by Mark Tufo
She stopped and swallowed hard, then took a glass of water from the coffee table in front of her and drank.
“So he would have realized that in the incarnation he had visited, the four had not discovered what needed to be done, nor in the next, nor the next. And that is when he visited the time of the last lives you all lived, and contacted a little girl, the daughter of the very sorcerer he sought. He told her of her own power, and instructed her of your purpose. He said for her to be with you all for your entire lives, and to collect mementos of your lives. He further instructed her to place those mementos and other articles of importance to all of you in that special trunk in that particular attic so that you would discover them and not fail in your quest again.”
“Fuck me,” Emma said. She stood, walked to Isabel, bent and wrapped her arms around her. She held the woman for a long time, and pulled away. “I don’t have any idea why you’ve told us all this little by little, but I’m assuming you have your reasons. Any chance you might share them with us one day?”
Isabel simply smiled. “Perhaps, Emma. “There’s a lot to do in the meantime.”
“So, what you’re saying is that Galen could show up here tonight,” said Matt.
Isabel laughed, and it made them all smile. She didn’t do it often, and it was a light, pleasant sound, like gentle rainwater pattering against tiny crystal bells.
“He will not,” she said. “It isn’t necessary, and he would know this already. Through the child I once was, he has given you all you need. You are the ones to end this.” She turned again to Peter.
“Peter, we will hone your skills tonight.”
“How?” Peter asked.
“You must put the question of Glenn to rest once and for all. You must visit him. But only your soul, not your body.”
Peter switched places with Isabel, taking the armchair as he prepared for his journey.
“You will,” Isabel said, “concentrate with the whole of your mind and soul, Peter. As you all did on the beach that night, you will leave your body. When this happens, we will watch over and guard it. You must only concentrate on where you must go, and you will find yourself there.”
“In what form? What will I be?”
“You will be a presence. You will see and hear. For now you will not communicate.”
He nodded and leaned back. “How will I know where Glenn is now?”
“You’ll know.”
Peter closed his eyes and stilled his racing thoughts. He willed himself to go, and felt an electricity racing through his arms, legs, and torso, concentrating in his abdomen.
And he was gone.
Peter stood outside a building. A pyramid shaped building in Laguna Niguel. He heard voices coming from within. One was Glenn. The other was unknown to him.
Or was it?
He willed himself forward, and came to be inside an office on the third floor of the building. In this office was rich paneling, an elaborate executive desk, and leather armchairs with brass thumbtack trim and gleaming wood frames.
In the chair behind the desk sat a man of around 65 years of age. There was something terribly familiar about him, and it made Peter uncomfortable.
They were in the middle of a conversation, but the moment Peter entered, the man hesitated, then stopped talking. He closed his eyes for a moment.
“What’s wrong, sir?” asked Glenn, who sat in the chair in front of the desk.
“It’s . . . nothing, Glenn. “Nothing at all. I was saying that you will need to do some things to secure the Senate seat. The sitting Senator is popular beyond measure. He captured not only the conservative vote, but also independents, and a few Democrats, too. He is on his second term, and nobody in his own party will oppose him. In fact, nobody else will even challenge him for the seat because the time, effort and money won’t pay off. He is a sure winner.”
“So why am I even trying?” Glenn asked.
“Because you will win the seat.”
Glenn shook his head. “How is that possible?”
The man laughed. Peter shuddered.
And before he could answer, Peter was drawn to look at the sign on the wall of the office. Large, brass and in bold, block letters.
CUDRICK-MARKOV
And as he stared from his soul-like presence, the letters began to move. They drifted off the wall, floated in the air in front of Peter, and rearranged. Peter watched, mesmerized, feeling as though he were holding his breath, but knowing it was not possible without his physical form. And then the letters settled into place. They read:
MURDOCK VICKAR
And as Peter absorbed the truth, the man behind the desk laughed again and answered Glenn’s question.
“Because he will not survive election day, Glenn.”
“How can you know that, Mr. Cudrick?”
“Because the poor boy’s got a bad ticker, Glenn. It’s our business to research the weaknesses in our clients’ opponents, and we do our job. Mr. Cerrano is not long for this world.”
“But –” Glenn started, but was interrupted by Cudrick.
“But nothing, Glenn. You just prepare your campaign staff as planned. And since you say your brother has issues with many of the things you do, have a talk with him and ask him to stay out of it or just vote against you if he must. It’s the American way, after all. Democracy at work.”
Glenn nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Cudrick. Thank you for finding me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Glenn stood, then stopped and looked again at Mr. Cudrick. “By the way, how exactly did you find me, anyway?”
Cudrick smiled. “We’re always looking for promising young talent to represent. And in your case, we’re willing to do it for nothing. Having men like you in the Senate can only benefit people like me.”
Glenn seemed not to know what to think of this comment, and Peter was glad. It was clear that Glenn wasn’t entirely comfortable here, and he was obviously confused at the true motivations of this man and his agency.
It told Peter that there was still hope for his twin brother. That he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the arrangement, or the implications behind what Cudrick had said.
Cudrick. His name wasn’t Cudrick.
It was Murdock Vickar.
And as Peter thought the name in his mind, the man at the desk stopped smiling. He frowned and placed both hands palms-down on his desk.
And then, though Peter had no form and no physical presence in the room, it was as though the man-sorcerer looked directly at him.
And the smile returned, but it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t real.
There was something nervous about that smile, and at once Peter was convinced it was a façade.
He knows we’re close, Peter thought. He’s threatened. And this powerful witch will be more dangerous than ever now.
As the door closed and Glenn left the room, Peter did also.
He had no desire to be in the room alone with Murdock Vickar. In any form.
When Glenn Webster left the room, he hurried down the hallway toward the elevator. There had been a chill in the office during his meeting, and that chill had dropped in temperature about ten minutes into the meeting.
And Glenn had felt something. Something comforting and inexplicable at the same time. He reached the elevator and pounded on the call button repeatedly though the light was lit and he knew it was coming.
Patience, he thought. Patience.
Why was he so rattled? The car arrived and the doors slid open with the sound of a bell. He stepped inside and pushed the G button.
The doors closed and the car began to drop.
“Glenn,” said a voice. It sounded like his brother, but unlike him at the same time. Same inflection, same timbre. But somehow . . . ethereal.
“Glenn, it’s me. Peter.”
Chills shot up and down Glenn’s spine, and he threw himself against the wall of the car, his back pressed so hard into the stainless steel walls that he could compact himself no more.
“Where are you?” he whispered, the chills still rushing, rushing.
“I’m here,” Peter said.
Glenn squeezed his eyes closed.
“Glenn, do you know where Emma lives?”
“Peter? Are you . . . dead?” His heart was pounding through his rib cage. He felt his face grow red as blood pressure increased and jetted to his brain.
“No. Go to Emma’s house now, Glenn. We have to talk to you.”
“Who has to talk to me!” shouted Glenn, frantic. He looked around and knew at that moment he had gone insane.
“I’ll explain it when you get there,” the voice that was Peter said. “We’ll wait for you. Promise me you’ll go there now.”
“I’ll go, I’ll go! Just stop this!”
“Okay. Don’t be afraid, Glenn. The place you just left is far more dangerous than the place I’m asking you to go.”
Glenn nodded and slid to the floor of the car as the doors opened. He was relieved nobody waited for the elevator on the ground level.
He hurried to his car and drove toward Laguna.
*****
Back inside the Ziggurat building on La Paz road, Murdock Vickar, also known as the entity Cudrick-Markov, and formerly, Ferguson Carver, was deep in thought.
Glenn was a good choice. The obvious choice, really. He had been from the day he and his brother were born. Galen’s powerful force was so strong that the moment he reappeared on this Earth as Peter Webster, Vickar had known immediately who he was.
But as powerful as Galen Bishop had been, the generations of reincarnated souls to follow had never once discovered their purpose or who they sought. Now over 300 years old, the Dark One knew his powers had pinnacled, and would grow no stronger. But he had never needed them to.
Before now. Until this very generation, he had been able to wreak his havoc upon an unsuspecting population as he had promised so long ago. He had inhabited the minds of many, and had caused untold horrors for humankind to tolerate – and from which to die or be utterly deformed.
One he was particularly proud of was his control of the head pharmaceutical lab technicians back in the late 1950’s – when testing of the drug Thalidomide was underway in Great Britain. Despite results that showed severe birth defects for pregnant women who took the drug, Vickar’s complete control over these scientists resulted in destruction of the negative documentation and approval of the drug as a sedative – and more importantly, as a drug to treat morning sickness in pregnant women.
And while Vickar was unable to carry it as far as he would have liked because of a particular Food and Drug Administration official’s refusal to approve the drug in the United States, Vickar saw to it that millions of samples were shipped to the United States anyway. These samples were all distributed.
The effect was deformed babies by the thousands, and an eventual recall and banning of the drug.
But alas, it was only one of so many things he had done, both on a large and smaller scale.
Vickar walked to the window and looked out at the street. He had been standing in this very location when he caused the accident that killed a boy’s mother and son. He could practically hear the sound as the tires hit the curb and the car jumped the median and flew into the truck. He smiled.
He’d been bored. The tractor-trailer rig was too tempting to ignore, and the particular car was chosen because it happened to be right there when he had the urge to cause more terror and death.
He would read the paper tomorrow and enjoy the sorrowful words of the family as they lamented over the lost woman and her child. Two more down.
Vickar had often enjoyed killing with velocity and mechanics. How appropriate that he killed Lilly’s father and then Lilly herself in train mishaps. Poetic. He’d given her the stardom he promised her. But when he found out who she was, none of that mattered. She had to die. She would return, though. Sometimes it seemed only humans stayed dead.
The boy in the car crash didn’t die.
The words materialized from nowhere. Vickar cocked his head as though the words were spoken by an unknown entity, and it seemed they had been. The boy had to have died – Vickar had seen to it that nearly every inch of his broken body was riddled with shrapnel from the vehicle. He was as dead as dead could be.
He was saved. By one of them.
Vickar stiffened. What was happening? Was this in his mind or was it real?
Nonsense, he thought. Just this old mind playing tricks.
He turned from the window and looked at the sign on the wall. Cudrick-Markov. It was just an idea he had, and Vickar loved toying with people. They weren’t smart enough by half to discover his little anagram.
It was what he had always done with his four pursuers. He had toyed with them.
Only the first generation of witches had gotten by him. He’d been unaware of the counter-spell they had cast, and what’s more, both he and the others had been born near the same time. Vickar had grown accustomed to the feeling that was the presence of Galen Bishop.
Vickar had first discovered Galen’s existence when he learned of a man named William Bedsford who lived in a neighboring village. He was said to be near 100 years old, but when Vickar saw him, he knew that for the man to be mortal was impossible. He looked to be in his sixties, perhaps. Much like Vickar himself. It was then he determined the man was a warlock unaware of his own power, because no human could be that old and look as he did.
And so he had taken his life.
Vickar didn’t realize what it was like not to share a worldly existence with Galen until he killed him for the first time. Soon after, he discovered who the others were and killed them, too. In many creative ways. And having them gone was like silencing a constant drumming in his very core.
But never for long, for when Galen was again birthed, the feeling had returned.
Witches did age, but did so at a much slower physical rate than humans, and eventually they quit aging altogether.
He himself, for instance. He had originally been born in 1665. He was executed with the others in 1693, and returned the same year.
318 years ago.
It was far too many years to live within the same shell. He had killed himself, in a manner of speaking, three times. He wanted to start over. He wanted the joy of childhood again. Children could get away with murder if they had the knowledge and the great power he possessed.
And he had gotten away with it.
But in his last life, when he was born Ferguson Carver, it had been to a wealthy family, and he wasn’t willing to give that up and start over again as a child. There was no need.
He had become convinced the hapless witches and warlocks would never find him, and should they do so, they would never realize who he was, much less who they were. What a completely useless spell they had cast! It lacked the detail that might have allowed them to kill him over 250 years ago.
It was always immediately evident when Galen returned – usually from the moment his soul occupied a new body, the very day he was born. Vickar felt it in the core of his being, and it gave him comfort to have that knowledge. He wasn’t sure why, because no real threat ever manifested from any of the others’ existence, but just to know who and where Galen Bishop was made him feel more powerful.
But then the fun was trying to determine who the others would be. And based on past experience, there was no rush to do this, but still – the longer they lived, the more time for them to put things together and learn their origins.
People had many friends. And some had many close friends. Some of the incarnations of Bishop had had so many friends that it was indeed a challenge trying to determine who the others were that he must kill. Sometimes, because they were unaware of their power, it took years and years – practically an entire lifetime – to figure out who must die. But he always did. And because they were unaware, his task was simple.
But now – now, something had changed and he felt it deep in his dark soul. Not only Galen’s most recent
incarnation, Peter, knew who and what he was, but he now felt them all.
They were all aware. For the first time in history.
They had gotten the jump on him in his castle that day in Andover. Had they brought that hemlock spike through his heart or brain, they would have succeeded in ridding the world of him.
He sat at the desk and intertwined his fingers as though in prayer.
But it was not any God known to this Earth to which he was praying.
Vickar was praying to Himself. The Evil One, the Powerful One.
The Eternal One.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Peter awoke with a start as the four looked on. He looked at each of them and sat up suddenly.
“Glenn is on his way here,” he said.
“What?” Emma said. “Why would he come here? He never comes to my house.”
“Peter spoke to his brother,” Isabel said.
Peter looked at her. “I don’t know how you know, Isabel, but I did. I had to.”
Isabel nodded, but didn’t look upset.
“I know who Murdock Vickar is, and he’s not Glenn,” added Peter. He looked at Allyson. “And he’s not your father either, Ally.”
Allyson let out a huge sigh and sank into her chair. “You’re sure, Peter? You’re absolutely sure?”
Peter nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Start talking, brother,” Matt said.
“Like yesterday,” said Emma.
“I’ll explain it when Glenn gets here. I hope he shows.”
“Where exactly were you?” Allyson asked.
“I was at the Ziggurat. It’s where the Cudrick-Markov agency is located – which, by the way, if you switch the letters around, spells –”
“Murdock Vickar,” said Allyson, her mouth hanging open in shock.
Emma’s eyes were wide.
“Jesus, Petey. Good catch,” said Matt.
“So he toys with us,” Isabel said. “He is so convinced that he is smarter than everyone else, he dangles these clues out there for the world to see.”