by Kay Hooper
Luther knew she was out. And he also knew that just like her attempt to patch the crack in his shield, his attempt to patch up her wound had ultimately failed.
She was losing blood; if he couldn’t get her off this mountain very, very soon, she’d die.
. . . or you can help her along. That’s the best thing to do, you know that. You don’t want her to suffer. Or . . . do you?
Completely aware of the voice in his mind, Luther said calmly to Callie’s dog, “Cesar, keep going. No matter what. Take her to the truck.” He had no idea if the dog could possibly understand, but added anyway, “And if I don’t come soon, find a way to save her. Get her off this mountain.”
Still moving, the Rottweiler turned his head and looked back at Luther, then continued moving, faster now.
She’ll be better off. And so will you. I promise.
Luther recognized where they were by now, and knew how close they were to the cabin.
“Get her to the truck,” he repeated to the dog, and then he set off in the direction of the cabin.
Straight to the cabin.
* * *
HOLLIS GOT OUT of the Jeep near the front door of Alexander House, hardly even aware of coming out the driver’s side, her hand still locked with DeMarco’s. She was looking around and, as they started for the door, said, “Really creepy now. Definitely the zombie apocalypse. There must be two dozen spirits out here, all watching us. No expression. No movements. Just watching us.”
“What about their auras?”
She hesitated for just a moment, concentrating, then shook her head. “I can’t see their auras. A flicker of color here and there, but nothing complete.”
“Color?”
“Yeah.”
“Then maybe this is working. You may have channeled away enough of the negative energy to almost free them from this place.”
“You think that’s why their auras were all dark? It wasn’t their energy at all, but the negative energy holding them here?”
“As good an explanation as any other,” he said.
“It’s good enough for me.”
They didn’t ring the bell but went straight in, surprising Anna Alexander at the bottom of the stairs in the huge foyer.
“Were you successful?” she asked, clearly still baffled by their earlier request for a Jeep and a stopwatch, not to mention a compass.
“Ask us in half an hour or so,” Hollis told her. “Which way to the basement, Anna?”
Even more baffled, the older woman replied, “It’s—the door is off the kitchen hallway near the main storage room for this floor.”
“Is it locked?” DeMarco asked.
“No, of course not.”
They left her there without another word, and it wasn’t until they’d nearly reached the hallway they needed that Hollis said absently, “Bet she’s wishing she hadn’t invited us to stay. We’re weird houseguests, you can tell that’s what she’s thinking.”
“I have no idea what she’s thinking,” DeMarco said. “I haven’t been able to read her or Owen.”
“Really?”
“Not all that surprising. Even with a seventy-five percent success rate, that still leaves a lot of people who aren’t on my frequency.”
“Huh.”
“Is that bothering you for some reason?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Hollis said. “There—is that the door we’re looking for?”
It was. And in a few short minutes, they found themselves standing in an enormous but low-ceilinged basement filled with the clutter of generations, its only virtue being that the lighting was excellent for a basement.
Almost too good.
“Picture frames,” Hollis said. “Old picture frames and broken furniture, and trunks filled with God knows what. Why do people save stuff like that? I mean, donate it if it’s usable and scrap it if it isn’t. Why do people hang on to stuff?”
“Beats me. But never mind the stuff. Bishop said you should be able to see this doorway clearest of all. Let’s try to find the center of this space.”
“We’re running out of time, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” DeMarco replied.
Hollis looked at the cluttered space with a feeling of helplessness she didn’t like. At all. “You’ve got a better sense of direction than I do,” she told her partner. “Given the compass points, where we found the doorways, where would the center of the compass fall?”
He hesitated for only a few seconds, then began leading Hollis through the maze of Alexander family stuff. “This way. I think.”
There was a lot of stuff. And the path they had to take toward the center of the enormous space was a winding one.
In the end, they nearly fell through the doorway.
“Whoa!” Hollis held on to DeMarco’s hand with both of hers, halting him abruptly. “One more step and you’d be in the thing. It’s right there.”
They both looked down at the concrete floor. DeMarco saw a large, odd sort of dimple in the concrete. Hollis saw their fifth and final doorway.
DeMarco said, “I’m betting there’s some sort of hollow underneath that. Didn’t Bishop say there was likely a cave connecting this side of the vortex with the other side?”
“Yeah. And he was nicely evasive about just where the other side of the vortex is. Bet he knows, and probably to the inch.”
“We’ll deal with Bishop later,” DeMarco said, something in his voice indicating that he had plans along those lines. “For now, this thing has to be sealed. He said it would be the hardest one by far. The one doorway that wants to stay open.”
“How are we on time?”
“If you can get it opened and then closed again in the next five minutes, we should be good. After that point, Bishop said the other side of the vortex would probably be opened, and then it can never be closed.”
“But no pressure,” Hollis muttered.
Instead of standing beside her this time, DeMarco stepped behind her, shifting their hands without losing contact so that his left and right hands held hers. Their fingers laced together.
“Go for it,” DeMarco said.
* * *
THE VOICE IN his head was still talking to him, but Luther wasn’t paying enough attention to even know what it was saying. He was too busy circling the cabin slowly, gun drawn, frowning at the other sounds he heard.
It took him several minutes to find a doorway to the cellar, open, and he went down the rough, packed-dirt steps without hesitation.
What he saw was surreal, a scene out of some nightmarish movie or book. Candles of all shapes and sizes were placed all around the periphery of the storage space, on old, raw wooden shelves that still held an occasional dust-coated canning jar or rotting basket or mildewed box that had once held the necessities of life on the side of a mountain.
Candles flickering, lighting the space with odd, jerky move-ments.
Or maybe that was just him.
He was digging.
The hole was in the center of the space, only about two feet deep and twice that across, with dirt mounded around half of it. He stood in the hole, pounding a pickaxe three times, four—and then laying it aside and picking up a shovel. Prodding and scooping the loosened dirt, tossing it on the mound already accumulated.
He didn’t even seem to realize that Luther was there.
At the foot of the steps, his gun trained on what had been Cole Jacoby, Luther just watched for a few minutes.
Kill him. Go ahead. Do it. You know you want to. He shot Callie, didn’t he? And doesn’t he deserve to die for that? You’re a soldier, you know it’s the truth.
Ah. So that sly, sneaky voice was back. Luther wondered how on earth it had ever managed to control his mind. But he knew. It had been able to do that because he hadn’t known what he was fighting.
Now he did.
“Should I call you Jacoby?” he asked over the sounds of digging. “Or did you stop being him a long time ago?”
He hadn’t really expected an answer. Then the man in the hole turned, and Luther found himself gazing at his own face.
FOURTEEN
Hollis wasn’t at all sure the rushing sound wasn’t in her own head until DeMarco practically yelled in her ear.
“Is it my imagination, or is something trying to pull you in this time?”
“Hang on,” she yelled back, without taking her eyes off the darkly shimmering doorway. “Whatever’s on the other side is desperate to stop me doing this. It’s pushing energy too fast.”
She really thought it would overwhelm her for what seemed like an endless moment of time, but DeMarco held on to her, an anchor and lifeline, and she didn’t hesitate to pour every bit of her own physical strength into the strangely instinctive process of filtering and redirecting dark energy.
Every black fragment or filament of energy that was flung at her was grabbed, cleaned of its darkness somehow by her own positive energy filter, and then channeled back through the doorway.
The rushing sound was so loud because at this doorway alone energy was going both ways simultaneously.
Hollis could hear, around the edges of her mind, the panicked whispers that grew louder and eventually began to keen in misery, but the rushing of energy simply overwhelmed them—not Hollis.
It seemed to last forever, and then there was an abrupt instant of utter stillness and quiet, a quiet so loud it hurt the ears. Hollis wanted to yawn widely to clear her ears, but before she could even begin that automatic action, the stillness was shattered by what sounded to her like a gunshot.
As she watched, the sparkling doorway below her shrank until it was the size of a pumpkin, and then the size of a grapefruit, and then only a spark the size of a cherry.
Obviously, I’m hungry. When did I last eat?
The cherry-sized spark made a soft but sharp pop, and then it vanished.
Completely.
The vortex was closed and sealed. Hollis wasn’t at all sure how she knew that, but she did.
“Did I hear a gunshot?” DeMarco wanted to know.
She unlaced the fingers of one set of hands so she could turn to face him, pleased when he made no attempt to release her other hand. “I thought I heard one. Interesting. Did you hear the quiet little pop there at the end?”
DeMarco shook his head. “No, I just felt you relax.”
Almost idly, she said, “I wonder if that shot was real.”
“Do you care?”
“Just curious. Mostly because I have no idea how all this worked.” She stared at him for a moment, then said, “Will it sound really anticlimactic if I say I’m hungry?”
“Not to me. Are you really okay otherwise? No weakness or dizziness or anything?”
She considered, then shrugged. “No, I feel fine. Better than fine, really.”
“Ready-to-run-a-marathon fine?”
Not without a certain pang of regret, she said, “No, most of that extra energy and strength seems to be gone. I just feel oddly like I’ve had a relaxing vacation—and at the same time would really like a nap. After I eat a big plateful of something good.”
“So you’re back to normal.”
“I guess. How about the eyes?”
He smiled slightly as he gazed into the eyes. “Blue. But not the same blue they were before.”
She really wanted a mirror right then. “Oh. Well, then, I guess we’re done here. At least with this part of the trip. The part I expect Bishop was most concerned with.”
“Leaving—?”
“Hopefully passing on a message from Daniel to Anna. Assuming I can contact him now.”
“Because when the vortex was closed—”
“—other doors seem to have closed along with it. At least, I’m not feeling all the spiritual energy I was before. Let’s get out of here. I want to find out if all those spirits really were able to leave this place.”
* * *
LUTHER WAS FROZEN for an instant, but then he recognized a final, desperate attempt to trick him, and as easily as that he was looking at the haggard face of Cole Jacoby rather than his own.
For at least a minute, he felt sorry for Jacoby.
Until he remembered that was only the shell that used to be a man. A bank robber who, somewhere along the way, opened by accident a door he should never have found, and lost more than his soul in the process.
A heartbeat later, everything happened fast.
Jacoby dropped the shovel and reached for the pickaxe, swinging it above his head, his face transformed from haggard to almost indescribably evil as he lunged toward Luther.
It was a small space.
Luther fired and hit Jacoby squarely in the chest.
Even as close as they were, the bullet didn’t slam him backward as so dramatically depicted in the movies and on TV. The evil face turned to one of infinite surprise, and then Jacoby simply dropped in a boneless heap to the musty earth of the cellar.
Luther waited a cautious moment during which he could have sworn he could hear, somewhere distant, a river rushing. Then he eased forward and checked for a pulse.
Jacoby’s skin was cold and clammy, and there was no pulse.
Is there even a law against shooting a dead man?
There was no time to linger and wonder. Luther turned and hurried up the earthen steps, then shouted Cesar’s name, heard a deep-throated bark in response, and ran toward it.
The truck was there, parked at the end of what might have been a kind of dirt road, its rear end toward the cabin to aid in unloading supplies. And beside it stood Cesar and the litter, with Jacoby’s three dogs sitting nearby. The only one who was clearly tense and anxious was Cesar, who whined loudly.
Luther holstered his weapon and bent to check Callie. To his immense relief, he found a pulse, but it was faint, and the pallor of her skin told him she was still losing blood.
Without wasting another moment, he checked the door of the truck, finding it unlocked and the keys under the mat as Callie had expected them to be, because that was usual on the mountain. An oddly trusting thing, but a rugged vehicle up here really could make the difference between survival and death.
Luther was as careful as he could be and still moved quickly to get Callie out of the litter and onto the backseat of the Jeep and secured as well as possible against what was sure to be a bumpy ride to town.
Assuming he could find town.
He unfastened Cesar from the litter’s harness, then went to open the hatchback of the truck and whistle Jacoby’s dogs in, an implicit command they obeyed with every sign of joy.
When he shut the hatchback and returned to the driver’s-side door, which was still open, he was surprised not to find Cesar inside the vehicle. Instead, the Rottweiler was standing a couple of yards in front of the Jeep, on the sad excuse for a road.
“Cesar, c’mon, boy. We have to go.”
The dog barked, then turned and moved another yard or two down the road, pausing to look back at the man.
The message was clear. Night was approaching. Cesar knew the way to town. Left to his own navigation, Luther didn’t doubt he could wander around in these mountains for days.
Callie didn’t have days.
He got in the truck and started the engine, muttering under his breath, “Christ, I hope I’m not wrong about this.”
Then he put it in gear and began following the Rottweiler.
* * *
HOLLIS STOOD OUTSIDE the conservatory and gazed down over the gardens and pool. And smiled.
“No spirits?” DeMarco guessed.
“No spirits. Though I sort of wish I’d been able to see them go. Can’t help wondering if they just popped out of existence like t
he energy cherry in the basement.”
DeMarco took her hand and began leading her back toward the house. “You need food,” he said.
Hollis didn’t argue, and only a few minutes later they were enjoying what a cheerful maid referred to as “a little something before dinner.”
“They do know how to spoil you here,” Hollis observed.
“Oh, yeah.”
“I wonder where Anna and Owen are.”
“I asked while you were off washing your hands. Thomas said with great dignity that they would see us at our convenience in the Grand Parlor. I can almost see Owen tapping his foot.”
Hollis winced, took a drink of very sweet iced tea, and said, “I suppose an objective observer could say we’ve sort of taken advantage of their hospitality. I mean, bent on fixing Bishop’s vortex rather than spending more time trying to contact Daniel.”
DeMarco looked thoughtful, but when he spoke, it was to say, “I say we keep on calling it Bishop’s vortex. No—Bishop’s Vortex. In caps. And talk about it a lot when he’s around.”
“You really are pissed at him.”
“You could say.”
“Come on, it all ended okay.”
“On this side of the vortex. We don’t yet know what happened on the other side.”
Hollis frowned. “Yeah. I’d forgotten. I hope nobody got hurt over there. Wherever there is. I mean, there was something that sounded a lot like a gunshot.”
“I’d suggest we call Bishop and ask, but part of me doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.”
“You two boys need to learn to play nice.”
He eyed her. “You’re just as annoyed as I am.”
“Yes, but I plan to be adult about it. I’m going to look Bishop square in the eye—and then kick him in the shin.”
DeMarco smiled, but then sighed. “We both know he’s never going to change. Still, I plan to have a few words with him about this little trip.”