The Seventh Door

by Bryan Davis

  “Perfect.” She curled her arm through his. “Okay with a show of unity? It’s the first step toward trusting.”

  Matt resisted rolling his eyes. Even her gesture was an act of manipulation. Only a hard-hearted cynic would refuse. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  They walked together across the house’s sparse lawn and into a field of flattened cornstalks, coated with a glistening layer of ice that cracked under their weight. With snow falling more heavily now, the new bad-weather clothing was already coming in handy.

  When they reached the barn’s front, they stopped at a closed door, similar in size to the house’s entry door. Matt slid away from Darcy and quietly turned the knob. It rotated easily.

  “Okay,” he said as he pivoted back to her, “are you warm enough to stay here while I look around?”

  She tightened a belt around her coat. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” Matt opened the door and walked in. Daylight illuminated only a few feet of concrete floor, aided by a small lamp glowing atop a desk that abutted the adjacent wall. He searched for a switch for an overhead light but found nothing.

  Following the lamp’s glow, he padded to the desk—a two-person workstation. He touched the back of one of the chairs and gave it a slow spin. When it stopped, he sat and studied a set of dual monitors embedded in the wall. In a gap between them, a metal key protruded from a circular depression, the same size and shape as the other three keys on the ring. This had to be number four.

  Matt pinched the key, averted his eyes to avoid a blinding flash, and pulled it out. Although no burst of light came from the key, ceiling lights flickered on throughout the barn. He spun in the chair and scanned the spacious interior. Burlap sacks of grain stood in uneven piles along with a haphazard array of shovels, rakes, hoes, and coils of rope. Yet, the tools were clean and new, as if on display at a hardware store.

  Something hummed at the workstation. On the monitors, lines and lines of indecipherable letters and numbers ran across several program windows, though one window displayed a map with a target grid centered on a rural section of Nebraska, as if this were a weapons station of some kind.

  Matt ran a finger along a gray keyboard but dared not touch the keys. An array of telephones, maps, and warning labels practically shouted out affirmation of his guess, including a digital clock above the two units that displayed bright red numbers—00:00:00.

  A voice emanated from the workstation. “Launch sequence initiated.”

  The numbers changed to “00:15:00” and began counting down . . . “00:14:59” . . . “00:14:58.”

  Matt shoved the key back into the hole and tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. The clock’s digits continued changing.

  The cell phone rang. Matt jumped from the seat and jerked it out of his pocket. “Hello?”

  “Congratulations on your accomplishment,” Tamiel said in a cheery tone. “You are now the potential cause of the first nuclear disaster in many years. You have less than fifteen minutes to figure out how to stop it.”

  Matt’s heart raced. “I put the key back in. That didn’t work.”

  “The key is of no use in stopping the launch. It is yours, and you will need it when you get to the seventh door. The nuclear missile is hidden in a fake corn silo, but the target is not anywhere in this world. The grid on the screen points to the location of a portal through which the missile will travel. Elam must have known that I could discover the presence of an open portal because of my two agents who can detect it simply by whether or not they have solid bodies. I’m sure he thought the societal chaos here would keep military forces from exploiting the opening, which is technically true. I had to persuade a nonmilitary weapons expert to set this up for me.”

  Matt attached the key to the ring at his belt, then glanced at the digital clock—13:23. When would this insane demon get to the point? And even if he did, could anything he said be trusted? He swallowed to keep his voice under control. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “You are free to do nothing. Rest for a while at the farmhouse in peace, knowing that the missile has vaporized Second Eden. Or you may want to figure out how to stop the launch. You must decipher your surroundings and make the correct decisions.”

  “My surroundings?” Matt let his gaze dart from place to place, but the same items appeared—grain, tools, and rope. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Look for a red switch under the keyhole.”

  Matt found a vertical rocker similar to a light switch. “I see it.”

  “Flip it up.”

  Matt touched the switch. Following Tamiel’s commands felt like a fool’s errand. “Why should I do what you say? You’re trying to launch a missile.”

  “Then don’t flip it. If you know of another way to abort the launch, feel free to try it.”

  Matt pushed a computer mouse. Letters flashed on both monitors—System Locked. After a few seconds, the message disappeared. He tapped a key on one of the keyboards. The message returned, again flashing. He picked up the keyboard and smashed it against the desk. It bent in the middle, but nothing changed on the screen.

  Laughter crackled in the phone’s earpiece. “I can hear your attempts at violence, but they will do you no good. We programmed the missile so that it will detonate immediately if it loses connection with the guidance system. If you manage to destroy the workstation, you will be vaporized.”

  Matt rolled a hand into a fist. Tamiel had cornered him. No options remained.

  He flipped the switch. Something hummed at the center of the room. An object covered with a silver tarp rose from the floor. When it reached chest height, its motion stopped. Another hum awoke at the ceiling. Three security cameras descended—one trained on the tarp, one on the control station, and the third on the entry door.

  “Who’s watching me with the cameras?” Matt asked.

  “A singer.” Tamiel laughed. “Oh, by the way, we will kill whomever you choose to leave behind.”

  “Leave behind? What do you mean—”

  The phone clicked. Matt banged his fist on the console. This impossible mission was getting more insane by the second!

  The clock ticked down to twelve minutes. He shoved the phone back to his pocket and hurried toward the tarp. One of the cameras whirred as it followed his progress. He pinched the tarp’s edge and pulled it away. A young woman clad in jeans and sweatshirt sat in a chair, her arms and legs bound and her mouth gagged. She stared at him with wide eyes and shouted through her gag.

  Matt squinted at her. With auburn hair and slender, angular features, she looked exactly like—

  He swallowed hard and whispered, “Darcy?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  His hands trembling, Matt untied the gag and let it drop to the floor. She blew out a breath. “Matt!” She sucked in air, gasping. “That desk over there controls a nuclear bomb!”

  His throat tightened. She sounded exactly like Darcy, even her tone and cadence. “I know—less than twelve minutes to launch.”

  She struggled against her bonds. “The creep who tied me up told me you’d come, but I’m sitting on some kind of pressure-sensitive gizmo. If I get up, the missile will launch in ten seconds, but he said if you replace me with something of the exact same size and weight, you’ll stop the launch completely.”

  “Replace you? Why would he want . . .” Matt looked at the door. This couldn’t be the same Darcy he left waiting outside. “And what happens if the replacement moves from the chair?”

  “Immediate launch. Really bizarro, isn’t it?” She nodded toward one of her arms. “Untie me, and we’ll figure out what to do.”

  Matt stared at her. Could she be the real Darcy? Was the other Darcy really Semiramis after all? Or was this woman Semiramis?

  She scowled. “Matt, don’t just stand there with your mouth gaping. Untie me!”

  “Okay. Just don’t get up yet.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not stupid.”<
br />
  Matt winced. Her tone echoed dozens of sarcastic comments from years gone by. Could anyone imitate her bitter tongue so well? The other Darcy certainly hadn’t. She seemed gracious by comparison.

  He untied rope sections binding her arms to the chair. When they dropped, she reached for her legs and jerked at one knot, then the other. “They’re tight.” She looked up at Matt. “Can you untie my legs? It’s hard to reach, and my fingers are still numb.”

  “Just a second.” He glanced at the clock. A few ticks more than ten minutes. “How much do you weigh?”

  “About one twenty.” Her brow bent, and a growl spiced her words. “Matt . . . untie my legs.”

  “Soon.” He hustled to a big sack of grain and lifted it over his shoulder. “This is probably about a hundred pounds, but it doesn’t have a label. I can’t be sure.”

  Her frown deepened. “The guy said the replacement had to be within five pounds.”

  “Five pounds! What kind of game is he playing?”

  Darcy rubbed her other wrist. Her tone grew more threatening. “This isn’t a game, and if you don’t untie my legs—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Keep bullying me. I’m used to that from you.” Matt set the bag on the floor and walked closer to her. “How did you get here? Where did they find you?”

  “Okay, I’ll play nice.” She rocked her head in a condescending way. “I’m a teller at a bank in Des Moines. At least I was. With the whole world going crazy, I’m not sure I have a job anymore. Anyway, when I was getting off work two days ago, a couple of guys grabbed me and threw me into the back of a van. They drove me here, and I’ve been sitting in this chair since early this morning.”

  “A bank teller?” He leaned within reach and studied her eyes. “Not a prostitute?”

  “A prostitute?” She slapped his face. “How dare you!”

  Matt backpedaled a few steps. His cheek stung. How could he explain? Should he bring the other Darcy in? Let them both try to prove that they’re the real Darcy?

  “You’re gaping again.” Darcy folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Matt, stop acting like the stupid brat I remember and grow up. Untie me right this minute or I’ll hop off this sensor thing, chair and all!”

  She braced her hands on the chair’s arms, but Matt grabbed her wrist. “Wait. Give me a second. Let me show you why I’m acting so weird.”

  As he walked to the door, her voice followed like a foul wind. “You always acted weird.”

  The words stabbed his heart. A tear welled. Why did he care so much? She was a witch, an acid-tongued hellcat. Several brutal retorts came to mind, but he brushed them away. She would learn soon enough.

  He opened the door. Darcy #1 stood nearby, her hands deep in her coat pockets as snow continued to fall.

  She lifted her brow. “Is everything all right in there?”

  “Not exactly, but . . .” He gestured for her to follow. “Come on in.”

  When they entered, Matt glanced between the two Darcys. The moment they saw each other, their mouths dropped open.

  Darcy #2 clutched the armrests. “Matt, who is this?”

  “She claims to be Darcy. Tamiel . . . he’s the mastermind for all of this . . . he says he picked her up at a Las Vegas street corner. But a sorceress named Semiramis might be pretending to be the real Darcy.”

  “A street corner?” Darcy #2 gave him a knowing nod. “I see. That’s why you mentioned the prostitute thing.”

  “Matt,” Darcy #1 said, “Did you tell her I was a prostitute?”

  “Not really.” Matt gave her a quick explanation of the situation, including the pressure-sensitive trigger and how a replacement would stop the launch, though the replacement would have to stay put and later be killed by Tamiel. “So,” he concluded, “she just put two and two together. I wasn’t trying to criticize you or anything.”

  “What a con!” Darcy #2 smirked. “The hooker has reformed. A story to tug at your heartstrings. This imposter has you wrapped around her finger with a pathetic I-got-religion game.”

  “Religion?” Matt narrowed his eyes. “I never said anything about religion.”

  “It’s just an idiom, Matt.” She nodded at Darcy #1. “Just look at that penitent posture. It’s a con game. I’ve seen it too many times before.”

  Darcy #1 straightened her sloping shoulders and shot Darcy #2 a sharp glare. “Listen, honey, I know what a con game is. I stood around night after night using myself as a billboard pretending I liked any man who opened his wallet. But I hated them all, especially their eyes, the way they looked at me. In their minds I was a medium-rare steak they wanted to sink their teeth into. But I just smiled, took their money, and played the game. I was the ultimate con. So don’t tell me about con games. For the first time in my life I’m being true to myself. I have faith.”

  “Faith is the ultimate con.” Darcy #2 touched herself on the chest. “Matt, do you seriously think I would grovel at the feet of a god? Don’t you remember? I was the president of the school atheist club.”

  “I remember.” Matt squinted at Darcy #1. “Do you?”

  “Of course.” She raised a finger. “I told Tamiel about that. He must’ve asked me a thousand questions, but I don’t remember all of them. I think they drugged me to make me talk.”

  “What a dodge!” Darcy #2 altered to a mocking tone. “They drugged me to make me talk!” She then growled. “Matt, don’t be an idiot. Grab that faker, untie me, and put her in this chair.”

  He tightened his fist. “Give me a second to think about it.”

  “Think about it? It’s obvious! Who’s acting more like me?” She jabbed a finger at Darcy #1. “This imposter doesn’t know squat.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Matt grabbed Darcy #1’s arm. “Listen, do you remember pushing me out the window one morning?”

  She covered her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Matt. It was a terrible thing to do.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” He riveted his stare on her. “Do you remember what you said to me while I was hanging by the rope?”

  “I remember.” She looked away. “I said, ‘Enjoy the snow.’”

  Matt swiveled back to Darcy #2. “She got it right.”

  Darcy #2 rolled her eyes. “And then I said, ‘I’ll unlock the door for you in a few hours. Maybe even you will be cold by then.’”

  Matt winced. That was what Darcy had said. Both women could quote the evil sister from the past, but Tamiel couldn’t have prepared Semiramis for every possible memory.

  Tears sparkled in Darcy #1’s eyes. Of course, her visible emotions could be part of the act. Darcy #2 glared at him as the real Darcy would, but what if the real Darcy had changed? Still, might Semiramis have chosen to act like a repentant Darcy because she didn’t know the real Darcy well enough to imitate her?

  Matt glanced at the clock. Just over two minutes to go—no time for a detailed interrogation. One question for each of them would have to do. He pulled Darcy #1 closer to #2 so he could look at both of them at the same time.

  “You.” Matt pointed at Darcy #2, still tied to her chair. “What was your mother’s middle name?”

  “Gladys,” she replied without hesitation. “Matt, this interrogation is wasting—”

  “Shut up!”

  A voice from the control panel announced, “Silo blast door opening. Two minutes to launch.”

  He shifted his finger to Darcy #1. “What was our street address?”

  She bit her lip. “Nineteen something? On Violet Way, I remember that.”

  “It was Violet Way,” Darcy #2 said, “But it was eighteen forty-five.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Matt ran a hand through his hair. “I have to think of another question.”

  “Another question?” Darcy #2 clenched a fist. “I swear, Matt, if you make a stupid decision and leave me here, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Matt growled. “What will you do? If you’re the real Darcy, you made my life
a living Hell. Why shouldn’t I let you stay here? Why shouldn’t I let Tamiel kill you? You deserve it!”

  “Matt,” Darcy #1 said, her voice tortured. “I’m the one who did those things to you. She didn’t, so maybe . . .”

  “Maybe what?” Matt leaned closer to her, almost nose to nose. “If you did those things, then the other Darcy’s a sorceress, and she deserves to die!” He spun toward the control panel. Forty seconds left. He had to make a decision and make it now.

  Chapter 12

  A SONG IN THE AIR

  Bonnie smacked her dry lips. Acres of fresh water beckoned only ten steps away, though for a woman shackled to a tree, the vision of refreshment might as well have been a photo on a billboard.

  She stretched her arms and let out a yawn. Her elbows and shoulders popped. Sleeping on hard ground littered with tree fragments had been a challenge, especially with odd noises drifting through the air—splashes, growls, squawking birds, among others. In the middle of the night an owl perched in her tree and hooted once in a while, as if announcing the time every hour. In spite of its sleep-depriving call, at least it probably kept mice and snakes away.

  Fortunately, the chains were long enough to allow for occasional visits to the opposite side of the tree. The conditions there weren’t any better, but at least it was downwind and worked as a serviceable restroom. Yet, no matter where she walked or sat, the candlestones in the manacles were always there, like angry dogs gnawing on her legs.

  Now sitting, she touched the wound Arramos had inflicted on her jaw—swollen and sore. A crusty clot had stopped the flow of blood.

  Something beeped. She turned toward the computer tablet, still lying on the ground. A video played showing a silvery tarp draped over something in a large room. Matt appeared. His eyes wary, he walked slowly toward the tarp.

  She grabbed the tablet and set it on her lap. “Matt . . .” She touched his face with a shaking finger. “Where are you?”

  He pulled the tarp to the floor. A young woman sat in a chair, her wrists and ankles bound and her mouth gagged. His voice came through the tablet’s speakers. “Darcy?”