There were, however, a few who caught his attention out of the fifty or sixty people in the room. Mason and the high priest, definitely—they were both in tune with the spirits, in a very physical religious way. He detected a few witches, who were easy to spot by their auras. There were two others Gramps was not able to get a read on. Can they be fey? When he met their eyes, there could be no misunderstanding the contact. Their auras differed from those of the Satanists. They seemed disconnected from the hedonistic urgency revved up by the Black Mass. They were present, but not because of devotion to the Satanic Mass.
One was a thin, redheaded female with streaks of gray across her temples, eyes yellow like a wolf. She bore a look of concern, and her eyes held his whenever Nathaniel glanced her direction.
The other was male with bluish-gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. His skin was tan and he had dark brown eyes. Like the female, he seemed to try to capture Gramps’ attention, offering him reassurance. But is it encouragement to bear my death with humility and purpose? He could not be sure. Regardless, they did not belong.
There were tales of the fey in Native lore as well as Celtic myth. Some called them elves. Nathaniel might have been fishing for an answer, but there could be no other way to describe their auras, gold ringed with a deep green fringe. When he saw that they alone refused the unholy sacrament, an old Muskogean legend came to mind. It spoke of a husband and wife who looked after the great swamp, protecting those who championed the Everglades.
Gramps shook his head, thinking he must be losing his focus from the blood loss.
He turned to smile at them once again, but they were gone. They must’ve disappeared into the crowd, having made their point. What was their point? Gramps could find a few arguments. For instance, what right do these upstarts, their religion relatively new, have to kill a Native shaman, whose faith is possibly tens of thousands of years old?
There was one other who did not pretend to believe: the man with the blood red lips. He did not bear an aura. Gramps could not hold his gaze.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
JACK DROVE ON AUTOPILOT to the old estate, amazed that he remembered the signposts and curves as if it were yesterday he’d last driven along the country roads, the Everglades at night passing by like a deep darkness …unending. He envisioned Jimmy and Isaac McFadden chasing him crazily through the river of grass in their prop boat—how freedom had been snatched from him after a frantic paddle run on his kayak through the intricate canal system. Remembering it all made his heart beat harder; nearing the place made his heart beat faster.
Lolita picked up on his edginess. “Bad memories, Jackson?”
“Kinda.”
“Let them pass. We need to be on our game.”
Jack fell into a line of three cars. The front one seemed to be lost, very strange for this time and location. On a normal night, he might encounter one or two cars on an entire trip. He fell in behind them, not wanting to pass—they must be close to their destination by now.
The brake lights of the train of cars came on in succession, from the leader back to Jack and Lolita. “We’ve got to be here. This is very strange,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I think we are there, and all of these cars look as if they’re turning into the estate.”
This was indeed the McFadden Estate, as shown by a crude, white, hand-painted wooden sign stuck in the ground beside the driveway. It allayed any doubts. “Follow them in, Jackson.”
“You sure?”
She smiled. “We’re on the crazy train to Hell. Don’t you dare think about hopping off.”
“Crazy train to Hell? You don’t think that’s a bit dramatic?”
“Perhaps a touch, but if you drive past and come back, we won’t have the luxury of blending in with whoever these folks are ahead of us. Obviously, the Devil Spawn have something happening here. I might not be, but I know you are invited. Obviously, others were too.”
Jack turned into the long driveway, not acknowledging her words. He followed the other cars, bouncing in and out of the massive potholes. After several hundred yards, the old manor house appeared, silhouetted in moonlight, memories from the place stirring intense anxiety. Jack began to hyperventilate.
“Jackson, we will be okay.”
“Like fuck we will! I wanted to come in here and put a bullet in Mason’s skull and leave.” Spread across the weedy lawn and parking lot were dozens of cars. “Last time I was here, I basically went Rambo and killed all the bastard Satanists. There were a few glitches, but the McFaddens came to a timely end, as did Henrietta. Gators were fed, everyone went home happy. This does not look so good.” A throng of people in long black robes pushed to get into Jimmy McFadden’s workshop, like a mosh pit.
Jack pulled the car into the lot and followed the direction of a parking attendant, who wore a goat’s mask.
“What the fuck!” Lolita burst out, getting a look at what was to come.
“My sentiments exactly.” Jack shook his head.
When they stepped out of the car, they both turned to the car four spots over, where a young couple were fornicating on the hood, their robes discarded on the ground. Jack put his hand to his head. “This is out of control.”
Lolita motioned for him to follow her, putting a finger to his mouth to shush his next word. They moved behind a row of cars. The screwing couple were in front. “Grab the girl.”
Jack followed Lolita as she moved up behind the male, in the throes of finishing the act. Lolita slammed the back of the man’s neck with her handgun. He fell off his partner and rolled to the ground unconscious, his penis waving around like a lost beacon.
Jack grabbed the girl, covering her mouth as she wailed in fear. Lolita brought the gun down on the back of her neck. Jack cradled her to the ground as she fell limp into his arms.
Lolita searched the couple’s car for the keys and opened the trunk. “Help me get them in here.” Jack dumped the woman into the trunk first. It took their joint strength to get the man inside next to her. The quarters were close, but Jack managed to slam the lid. It was an older model Mazda and he couldn’t see an inside release. It might be there, but it wouldn’t be any easier for the two Satanists to find in the dark.
Lolita picked up the man’s robe, handing the smaller one to Jack. Lolita could hardly fit the costume over Solomon’s frame. Once in it, the robe flared out over her immense hips.
Jack chuckled. “You look like a big black pylon.” He put on the other robe, the size just fitting, and Lolita harrumphed.
They walked to the shed. A television screen set up on the back of a pickup truck showed a simulcast of the interior events. Twenty or so people diligently watched, not able to get into the venue. Jack stopped in his tracks, seeing his gramps laid out in the pentagram. The camera zoomed in on his stricken face.
Jack felt the hair stand up on his head. He looked at the building, the glow of candlelight flickering from within, and couldn’t fathom how or why there were so many people there. It looked as if they’d arrived by boat as well, since five decently-sized crafts were tied at the dock.
Lolita read Jack’s wonderment and said under her breath, “This is how the Satanists operate. They get out the word and use social media. If Mason was jailed five years ago and now there’s news he might appear at this gathering? The Church of Satan could call this a miracle, if not a resurrection. People would flock to see a man who might be considered the son of Satan and take part in a ritual being performed by him.”
“Great, to see me and my grandfather sacrificed.”
“Not specifically.”
“To tell the truth, if I didn’t have to rescue Gramps, I’d need you to drop me off at a hospital. I’m really not well. Everything is blurring in and out of focus.”
She felt his head. “Hard to tell in this heat, but you’re burning up. Want some water?”
Chanting came from inside and from the monitor. “As one, there. Ave Satanas!” resonated through th
e night air.
Jack ignored her question. “I gotta get in there. Even if I die, I can’t let him go it alone.”
“Remember, Jackson, only one of us will die on this night. I have nothing much to live for and you’re still young. Let me go in. They’ll be all over you if they find out you’re here.”
Jack stood back and stared at the ridiculous creature in front of him. “You don’t look like a Satanist. There’s no way you’re barging in there, looking like that.”
“What do you have in mind, my young, precocious friend?”
Jack looked crestfallen. “I was hoping you might pull out your cards and give us a reading. Honestly, I’m not sure.”
“Are you admitting to the viability of the tarot?” she smiled.
“Possibly, but I don’t think it practical to set up out here. I was just talking out loud to hear myself think.” He became quiet for a moment until his eyes brightened. “Not much of a plan, but it’s the best I can come up with. It looks as if the porch cantilevered out over the river is packed. We’re not going to get in that way. The door at the side is a no-go. There’s thirty people around it trying to watch the Mass from there. If I remember correctly, there’s a lean-to storage room on the far side of the building. It wasn’t much of a structure and it’s probably rotted to nothing by now. We might be able to pull some boards off the wall and get in that way, unseen by prying eyes. If what you think is true, they will be watching for me.”
“They may already know you’re here. There’s a link between the cursed and the curse-giver. At least you’ll be entering where they won’t be on the lookout for you. Once you’re in there, you’re on your own, baby. You’d have to pull down half a wall to fit me through.”
Jack nodded and headed to the far side of the structure. Lolita took off the robe, its tightness restricting her ability to catch up to him. They had to take a circular route around an outcropping of thorn bushes and animal pens. Jack vaguely remembered Jimmy McFadden mentioning hogs and the animal’s ability to grind down bones to an unidentifiable form.
The shed sat where Jack remembered it to be, and he was pleased to see the corner of the building had sunk a foot or so toward the river, exposing the bottom edge to the water. Directly around the corner, Jack and Lolita spotted the backsides of many participants edging out onto the rickety decking.
He needed to be quiet. Fortunately, the boards were so rotten that he could easily pry them up and to the side, creating a hole big enough to slide through. Once in the hole, he looked back at Lolita. “Do you have a cell?”
“Yes.”
“If this thing seems as if it’s going sideways, call the cops.”
“You think they’ll get here in time to be any help?”
“I’ll share a contact with you. Peter Robertson, my boss. Call him—he’ll know what to do.” He gave her the number along with smile. “I’m sorry for the shit I put you through.”
“Everything has a purpose.”
“That supposed to make me feel better? Here I am trying to give you an apology.”
She smiled. “Get going. I’ll call that boss of yours and hear what he has to say.”
Jack disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
MASON TRIED NOT TO get caught up in the rapture of the moment. Word had certainly spread through the satanic community about their special Black Mass. There were few familiar faces besides the High Priest and his acolytes. The rest seemed to have come out of the woods. He smiled at the size of the crowd. His Mass would always be remembered and written about in the annals of Encyclopedia Satanica. After all, have I not risen from the dead?
It was time to make the first sacrifice. He stared at the old man, who was weak from captivity and blood loss. Mason had set up the cameras and television screen outside the building. He hadn’t been sure he’d get a good response to his invitations, but, just in case they all showed up, he wanted Walker to be able to see what happened. If Walker was indeed there, he would make an appearance soon with what was planned next.
Higher-ranking members of the Church performed such rituals hoping to find a miracle, a tangible sign from Satan. Mason did not have any false ideas about the ritual. He knew fame would follow if he succeeded. He sought revenge. If Walker didn’t show, there would be no such occurrence, and Mason would look the fool. He didn’t need a petty sign from his Deity—women crawling on the ceiling, blood pouring forth from holes in his hands or any other nonsense. That was stuff for movies. Tonight was real.
The Mass called for a sword, but Mason made a slight change, using one of Jimmy McFadden’s wicked long knives. It was long enough to be called a short sword—good enough in his books. The tool was most likely used to skin gators. He called for the bell to be rung. Its impure note rang unremorsefully into the night. The gathering once again became quiet.
Mason raised his hands before the makeshift altar, the woman lying naked before him, Nathaniel Portman stretched out, ropes binding his hands and feet to four of the five points of the pentagram. His head turned to Mason. Mason looked down upon him now, smiling, mouthing a silent “Soon!”
He spoke in a loud, clear voice: “In nomine Dei nostri Satanas Luciferi excelsi!”
The congregation responded: “Ave Satanas.”
“In the name of Satan, the ruler of the earth, the king of the underworld, I command the forces of Darkness to bestow their infernal power upon me! Open wide the gates of Hell and come forth from the abyss to greet me as your brother and friend. Grant me the indulgence of which I speak!”
He turned to address the other side of the room. “I have taken thy name as part of myself. I live as the beasts in the field, rejoicing in the fleshly life. I favor the just and curse the rotten. By all the gods of the Pit, I command these things of which I speak shall come to pass. Come forth and answer to your names by manifesting my desires!”
Mason licked the tip of the long knife before making a cursory incision from the supine female’s pubic bone to her navel. Once again, within the Black Mass Mason was required to enter her sexually. Not wanting to expose himself nor turn the Mass into an orgy—just yet—he had devised an alternative measure. Pushing his first two fingers far inside her warm wetness, he looked out at his audience and smiled. They hunched forward to watch as he gave her long, rhythmic strokes. Her blood bubbled out of the incision. When she screamed out Satan’s name, he raised both fingers to his lips. All watched as his serpent tongue wiggled between his lips to slide across each of his fingers, leaving his mouth and chin covered with the bloody sacrament.
The congregation could not hold back. They hooted and hollered but did not know which direction to take. Normally, the gathering would now open up into a sexual free-for-all.
Mason raised his hands again. “Children of Satan, hold your tongues for a time. We are here to exact vengeance before we partake in the gifts of the flesh. We are here to make sacrifice before we rejoice.” He stepped around the altar, pointing the long knife toward the five corners of the pentagram.
“I call upon the Princes of Hell to manifest their power through my sword.” He turned this way and that, pointing the “sword” at the crowd, whipping them into a frenzy. Standing over Gramps, one foot on either side of him, Mason raised the sword high over his head and turned to the crowd. Once again smiling and looking for their approval to make the strike, Mason dropped to his knees. The blade flashed down like a bolt of lightning to the middle of the man’s chest. Mason halted his thrust an inch above his target, his eyes locked onto Nathaniel’s. He was disappointed the shaman didn’t flinch, instead bearing his imminent death stoically. Mason stood again, raising the sword with more resolve, the crowd revved up to watch the kill.
****
Jack pulled open the door, and three or four participants looked at him questioningly. Still in the robe, he wore the hood low over his face, hiding his eyes.
He mumbled in a matter-of-fact way, “Pissing.” They stood aside and let him
pass.
While he pushed toward the spectacle, Jack gazed around. He could not see Gramps but knew he had to be somewhere on the floor close to Mason. He paused, watching the creepy little man perform his version of the sacrament. As Jack’s fevered brain wondered how the place could possibly hold so many people, he swore the building groaned, wood rubbing against wood. When the room hushed, Jack wondered if he was mistaken, until the hum returned.
****
Lolita watched Jack disappear, knowing she wouldn’t see him again—that had been her premonition all along. Hearing the building shift, she saw the corner in front of her sinking deeper into the water. An idea popped into her head. A wide smile crossed her black face as she looked around for something to use for leverage. She found an old shovel handle, the blade having rusted off years before. She pulled out her phone and punched in the number.
“Peter Robertson?”
“Peter, my name is Lolita.”
Peter had just finished hearing all about the woman from Janie. “What can I do for you, Lolita? Where’s Jack?”
“He is in grave danger.”
“If I hadn’t been through this a few years back with Jack, I would find this hard to believe.”
“Believe what you will, but he’s about to be sacrificed in the name of Satan.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Close. A place owned by a family named McFadden.”
“Christ!”
“Yes. Jack may need His help as well.” She hung up.
As quietly as she could, she slipped her massive body into the warm, muddy water. The deck hung a good twenty feet into the river. It was dark, and the last thing she really wanted was be in the alligator-infested water. She prodded ahead with the long handle. A small gator swam away from her and she prayed she wouldn’t encounter a much bigger and more ornery one.
Light filtered through slits in the floor planking. She trudged through the water until she heard a man calling forth the creatures of Hell.
The Palm Reader Page 27