Gretchen? The next one, she answered herself.
The helo slipped swiftly through the airstream.
Arlington, Oregon, present day
Kim had showered and then collapsed into the bed quickly thereafter, falling into a deep but troubled sleep. She was comfortable now, lying there with the feel of clean sheets on her skin, her body heat reflected back to her, warming her to the bone. After so many hours spent on the run, in the rain, soaked and bedraggled, it felt so good to be in a real bed.
But there was something missing. She couldn’t avoid it or deny it.
She reached under her pillow in her fitful sleep, feeling mindlessly, instinctively for the Bloodstone. It was not there.
Of course. She knew who had taken it; who now carried it. How would she get it back from him? What’s the plan? Airel, having showered as well, napped beside her, breathing in and out with soft sighs.
Kim was so exhausted she felt like she could sleep for weeks. Yet she didn’t feel the slightest bit refreshed. If anything, she felt even more tired. Now that the Bloodstone had gone, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. All she knew was that she was tired. So very tired. The voices that called to her inside her head, once interesting and full of ancient wisdom, now grated irritatingly against her seared conscience, shaving away in layers every forethought she attempted to coalesce into something—anything—coherent.
She felt like she was going insane.
What was it that drew her originally to the little red stone? On the cliff top, amidst the scuffle of angels and demons, while lives and destinies were altered irrevocably roundabout her, it had called to her in the warp of time…
She could hear voices. They spoke unspeakable usurpations to her ragged mind, drawing her out of herself and into…into…something that tasted sweet. Something intoxicating. Something I need.
She wanted to kill something; anything. She grasped the pillow with both hands and bit down on it with her jaws, her face contorting in the darkness into a visage of rage. The world was such an unjust place. But…she would make it right. Yes…
Besides, she thought, the Bloodstone is mine. She was weary, yes, but mostly she was tired of being the third wheel in this band of impossible personalities. With the Bloodstone she could see things, feel things that had not yet come to pass, things she could not put into words…
Was it so bad?
She was strong enough. At least when she had it in her hand. Oh, how desperately she wanted to hold it, to touch it once more. It was like sinking into the softest mattress on a lazy Sunday, curling up inside the womb of a thick down comforter, pulling the folds up over her head, muffling the world.
She would be the one to set things right. She would be the key.
It is my destiny. She had heard as much.
I will be patient. She agreed with the whispers in the darkness.
I will wait. The Bloodstone would return to her. It was irresistible, really. She would be the key to peace, a lasting cease-fire, the only one in all of history that would actually work, that would really last. There would be an end to all wars, and it would start in her flesh. She, with the Bloodstone, would be the catalyst. The spark. The first flame.
As her reward for her patience, for her labors, she too would possess long life and beauty. Like Airel, she too would be strong beyond her wildest dreams. She too would not only be able to heal her own flesh, but also the infirmities of others.
Her mind drifted once more. The Bloodstone’s distant whispering call warmed her as she slipped into a world where she was not the dumb luck sidekick, but the hero.
“Destroy it. Destroy it. Destroy it,” Michael whispered a subconscious mantra, his throat catching in desperation as he stared at the Bloodstone from across the room. It sat pulsing on the television cabinet, calling to him like a potential lover, offering everything, making promises, clapping blinders on his eyes that prevented him from seeing anything but itself. It was all gratification and no consequence.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He could not deny that he wanted what it offered him. What red-blooded man could resist, anyway? Anything and everything he could imagine and then some, it was all there inside the Bloodstone. Though he knew that the life it offered was fraudulent, that the healing of which it profanely whispered was bondage, that the sensual pleasures on display were paper-thin disguises worn by ancient principalities…
It was the kingdom of the Self, and he would be master, by God, and at last. He would bend no more to anyone other than The Alexander. He would inherit the mantle of his father and surpass him. In every conceivable way. He would crush all opposition, command his thousands upon thousands. He would usher in the final war, and in that obliteration of all that is, he would captain, finally, ultimate peace. There would be stillness. He would rule everything under the blackened sun.
Michael pressed his palms to his head and squeezed. Destroy it…
The wound he bore, that now had spread over his whole chest was raw and red; sickly fingers reached out in purple red spirals, enlarging its territory over his heart, grasping for more, still more. And it ached, wretchedly before, and now beautifully, now that he carried the Bloodstone.
He clawed backward desperately in his mind, but backward was forward and he was really confused. He tried to attain clarity; everything was so fuzzy, so…red.
Red.
Blood red.
I stood in a river of red. The color made me sick. The…water… ? …lapped at my waist, slapping at my belly as if it was trying to beat its way through me. If I had been a pillar of stone, and given enough time, pressure, flow, the sick redness would be content to erode me away into nothing. It had a consciousness of its own.
Why was it always red? Why always this dreaming about blood? I was so angry. I wanted to pull myself up out of the dream by the scruff of my neck, a deus ex machina, but I was powerless here. The redness was cold. Thank God. I didn’t know what I would have done if it was warm. I gagged in my sleep. Yeah, me and nausea go way back.
I looked up, getting my bearings. A black sun, papier mache, was pasted onto the sky above me like a theatre prop. Everything became chilly. No vegetation to speak of lined the shores of this diabolical river. There was only black rock and the putrid stench of death.
This is getting old, darn it. I’m sick of having the same stupid dream and variations. Freud would have had ample material with which to work the alchemy of his psychoanalysis on me, all up in my Kool-Aid and not even knowin’ the flavah.
I looked for my old “friend,” the inevitable cloaked figure, star of all my fantasies, but I did not see him. I then felt inwardly for She, wondering if it was her sparking these dreams…or if it was something else.
“Listen and learn. Everything has a useful purpose, Airel.”
I widened my eyes and shook my head, singing out, “Cra-zy,” like an insane person had just said something to me that was completely absurd and I was going to walk away. It echoed back to me like I was inside an empty cistern.
I tried to walk to the riverbank but my feet wouldn’t move. Great! A river of blood with a quicksand bottom, and I’m sinking into it little by little. “All right, Sigmund,” I said aloud, really addressing She, “Have at it. Tell me what it all means.” But there was nothing.
Does anyone know how to give me a straight answer? First it was Kreios and his cryptic non-answers, and now it was She taking up the mantle of obscurity.
“I guess I’ll just stay here, then. In the river of blood. Sinking.”
I looked more closely roundabout me, looking for whatever it was I was missing—and I knew I was missing something, for crying out loud. I was supremely irritated.
That’s when I saw it.
The black Hell’s-own-kindergarten theatre-prop sun was moving.
It was coming closer.
It soon spread from horizon to horizon, further blackening the dark sky. It rolled back gathering from bottom to top like a curtain.
I screamed in fright.
Revealed there was an enormous sickly eye, and it stared right through me.
Michael shook his head, popping out of a dazed trance.
He was angry.
He wanted to hurl the Bloodstone into the depths of the Columbia River. It was, after all, only a short walk away. He walked to the window, his body containing a bundle of nervous energy. He parted the curtain on a sunset that had turned the river’s waters into a red-orange torrent of blood. He shuddered, though he knew not why.
Then, like a lightning bolt out of a pitch black sky a simple thought came to him: Airel. Love. He breathed in deeply but it was ragged and spastic, as if he’d just been weeping his heart out. He exhaled and a tear escaped and ran down his cheek. He wiped it away with his hand and realized: he knew what he had to do. And why.