by Bob Avey
The hair on the back of Elliot’s neck stiffened as he remembered a book he’d read where people had been driven insane by something similar. He stowed the crucifix inside his pocket and dropped the lid of the chest into the trunk. Stepping away from the car, he quickened his pace as he crossed the floor.
The muffled voices started again, resonating now, as if coming from all directions.
Elliot tightened his grip on the Glock, eased through the door, and stepped outside.
The voices abruptly ended.
Elliot studied the area, methodically and incrementally looking in different directions. His emergence into the open had interrupted the menagerie of whispers, and that meant whoever or whatever was behind it was also aware of his location. A disturbing thought swept through him. The source of the strange sound could have been inside the barn all along. He turned toward the doorway.
A swath of daylight cut through the opening revealing a misshapen, triangular portion of the dirt floor, but it was something beyond that which grabbed Elliot’s attention. A pair of luminous eyes, like those of an animal, floated in the darkness.
Elliot backed away, mesmerized by the intensity of the disembodied gaze.
A wave of heat raked across his back and a force shoved him forward. He stumbled into the barn, the momentum taking him to the floor, knocking the Glock from his hand.
The dirt floor oozed a thick aroma, like a garden shack that’d been closed up for years. Elliot scrambled for the Glock, lurched to his feet, and swept the barn, his finger on the trigger.
The barn doors slammed shut, the hasp fell into place, and the lock snapped into position.
Elliot ran to the exit where he pressed his face against the doors and peered through the cracks between the planks.
The rough wood scraped against his face like sandpaper. Part of the yard and the back of the house came into view, but nothing else.
Elliot lowered his shoulder and thrust his weight against the door.
Dust belched into the air, but the heavy planks held firm.
Elliot looked wildly into the shadows, fear mounting as he wondered what to do next. He considered taking another run at the wooden barricade but abandoned the idea. Instead, he placed the Glock where he thought it would be most effective and fired two rounds into the wood. A hard right kick did the rest, and the doors swung open.
Elliot stepped outside and did a quick three-sixty, the Glock held in front of him with both hands.
Along the street that skirted the front of the property a car glided past the house and disappeared from view. From somewhere in the distance, the sound of a leaf blower droned on. Just another peaceful day in suburbia, until the grass near Elliot’s feet moved and something slithered past.
Instinctively he stepped away, ignoring the fact that whoever had shoved him into the barn was probably still around.
A brown, cord-like vertebrate continued its movement through the grass. Near the barn doors, several more of them wiggled free from a burlap bag while others, having already found the opening, slithered in the dirt.
Elliot’s pulse quickened. The place was swarming with Copperheads. Elliot backed away and ran toward the house. It looked no more welcoming now than it had earlier, but Elliot suspected whoever was behind this was probably in there. When he reached the steps, he climbed onto the landing and banged on the door.
The lock disengaged and the door began to open, not quickly but a few inches at a time.
Elliot leaned forward and peered through the open doorway. Like the barn, the house smelled of decay and lacked light, as if all places where light might have gained entry had been blocked and sealed off. “I know you’re in there,” Elliot said. “Why don’t you come on out, so we can talk about it. You’re not in trouble. Nothing’s really happened yet.”
No answer.
“If I have to come in after you, all bets are off.”
“You surprise me, Detective Elliot. I didn’t take you for someone given to gambling.”
It was a voice tinged with age. Elliot could almost place it, but not quite. “Who are you?”
A hand shot from the doorway, clamped around Elliot’s wrist, and yanked him forward, into the house. Just as quickly, the door slammed shut, closing off the light. In a near simultaneous action, something banged against his right hand, and the Glock fell from his grip and thudded to the floor.
Elliot went after the weapon, but he didn’t make it far.
A fist caught him on the forehead and he stumbled backward. With the quickness and skill of a cop, someone yanked Elliot’s arms behind him, wrapped them with a sticky binding, and forced him to sit. Using more of the tape, he bound Elliot to the chair. With the job finished, the captor walked away, his footsteps echoing through the black void.
Elliot tested the bindings. They were tight, but he could move his hands and wrists slightly. If given time, he could work them free. He wanted to ask questions, but feared the action might cause the assailant to tape his mouth as well. For what seemed a long time, he sat in darkness, struggling against the bindings. It was working. He’d gained some slack.
“Stop moving around.”
Elliot put his escape efforts on hold. Hearing the man’s voice after such a long period of silence surprised him. He’d even entertained the thought that he’d been left alone. The vaguely familiar voice had come from maybe ten feet in front of him, but he couldn’t see anyone. The darkness was just too thick. He decided to chance a question. “Why are you doing this?”
“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Elliot ran several recent arrests he’d been involved with through his memory, trying to imagine who the assailant might be. “Why didn’t you?”
“I do what I’m told. Works better that way.”
Elliot resumed his struggle with the tape. “So you’re telling me you’re not responsible for all of this, that you’re just the messenger?”
Elliot waited for a reply but none came.
“This guy who’s putting pressure on you, telling you what to do, maybe I can help.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, have no idea what you’re offering.”
Elliot worked one hand free. “Don’t be so sure. I’m a cop, and I’m pretty good at what I do.”
“I’ll bet you are. But this is different.”
“How is it different? Maybe you could explain it to me?”
After another period of silence, he said, “That would be the worst thing I could do, worse even than killing you.”
Elliot wondered if this was the son of Charles McDugan, and if he’d been exposed to the same thing as David Stephens and Angela Gardner. “Is it the voices,” Elliot asked, “the ones inside your head?”
“If you know about that, it’s already too late. I’d thought about letting you go, persuading you to forget about all this and go on about your life. That’s not an option now. In fact, I suspect you’ll welcome my killing you.”
Elliot removed the remainder of the bindings. The voice had moved behind him. He stood and turned toward the area from where the sound had come.
A small flame appeared in the darkness, the self-appointed warden of this prison having lit a match. He lowered it to a candle, and when the wick caught fire, its light revealed a man of medium build, about five foot eight in stature. The lone candle, though seemingly bright in the instant it had broken the darkness, did not remove enough of the gloom for Elliot to identify his captor.
The man’s next move was not completely unanticipated. He hadn’t dragged Elliot into his world and tied him to a chair merely to observe his reactions.
He came forward, the Glock Elliot had lost held in his right hand and pointed at Elliot, though judging from the lack of rigidity in the aim of the weapon, Elliot did not think he intended to kill him with it, at least not yet.
He continued across the room, walking slowly in what seemed an almost non-deliberate manner, as if even he were unsure of his next move.
As
he closed in, the barrel of the Glock grew larger, and at a distance of about six feet, he stopped.
From this proximity, even though the candlelight was partially blocked by the man’s body, Elliot now recognized him. He thought of the grizzled, almost ghostly face he’d encountered at the old house in Tulsa where Gerald had disappeared.
Elliot fought to gather his senses. The man confronting him did not look old enough to be the son of Charles McDugan. “I guess you gave up stealing motorcycles in favor of taking up kidnapping, not exactly a good career move, if you ask me, Jeremiah. It is Jeremiah, isn’t it?”
The son of Charles McDugan, if indeed that was who he was, did not reply, and when he brought from behind him his other hand, it held the obsidian knife, its jagged blade glistening, even though the light was dim and coming from a distance behind Jeremiah, who now raised the artifact above his head.
“That’s a fancy weapon,” Elliot said. “Where did you get it?”
“It is sacred to me. You have no right to doubt its power or to blaspheme its purpose.”
“It belonged to your father, didn’t it? But that meddling priest tricked it out from under him. I suspect, though, had you anticipated the consequences you would have left it alone.”
He didn’t answer.
“I have to hand it to you, McDugan. Tracking the knife down after all those years must have been difficult.”
“I knew the name of the Catholic who secreted the tecpatl away. It was simply a matter of waiting until it showed up at the right time and place.”
Elliot grabbed the chair he’d been bound to and thrust the makeshift shield between himself and Jeremiah McDugan.
“Your spiritual presence is strong. Submit to me and I will make you a powerful priest in my name.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
McDugan’s face remained passive, his eyes reflecting no passion, and he did not bring the ancient weapon slashing down upon Elliot. Instead he gently lowered the relic and held it out, as if it were a peace offering.
The words of Professor David Stephens ran through Elliot’s head. Don’t touch the knife. He took a step back. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you put the gun and the artifact on the table, and you and I can have a little talk about your father, Charles McDugan.”
“My father’s dead. Now take the knife. It is the reason I’m here, and the reason you’ve made it your quest to find me. Come on. Just think how easily you could kill me with it. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Elliot said. “I’m here to help you.”
McDugan laughed. “Don’t pretend you’re different. You’re all alike. You’ll do anything to save yourself, anything at all.”
Elliot took a step back. “I’ve seen the results of the knife’s influence. Losing my sanity and sense of self-awareness doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Careful,” the McDugan thing said, “you wouldn’t want to disturb my little servants.”
From every corner of the room, they emerged from the shadows, slithering, tongues darting, their bellies whispering across the floor.
Elliot’s throat tightened. He slammed the chair down and jumped onto it, his stomach churning at the thought of having sat in the dark with those things crawling around. “You’re nuts, McDugan. What makes you think your little friends won’t turn on you?”
Like a child playing with a toy airplane, McDugan moved the obsidian knife through the air. “They’re even more afraid of me than you are. And your fear runs deep. I am given to pity, something of a rarity I assure you. If you wish that I should take your blood instead of your life, I’ll make it so. Get down from the chair and lie on the floor.”
McDugan’s voice had turned softer, almost consoling.
Elliot glanced around the room, and as he considered his options his hope that both he and McDugan might make it out of the house alive evaporated. He decided to jump from the chair. His sudden weight upon his adversary would be considerable. He could knock him off his feet and make a dash for the door. If he could avoid the snakes, he would be free.
He studied his adversary, who now stood motionless, as if he were calmly awaiting Elliot’s decision, his hands held loosely at his sides, the knife in one and the Glock in the other.
Elliot shifted his weight to prepare for the attack, but before he jumped, the room again went dark. He had thought he and McDugan were alone, but something had doused the candle.
Elliot recoiled at the tickle of fingers groping at his throat, and it was then that the cross of St. Benedict was ripped from his neck.
Chapter Forty-One
Elliot reached out, trying to locate McDugan, or whoever had taken the cross. He found only emptiness, nearly falling from the chair for his efforts.
Perspiration broke out across Elliot’s forehead, though this was followed, not by a sense of calmness but of reassurance in his belief that if the crucifix afforded protection, it came not from a loyal follower, but from the one whose death and resurrection it symbolized. However, if McDugan, or what he’d become, feared the cross and was now, in its absence, more willing to do whatever he had planned for Elliot, that was something to consider.
Listening to McDugan’s footsteps as he moved about the room, Elliot reminded himself that McDugan did not seem to want to kill him, at least not yet. He could have done so several times. The knowledge of this did not bring Elliot comfort. He began to conjure up all sorts of alternative fates, most of them dealing with torture.
Elliot groped his jacket pocket for the flashlight but found that it, too, was missing. He’d probably lost it in the same manner as the Glock.
He decided to stay on the chair for the time being. He had a pretty good idea where the front door was, but with snakes crawling about in the darkness, his chances of escaping were not good. McDugan was not near. His footsteps had come from the area where the candle had been.
In the darkness, a low, guttural growl, the kind a predatory cat might make, evolved into the voice of Jeremiah McDugan.
“No one knows you’re here,” he said. “Last anyone heard, you were somewhere in Eastern Oklahoma.”
Elliot waved his arms to regain his balance but remained silent and as still as he could. Certainly McDugan knew where he was, but any bit of doubt would work in his favor.
McDugan was much closer now, his voice a whisper in Elliot’s ear. “I’ve been waiting a long time for someone like you.”
Elliot’s skin prickled beneath the moist heat of McDugan’s breath upon his neck, and even though the voice had been soft, his ears rang, as if he’d chosen a seat too close to the speakers at a heavy-metal rock concert.
Elliot squeezed his hands into fists and lashed out in different directions, hoping to get lucky and land a shot, knock McDugan off his feet.
He found only emptiness, though the sensation of McDugan’s presence remained strong.
He felt a vibration, though it came not from his surroundings but from within, originating in his throat and lungs, a silent scream, not unlike the tormented cries that had torn open the evening in Poteau, during the attack on Father Williams.
Elliot looked around the room. It had been he who had growled, and with it something within him had changed. The darkness had not been removed or lessened to any appreciable degree, but there was no denying he now sensed, in detail, what was around him. More than his intuition was at work here.
McDugan stood near the doused candle, still and lifeless, his eyes empty, as if he were not a man at all but an elaborate suit of armor designed to mimic a real person.
An expanse of the hardwood flooring was cleared, the snakes having wiggled into rows on either side, creating a pathway, leading to McDugan.
Elliot lowered one foot from the chair then the other. He stepped onto the pathway and began walking toward McDugan, slowly at first but gaining in both speed and confidence. It appeared his adversary was unaware of what was happening.
Without warning, McDu
gan raised the Glock and fired.
Elliot dove for the floor, the slug whizzing past his head. He caught his breath and scooted toward McDugan, hoping to reach him before the wiggling wall of copperheads changed their minds and decided to attack.
McDugan fired another shot.
The projectile hit the floor, splintering the wood just inches from Elliot’s head.
To Elliot’s left was a sofa and a coffee table. He got to his hands and knees. McDugan had missed, and at that distance it was more than could be accounted for by a lack of experience with firearms. He had heard Elliot coming, but he had not known his exact location. Elliot didn’t analyze the disturbing indications of why his senses had been heightened while his adversary’s had seemed to fade. McDugan would fire again, and he might not miss the next time.
Elliot rose to his feet and brought his forearm down against McDugan’s hand.
The Glock hit the floor, but Elliot didn’t have time to retrieve it. McDugan came toward him, slashing wildly with the obsidian knife.
After the physical contact McDugan had honed in on his location. In addition, the snakes had closed the pathway behind him.
The blade caught Elliot’s shirt, ripping a long slash across the material.
He didn’t think the blade had touched him. He felt no pain.
McDugan readied the knife for another attack, his eyes as flat and lifeless as those of a sightless animal.
Elliot jumped for the coffee table, his right foot catching the edge, though he managed to balance and stay atop it.
Adjusting for what Elliot had done, McDugan, like an automaton under someone else’s control, altered his course and again came toward him.
Elliot transferred his weight to his left foot and delivered a kick to McDugan’s chest.
He kept coming.
Elliot kicked again, landing a well-placed shot to the Jeremiah’s forehead.
Jeremiah McDugan did not fall but the action caused him to halt his progress. As if trying to gather his senses, he stood nearly motionless.
Elliot seized the opportunity. He grabbed the wrist of McDugan’s knife hand and bashed it hard against his knee.