Chapter Seventeen
IT WAS NERVE-RACKING, WAITING.
She found it difficult to read and pay attention, yet Danni knew it was important. She read through the chapters on satanism again. First, the author severely chastised the Pilgrim perpetrators of the Salem witchcraft trials; Satan had little use for old women and for those who were truly pious, she said. The people condemned at Salem had obviously loved and been in awe of their God. Even with the threat of death, they had not admitted to any pact with the devil. But evil existed as surely as goodness, and the devil had no use for anyone not capable of exercising cruelty and brutality. The devil sought out those who already had a penchant for hurting their fellow man. He relished souls who would gleefully rape, rob, murder or commit torture for their own ends. He had a supply of such souls to choose from.
“How’s it going?” Billie asked.
“Hmm? Oh, fine.” She stretched. “I just don’t have anything else I can work with.”
“Hey, don’t feel bad. Angus only had the book, too.”
That made her think of her father. She missed him deeply. If there was going to be a ghost inhabiting her world, why couldn’t it be her father?
She leaned back in her chair, remembering him. He’d been ever-cheerful in her presence. She thought about the countless buying expeditions she’d been on with him and how she’d been a fool, always believing he had a “business meeting, lass—you’d be bored!” when he’d approached a dangerous situation.
Had he ever planned to tell her the truth about his life? Had he hoped, maybe, that hers could be different?
She remembered his voice on the day he died. She recalled that day as if it were a film she could replay before her eyes.
The book, Danni, read the book and look to it in all things....
“I’m reading the book, Dad!” she told him softly.
“When your father was reading it,” Billie said, “he didn’t just use the overhead light. Maybe his eyesight was failing and we didn’t know. He used that little lamp there—the old stained-glass lamp on the corner of the desk. It was a gas lamp once. He had so many unusual things, but he sure did love that lamp!”
Danni frowned, looking at the lamp on her father’s desk. How old was the damn thing?
She suddenly remembered the little piece of paper she’d found when she’d first started reading the book. Use the light....
Her father hadn’t meant that she should use just any light!
This was the light!
“Thanks, Billie,” she said, and switched on the lamp.
Wolf stirred, raising his head to look at the door. Jane stood there. “A lull in the shop,” she informed them. “I’m going to make myself a sandwich. I’ll bring you some tea and sandwiches, too.”
Wolf barked, wagging his tail.
“Oh, yes, and I won’t forget you, Wolf! I have dog treats. They look like real meatballs. Might taste better, too, depending on who made the meatballs,” Jane said.
“That’s great, Jane. Thank you.” Danni smiled, grateful for Jane’s kindness.
“Oh, there’s the bell on the door,” Jane muttered. “Might take me a few minutes but I’ll bring you some food down here. You seem busy,” she said, glancing at Danni. Turning to Billie, she frowned. “You don’t!” she said pointedly.
“We’ve been talking about my dad,” Danni explained.
“Of course, dear, of course.”
Jane hurried off, and Danni looked at the page and nearly jumped.
There were lines between the lines. They hadn’t been visible—until she’d turned on the light directly over the book.
She studied the lamp; she didn’t recognize the type of bulb.
“Billie, there’s a strange bulb in here,” she said.
“Oh, it’s not strange. I bought those for Angus at the hardware store. They’re special black-light bulbs.”
She nodded at Billie and returned her attention to the page. “‘There wouldst be those so committed in soul and spirit as they that find a way to cling to the earth, though they be not of it.’”
“Thanks a lot. Big help!” she murmured.
She started to go back through the entire book, but then realized she’d been in the right place. She turned to the beginning of the chapters on satanism.
Jane came bustling into the room again, bearing a tray of sandwiches and hot tea. “Here are the meatballs for Wolf,” she said.
“You give them to him,” Danni suggested. “That way, you two will become better friends.”
Jane bent down, feeding Wolf the treats, and the dog gobbled them up.
“I guess I like him,” Jane said after a minute.
“And he likes you, too,” Danni assured her.
Jane smiled and went back upstairs.
Danni quickly texted Quinn. Everything okay?
She waited anxiously but he texted her a few seconds later. Just finding positions.
She sent him a smiley face. Setting down her phone, she picked up a sandwich and took a bite. Jane had made tuna on rye.
“Not enough mayo,” Billie said.
“But you’re eating it.”
Billie grinned. “I’m hungry. Not the best, though. I should’ve made lunch myself.”
She took another bite or two of her sandwich. It wasn’t that good, and she put it back on the plate. Unlike Billie, she wasn’t very hungry. In a while, she’d get up and prepare something herself.
* * *
They’d parked the car out on the far road, alongside those that belonged to others visiting the park. Ryan was still wearing his Roman collar and black shirt, but besides that, he might have been any average Joe. His knife was in a holster at his ankle and his gun was covered by the khaki jacket he wore, one that matched his khaki pants.
Quinn had chosen similar clothing—tan fishing pants and a dust-colored shirt, and although he didn’t have a knife strapped to his ankle, he did have one folded in his pocket. His gun was in his holster, also concealed by a windbreaker.
Standing on the highway for a minute, he listened. From a distance, he could hear the chatter of visitors exploring the wonders of the Louisiana bayou. He could hear the grunt of gators in the swamp water and the movement of birds in the wetlands. A different kind of grunt warned him that wild boars were in the area, but the last thing he was worried about was a boar.
“Let’s go. It may be later than we think.” John flipped the gold crucifix he wore so it hung over his shirt. “You got yours?”
Quinn reached for the chain at his neck. “One holy medal from Natasha—and one from you,” he said. “Thanks. Haven’t taken them off.”
Father Ryan nodded. There seemed to be no one around so they chose the dirt road. As they neared the ruins of the house and the mill, they ducked into the brush, moving as quietly as they could, trying not to let twigs snap. Ryan was better at it than he was, but not even he knew all the places Ryan had been during his early years in the military and the peace corps.
He paused as they were about to emerge from the brush. A car had just pulled up in front of the house, coming from the dirt road. Quinn held his breath, Ryan motionless behind him. As they watched, a woman got of the car, surrounded by three men who looked like the goons Shumaker had a tendency to hire; despite the humidity they were all clad in suits, wearing sunglasses—and obviously packing weapons. That was clear when two of them took handkerchiefs to wipe their brows at the same time.
One of the men stopped to look around. Seemingly satisfied, he led the way to the broken-down mill.
“Didn’t have a clue we were here,” Ryan whispered.
“What Shumaker never realized is that he needs a good dog,” Quinn said. “We can get across now—head straight to the back. There are a bunch of old wagons there.
Piles of rotted cane. Plenty of old barriers.”
He was unhappy about their sprint across the open but the woman and the three men had gone into the mill and there was no one to see them. They entered through the rear, where the massive wagons hauling the cranes had come.
Quinn felt his pocket buzz. As soon as they were in, hidden behind a broken wagon, with a good view of the crumbling chimney, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He smiled. The text read, New light on an old subject. May find answers. All well here.
He texted a reply. In position. The party is beginning. All is well.
A smiley face answered him. He pocketed his phone again, glad that she’d seen reason and stayed behind.
At his side, Ryan was watching the movements of the four people, who’d now reappeared. He didn’t speak. He looked at Quinn and drew an inverted pentagram in the dirt.
Quinn strained to see through the vats.
They were drawing a chalk pentagram, just like in Danni’s painting.
* * *
“‘Though one may be ash, if ash and bone remain as one, if they are given a place of honor—as if to make whole—then the spirit might inhabit the world, confined to the receptacle in which it rests,’” Danni read aloud. “That would be in a mortuary or tomb somewhere in Italy, I think.”
She yawned. Sitting here was getting to her. Or her lack of sleep last night was getting to her. She was so tired.
“Billie?”
Billie didn’t answer. She glanced over at him. He was in the chair, snoring, his gun in his hand, both laid on his chest.
“At least it’s not just me.” She got up to stretch and nearly fell back in the chair.
“Whoa,” she murmured, sitting again, her foot sliding out. She accidentally kicked the dog, but Wolf didn’t move or howl or do anything. Uneasy, she stooped down to look at the dog. His eyes were closed; he was completely still.
Dead?
It hit her all at once.
The sandwiches! The dog treats!
Jane?
She fumbled, trying to open the desk drawer where she’d shoved the gun Quinn had gotten for her. Her fingers wouldn’t obey. As she tried, she heard Jane talking to someone, coming toward the stairs.
“...out like lights, I assure you. The wretched dog, too. I put his into some of those ridiculous meatballs. He won’t hurt you. Don’t know how much I put in them. He may never hurt anyone again!”
Danni was astonished that in her own state of danger, she wanted to rip Jane’s throat out for what she’d done to Wolf.
Now what? She couldn’t make her muscles work and her mind was fuzzy.
They were almost upon her.
She leaned over and turned off the light.
And slumped back in her chair. She closed her eyes.
She couldn’t fight. Best to make it look as if she had no idea what was happening. If they’d meant to kill her through Jane, they’d have done so already. No, she had to hope they’d take her, and leave Wolf and Billie, and that Wolf was still breathing, just sleeping deeply, and that wherever they took her...
Quinn would find her.
* * *
As the afternoon waned and night began to fall, people arrived. They looked like any group attending a religious meeting—except that this group was mostly dressed in black. They weren’t exactly Goths; they came in all sizes, ages and types.
A van drove up filled with boxes. They could see it through the rotted slats on the side of the mill. The woman who’d come in the first car was now wearing a black robe, and a large silver inverted pentagram hung around her neck. She greeted them all the way a preacher’s wife would, welcoming them formally to the gathering.
Still no sign of Brandt Shumaker and no sign of a sacrifice. Ryan nudged him and pointed. Two of the men were bringing in an altar, which they set in front of the ruined chimney.
Quinn felt his muscles tighten. Still nothing Larue could use to shut them down.
Ryan mimed a drinking motion. Another two men had arrived bearing boxes, which they placed on a makeshift table composed of wagon pieces and opened. The boxes contained bottles of wine and plastic party glasses.
So, not everyone got to drink the sacrificial blood.
Yeah, a nice Bordeaux was good on any occasion, he thought dryly.
Preparations were in full swing. More and more people began to show up. There were certainly down-and-outers among them, grateful when they were handed capes that were better quality than the clothes on their backs. Some didn’t seem to be destitute at all; he recognized a man who owned a catering company on Magazine Street and a woman who ran a dress shop on Conti in the Quarter.
Father Ryan leaned in close. “Some of these people—they’re just disfranchised, looking for a fix, looking to belong, looking for something better than what they have. But her...she was born with a silver spoon!”
“Her who?” Quinn asked.
“The priestess or whatever she calls herself.” Ryan glanced at him quizzically. “You don’t recognize her?”
“You mean the woman who got here first? The one who seems to be in charge? Who is she?”
Ryan grinned. “That’s Cecelia Simon. Daughter of Hank and Gladys Simon.”
Shocked, he stared at the woman. She was fairly young. She was attractive. She’d inherited a small fortune.
She’d nearly had the bust in her grasp. Her father had possessed it. Then her mother did.
And now...
Now she was in league with Shumaker. How had he gotten to her? Or how had the bust gotten to her?
Had she assumed she’d get it from her mother’s house, once her mother was dead?
Cecelia Simon. Brandt Shumaker. It didn’t add up.
Or maybe it did. Maybe Shumaker had put out a call on the grapevine, searching for the bust, and when it disappeared, Cecelia had joined with him to get her piece of the action. She didn’t act in the least like a grieving daughter. Perhaps, somehow or other, she’d learned about the bust, perhaps she’d encouraged her father to buy it, thinking she’d get it that way. She would’ve known Shumaker, since he belonged to the same business circles her father had.
As he watched, another woman followed a man, bearing more boxes. These, too, were opened on the makeshift table. He squinted to see what was being unloaded. It appeared to be French bread.
“Black Mass!” Father Ryan whispered. “Body and blood. Most will drink wine. Some will drink blood, and some will dip their bread into the blood of whatever sacrificial creatures they bring.”
“I believe the creature will be human,” Quinn whispered back.
“God help us! Larue is ready to burst in, right? I’ve counted five men with weapons—so far. And forty or fifty of these followers.”
The odds weren’t great.
But he said, “Larue is ready.” Hoping it was true...
“The lord high priest will be here soon!” Cecelia Simon announced. “You will remember that you are about to join a sublime covenant, a covenant that will bring you great riches and incredible wonders. Give yourselves to him, our dark lord—for he knows all. He will see that you are playing games if you do not really give yourselves unto him. Anyone not willing to entrust him with their hearts and very souls, leave now, for his displeasure is full of wrath—while his pleasure gives you all that you could ever desire!”
“Dark lord!” Ryan muttered. “Dark lord, my ass!”
But at Quinn’s side, he closed his eyes. His lips moved.
Quinn realized that he was praying and his words were in Latin.
The priest was preparing to engage in battle, be it with his fists, his gun—or his faith.
* * *
“I told you,” Jane said, pride in her voice. “I told you I’d take care of it all. You had me
get this job to watch what old Angus was up to, and when he died, you said I could leave. But I know this girl! I knew she’d be in it up to her elbows because she could never let anything go. You hired all those fool men who blew it every time—and I’ve taken care of what you needed!”
Danni dared to open her eyes a slit, certain that with the way she’d slumped, her hair gave her cover.
Brandt Shumaker was back in her shop. He seemed to be alone with just Jane, but then she noticed that another man was with him.
“Kick the old coot over there. Make sure he’s in nighty-night land.”
The man did as bidden. He kicked Billie hard. Billie fell out of the chair but didn’t move a muscle in protest. He fell in a heap on the floor.
Shumaker himself shoved a booted foot against Wolf’s flank. But Wolf didn’t even whimper. “He’d make a nice rug,” Shumaker said.
Danni was afraid that tears would sting her eyes; she wanted to jump up and bite the bastard, heedless of giving herself away. It didn’t matter, since she lacked the muscle power to do it.
But Billie was alive. She had heard him snoring. Maybe Wolf was, too. She had to pray he was.
“Get rid of her,” Shumaker said quietly.
She assumed at first that he meant her. But then she knew he didn’t.
“What?” Jane cried out in disbelief. “Brandt—make him stop. He’s pointing that gun at me!”
“Jane, Jane, Jane!” Shumaker said. “So proud of yourself. You get above yourself, woman. You’re an idiot.”
“I did this for you—for me! You! How can you be doing this? I’ve worked in this wretched shop for almost two years, just watching and reporting, once you suspected Angus Cafferty of being more than he seemed. I stayed on after the old bastard died and I came to you the minute Michael Quinn walked into the shop because he’d worked with Angus. I’ve done everything you asked.”
“And I paid you well all the while—on top of your salary here,” Shumaker said, shrugging carelessly. “You’ve collected a hefty sum through the years. You had it easy, Jane.”
“You promised me a fortune when I came to work for you. You promised me money and everything else I wanted, Brandt. You said I’d be closest to you, that we’d—”
Let the Dead Sleep Page 27