Rising Darkness gos-1

by Thea Harrison

  That was why she had gone there today. Even though she was not very religious, she had wanted to throw out a prayer. You know, just in case God did exist and would like to lend her a hand.

  She wanted some answers. She couldn’t very well complain when she started to get some, could she?

  Maybe she lived in Gretchen’s world after all.

  The scientist in her tried to kick that thought out of her head. She frowned and held on to it.

  Maybe . . . maybe all those years of med school were why she had started to doubt her own sanity in the first place. Maybe she was quite sane (there’s a thought), and she just hadn’t yet found the right explanation for everything that was happening. The doctor in her wanted clinical proof and scientific explanations, and maybe she wasn’t going to get any.

  For the last several years she had been trying to play by someone else’s rules, and she felt more sick and unsure of herself than she had ever felt in her life.

  “My dreams are real,” she whispered.

  In spite of the fact that she was worried about Justin and had lost everything she had in the world, a corner of her mouth lifted.

  Where did she go from here? She should talk to Gretchen again. She needed to ask more questions, about the woman she saw in her vision and how weird she felt afterward, and what the hell was going on with her vision.

  Maybe the Lady didn’t say what Mary thought she had said.

  Maybe Mary was in danger if she had tried to go home?

  Maybe she would have been in danger if she had been home? The house might have caught fire from some bad electrical wiring, or even from vandalism.

  In any case there was no reason for her to create a grand pattern out of everything. And Justin was fine. It was broad daylight. He would have been awake and alert, not asleep and in danger of smoke inhalation. He was pissed and he went back to work, so he turned his cell phone off. As for her, she needed to take things one step at a time and chill. Of course her vision had wonked out. She was chronically sleep-deprived.

  She would need a week off to sort out her life. No other way around it. Maybe she would need two weeks. She had to deal with the insurance company and find a place to stay, buy clothes and essentials like toiletries. While she was dealing with all of that, she would get a script for Ambien, get some real sleep and reboot.

  She started to feel almost cheerful, which was actually not too bad for someone whose life was in complete upheaval and who had lost everything she owned, aside from her car and what money she had in the bank. She waved Danny over. “I’m ready to leave now. Can you give me my check?”

  “Forget it,” he said. “You’re good.”

  “But I ordered a lot,” she said.

  “You ate, what, three bites of your meal?”

  “I had the salad, and the Coke and the coffee. . . .”

  He leaned toward her. “I cleared it with the manager. Like I said, you’re good. She also told me to tell you that she called the police for you too. They’re waiting to hear from you. Go do what you need to do.”

  “Thank you.” She picked up her purse and slipped off the barstool.

  As she pushed outside, she passed a group of people going in. She paused to take in a deep breath of fresh air, grateful to be away from the hot, noisy interior. As nice as the staff had been, she didn’t think she’d ever eat at another Friday’s again.

  The sun was setting. The sky was lavender and gold, the edges near the horizon deepening to purple. She looked around with care. The Van Gogh effect was still present, but it wasn’t as pronounced as it had been earlier in the afternoon. She lifted her face to a slight cool breeze.

  It curled around her neck and kept circling, a jerky agitation of air.

  She stopped breathing. She started to raise a hand to her neck and froze, not daring to move. Something was swirling around her upper torso but there was no weight or solidity to it. It felt as though she was wrapped in a puff of wind.

  Then she heard a voice inside her head. Danger.

  Seriously. Inside her head.

  “Yes?” she whispered on a bare thread of sound. Her whole body tingled. “I know. I—Is it okay if I breathe?”

  But then she had to. Stunned and feeling ridiculous, she clapped a hand over her mouth as she drew in air through her nose, as if that might help her to avoid breathing in whatever it was that swirled around her.

  Must stay with you, keep you safe.

  Gretchen had said that she had sensed someone was with Mary. Could this be BabyMama Two? She asked, “Who are you and how long have you been there? Were you in the car with me earlier?”

  DANGER!

  “Yes, I saw the news,” she whispered. Could this creature or spirit understand television, or care? “I know my house is burning.”

  A couple approached the restaurant. Mary caught a sidelong glance from the woman as they passed. She started to walk again toward the parking lot.

  The air grew more agitated. Not there. Here and now!

  How can that be?

  She rounded the corner of the building to the parking lot.

  Two men approached. They were fit and tanned, in their thirties or forties. One wore a light jacket and jeans. The other wore khaki pants and a sport coat. Both were smiling. Preoccupied, she gave them the barest glance.

  Something odd and subtle caught her attention. She lifted her head with a frown.

  RUN! the presence screamed.

  She jerked to a halt, caught between trying to make sense of what her small voice said, and—what was so odd about those men?

  Purposeful and bland, they strode forward.

  Toward her, not the restaurant doors. She took a step back, then another.

  Then she figured out what was so different about them. Her eyes widened.

  The edges of the men’s bodies weren’t glowing with that strange Van Gogh effect, as was virtually everything else. Instead they were surrounded by a dull smudge of darkness. Wrongness snapped at her with invisible fangs.

  One of them called out with a smile. “Dr. Byrne?”

  He reached inside his jacket.

  Alarm jolted through her. She whirled to lunge back around the corner. She heard footsteps running after her. They didn’t say anything further. That frightened her more. It frightened her badly.

  She barreled into a family of four as they stepped outside the restaurant doors, a father and mother, a boy around eleven and an older woman. All were varying shades of blond. Mary’s knees weakened with relief even as both she and the older woman staggered. The man grabbed their arms to keep them from falling. The wife yanked her son out of the way.

  “Careful,” the man said. “Are you two all right?”

  The older woman shook free. She snapped at Mary, “You’re going too fast.”

  “I’m sorry.” Words tumbled out of her. “Two men are chasing me.”

  “Chasing you,” said the older woman.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the younger woman, who looked around with incredulity. “Here?”

  Mary knew how the woman felt. Whoever those men were, they wouldn’t do anything here at the front of the restaurant, not with the family as witnesses and all the cars whizzing by on Grape Road.

  It was too public.

  Just like Dairy Queen had been yesterday.

  Fuck.

  She knew when the two men rounded the corner. She felt their presence as a prickle along the back of her neck. She and the others turned to look at them.

  “Let’s go back inside, Christine,” the husband said, putting an arm around his wife. “Just until this is sorted out. Right now.”

  Mary reached for the nearest door handle. Even as she jolted into movement again, she knew she was moving too slow.

  She heard flat, popping noises and turned her head.

  Crimson exploded in the middle of the man’s forehead. The young woman Christine opened hazel eyes wide in surprise as she began a slow, graceful, downward pirouette. A spray of ruby sta
rs appeared on the boy’s soccer league T-shirt. The boy looked down and fingered one of the stars as his knees collapsed. The older woman’s jaw shattered, bone and tissue flying.

  Liquid warmth splashed over Mary’s face and torso.

  She knew that warm wetness well. Red was an important color to her. Four people toppled to the pavement like mown flowers.

  “No,” she said. She opened her mouth wide. Someone started to scream. She thought it might be her.

  Her invisible presence screamed with her. RUN RUN RUN!

  Still smiling, the man in the sports coat lunged at her and clamped a hand around her arm. The other looked around with a sharp gaze while he tucked his gun and silencer back inside his jacket.

  She dragged hard against the fingers that dug into her flesh, still screaming.

  “Come with us now, Mary,” Sport Coat said. “You don’t want any more people to get shot, do you? We’ll kill everybody in the restaurant if we have to.”

  “Not that we’d mind,” Spring Jacket added. “We like to kill.”

  But her body couldn’t be reasoned with, or ordered to obey. It had a mind of its own and convulsed into wild struggles. Spring Jacket stepped over the bodies of the family to reach for her other arm.

  She was a small, underweight woman. Both men had at least sixty pounds on her. Even as she bucked and heaved against the hard hands that sought to subdue her, her mind was a different engine that ran on its own track.

  They didn’t shoot me. They recognized my face. They called me by name. They want me for something.

  What do they want from me?

  Then she twisted into Spring Jacket’s body and brought one knee up hard between his legs. As he groaned and doubled over, she jerked her arm free to stab at Sport Coat’s eyes with stiffened fingers. He caught her wrist before she hit his face.

  Sport Coat spun her around until she faced away from him. He forced both of her arms behind her back. She knew she was in serious trouble even as she tried to kick Spring Jacket in the head. He ducked to the side, and she missed.

  With a grunt Spring Jacket stood upright. He backhanded her. Her head snapped from the blow. She bit her tongue so hard blood spurted in her mouth. Then she had to stop screaming because she started to choke.

  “I’ll pay you back more when we’ve got time,” he said. She spat a mouthful of blood in his face. He wiped it off with a sleeve. “Keep it up, bitch. I’m running a tab.”

  Neither man had lost his empty mannequin smile. The four murders and the fight had taken less than a minute.

  A short distance away, cars shot down a busy five-lane highway. She willed them to keep moving so that no one else got shot.

  Even if someone noticed the fight and called 911, it wouldn’t do her any good. The men picked her up, one at her torso and the other at her legs. They jogged with her toward a dark unmarked van.

  That van was the embodiment of every kidnapping nightmare.

  She couldn’t go in there.

  She was as good as dead if they got her in that van.

  She bucked and kicked as hard as she could, and she barely made them stagger.

  Panic enveloped her, a pure bolt that was as sharp and cold as a scalpel of ice slicing open a vein. It was followed by a blinding wave of white heat that filled her mind and body. A roaring madness took over the world.

  She was aware, as if from a great distance, that both men had started to curse. They dropped her. She hit the ground hard and tried to roll into a ball. The roar of white noise filled her body and mind then began to recede.

  She was being rolled on the ground, wrapped up in something.

  Voices:

  “Hurry up, goddamn it. Cover her legs with your jacket.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can. What the hell did she just do? Somehow she fucking burned my hands.”

  “I got burned too, ass-wipe, and I’ve got her shoulders covered. Come ON!”

  The sound of a door sliding open. She stirred. Rough hands slid under her shoulders and legs. She opened her eyes. Felt herself being lifted. Looked up into two smiling mannequin faces. Liquid spilled out of her mouth.

  A hawk with splayed talons plummeted out of the jewel-toned sky. It raked Spring Jacket’s head from nape to crown, slashing him open to the bone. Wetness sprayed her again. The man rocked forward from the blow. He dropped her legs.

  Spring Jacket wobbled and turned toward what hit him. A second hawk dove for Sport Coat’s face. One of his eyes split like a grape under the slash of its talons. He lost his hold on her shoulders. She hit cement hard a second time. She would have whimpered if she’d had any breath. She managed to roll several times before she dared to lift her head.

  Both men were bent at the waist, covered with dozens of attacking hawks. They beat at the air and slapped at the birds. Red streaked their flailing figures. One pulled his gun and fired blind. A few birds dropped to the ground. A dozen more took their place.

  She struggled to her hands and knees but didn’t dare rise to her feet, for a shrieking cloud of raptors wheeled and dove in the parking lot. Red-tailed hawks, rough-legged hawks, turkey vultures, Cooper’s hawks, falcons, goshawks, harriers.

  Calm descended on her for the space of one pulse beat.

  She was not on earth. She was somewhere else where things like this could happen.

  A breeze whipped around her damp neck, and that small voice said, They die for you. Don’t waste their sacrifice. Run!

  She ducked her head to crawl away from the battle. Gravel bit into the heels of her palms and her knees. Her hearing was filled with the sound of her harsh wet breathing.

  Car. Keys. Purse. Where’s the damn purse?

  She had been carrying her purse by its strap. She had dropped it somewhere when she had been attacked. She crawled toward the front of the restaurant, searching the ground of the parking lot as she went.

  She had to go back around the corner of the building. Her purse was lying close to the woman named Christine, near the dead woman’s outflung arm.

  She touched Christine’s still-warm fingers and said in a harsh croak, “If your spirit is still here, I’m so sorry. I don’t understand why this happened. I would have done everything I could to avoid your family if I’d known.”

  She snatched up her purse, struggled to her feet and ran, bent over, back around the corner and down the line of parked cars until she reached her Toyota.

  Scrape, fumble.

  Get the damn key in the lock. There.

  She yanked at the door and fell into the car. Locked the door. Started the engine.

  It stalled. A sob broke out of her. She tried again.

  The engine roared. She jerked the stick shift into reverse, misjudged the distance and clipped an SUV as she pulled out.

  Thunk!

  Something hit her trunk. She screamed and twisted at the waist to look out the rear window. A blood-covered figure pushed off of the trunk of her car and fumbled along the driver’s side toward her door, one arm curled over his head while shrieking birds continued to dive and rip his skin to ribbons. His raw, red flesh was unrecognizable as a face.

  She screamed again, yanked her car into first gear and slammed down on the gas pedal. With a squeal of tortured tires, the Toyota shot away.

  Chapter Eight

  THE IMMACULATE INTERIOR of the back of the limousine was just as it should be, luxurious and contained. The man liked to have his environment comfortable and controlled. It brought him a sense of calm and peace, which allowed him to focus on his work.

  The seats were made from butter-soft Italian leather. There was a small but perfectly stocked wet bar that included champagne and several bottles of a 1999 Royal DeMaria Riesling Icewine. The fridge was stocked with petit fours; smoked salmon pâté and organic whole grain crackers; boiled quail’s eggs with a lemon-mayonnaise dip; melon balls made from honeydew, cantaloupe and watermelon; and several different kinds of fresh sushi. There was also a flat-screen HDTV that he kept on mute, perpet
ually tuned to CNN.

  The man divided his attention between watching the ticker tape headlines running along the bottom of the screen and the spring scenery that scrolled past his windows.

  His cell phone rang. It was one of his employees, and this was a phone call that he had been waiting for, so he answered and listened. “You’re quite sure that he’s dead? And it can’t be traced back to you? Excellent. Thank the Senator for his help. Tell him that I too am looking forward to a mutually beneficial future.” The man smiled out at the bright spring day. He asked his companion, “Do you play chess?”

  “What?”

  “Forgive me,” the man said. “I thought I said that quite clearly. Do. You. Play. Chess.”

  “No, I do not fucking play fucking chess.”

  “Do you know anything about the game?”

  “For Christ’s sake, who cares?”

  “Manners.” The man kept his voice mild, but his gaze turned into spears of ice. “I do, and you would do well to remember that I am driving this conversation.”

  A pause. His companion said, “I only know the basic moves, and nothing at all about the maneuvers or strategies. I know just enough about the game to know that’s like labeling primary colors to a master painter like Renoir.”

  The man was somewhat mollified. He relaxed back in his seat and chose, for the time being, to ignore his companion’s truculent attitude. “Nicely put. Chess has been called the game of kings, you know, as it was deemed a worthy occupation for sovereigns.”

  “I presume you are driving this conversation to somewhere specific.”

  The man said, “Then there is the analogy as well. Politics is like a game of chess. There are the pieces, and then there are the players. Dorothy Dunnett, a well-known Scottish novelist, used the analogy in a series of historical novels filled with political intrigue. Have you read her work?”

  “No.” His companion closed his eyes, his expression indifferent.

  “You should pay attention,” the man said, his tone flat. “I am telling you the most important thing you have heard in your life.”