A Haunting of Horrors, Volume 2: A Twenty-Book eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Brian Hodge

  The oddest thing about all of this, she thought, was underfoot. Someone concerned about long hemlines and shined shoes had thought of spreading an artificial covering that looked like grass across the grounds. It was soft underfoot, and cool, and it eliminated the possibility of rising dust, unruly ants and unsightly weeds.

  She wondered how much it'd cost the Albuquerque tax-payers.

  A burst of laughter drifted toward her in the hot, lifeless air, and a burly man pounded another on the back. It was more like a fiesta than a cocktail party, and before the evening was out, it was going to get a lot more boisterous. The Chamber of Commerce had generously donated the liquor for the occasion.

  She could feel the sweat gathering at her waist, where the belt cinched her tightly. The dress was warm, too, far too warm for the unnatural heat, and she wished she'd worn something lighter. She pushed back a curl which had fallen over one shoulder and paused to look toward the mountains. The sun's low position had thrown part of the Sandias into shadows. She licked her lips nervously. She didn't want to look at the mountains, tried not to, but couldn't help it. She was drawn to them. Drawn to the shadows. She had to keep watching, almost as if she expected to see something happen. She remembered the creature that had clung to her car; she shuddered.

  She forced herself to watch what was going on around her.

  Everyone who was anyone was attending. There were state senators and representatives and the lieutenant-governor; the governor had sent his regrets, another engagement having kept him away. In reality she knew the governor hated the sight of Senator Kent and had once sworn to a number of aides that he'd far rather be dipped in horseshit than appear with him in public. Thus far he'd kept his promise. She recognized several prominent artists from Taos and a playwright from southern New Mexico, whose play had been running on Broadway for over a year; there was the local owner of the largest liquor distribution center in the state, as well as a world-famous race-car' driver, the manager of the public service utility, the heads of both political parties, the president of UNM and the director of the Albuquerque Museum.

  And of course there was, making himself known without appearing to do so, Senator Robinson Kent, his entourage having increased to include people from the Mayor's office along with those who would be expected to dance in attendance for such an occasion. There were bank presidents and senior law firm partners, Santa Fe opera directors and TV station owners, several former mayors, an ex-governor, and a couple of influential ranchers.

  She sipped her now-warm drink and watched as Mayor Griffen hurried over to Kent. She didn't know when to approach the Senator. It had to be the right moment, for she'd only have the one chance.

  Kent and Griffen conferred for a moment; then the two politicians walked toward a third man. She frowned when she recognized him. Richard de Vargas. The Roman Catholic Archbishop of Santa Fe.

  Intrigued, she edged past one of the refreshment tables, snagged a handful of tortilla chips and continued to watch the three men. They were talking earnestly now, well out of the earshot of any intentional listeners, such as herself. Griffen seemed agitated as he gestured broadly with his hands. He was obviously upset about something. Kent was calm, and she thought de Vargas looked fairly sinister dressed in his churchly black. A faint smile rested on his thin lips, and it widened just slightly when he looked up at that moment and caught her looking at him.

  She looked away. She didn't want to attract attention. Griffen was now looking at her, obviously after de Vargas had said something. She strolled casually back to the refreshment table.

  They had to be talking about the recent murders and the cover up. It made sense. Especially after Chato had met with such resistance with the Catholic Church. But why? And why were they concerned that she'd been watching? They weren't doing anything after all, only talking. She edged away from the refreshment table, deciding she needed to put more distance between herself and the three men. At least for awhile. She still planned on talking to Kent, but wasn't sure how she'd manage it. His bodyguards hovered a few yards away from him, and so far none of the journalists who'd approached him had been allowed to pass the protective circle. Apparently he was out to enjoy himself tonight and didn't want to be bothered with the press.

  The subject of her thoughts had left the Mayor and Archbishop to talk with one another, and he was now chatting with a group of state politicians. She strolled past the bandstand, listened for a few minutes to the brassy music, then began picking her way carefully through the throng, always managing to keep him in sight. She was slowly, though inexorably, angling her way toward him. She stopped behind a cluster of well-dressed women, whose throats and ears and fingers glittered with gems. A small fortune in jewelry was walking around the picnic grounds, and she wondered what would happen if someone lost a ring or cuff link. They'd probably tear the place apart for a gem that cost more than she got in a year at the paper.

  Kent was too busily engaged to notice her. But his aides weren't. Everyone wore name tags, but all members of the press had been required to wear ones with "PRESS" printed in large type above their names. Not what she would call discreet. And the bodyguards had spotted her name tag. The two men looked at each other, then at her, but she kept on going, refusing to give up when she was this close to the Senator. Throwing back her shoulders, she walked toward him confidently.

  But she never reached him. A hand, beefy and large and very strong, shot out and caught her arm.

  "Let go of me!" she said in a low, angry tone. How dare they treat her in this manner!

  "I suggest you turn back, Miss Rainey, and let the Senator be." The speaker, his voice filled with affable humor, was a good six inches above six feet, as was his companion. The one who'd nabbed her seemed to be the friendlier of the pair; the other one scowled at her. They both looked like ex-football players, and probably each weighed well over two-fifty.

  "Be what?" she asked sweetly. "Secretive?"

  He didn't say anything, just let her go and folded his arms across the expanse of his chest.

  The silence grew louder.

  "Okay, I'll leave." She shrugged and promptly tried to move past him. The second man stepped forward, blocking her way. She threw back her head, stared up at the immense, unsmiling man and felt a small shiver of fear. These men were very big, and if they got mad … No, they didn't have to even be angry to hurt her.

  "Miss Rainey. Please," said the first bodyguard, still faintly smiling. "Don't be difficult."

  "I just—"

  "I know what you want, Miss Rainey," he said. "Now go on back and have another drink. Enjoy yourself. And let the Senator enjoy himself. "

  Shrugging, she whirled away and returned to the bar, where she ordered another tequila sunrise.

  There had to be a way to get to Kent. She wasn't about to give up now. Those apes didn't know her. Sipping her drink, she scanned the milling crowd, searched the faces. Now, whom did she know who could introduce her to the Senator?

  The Courier's publisher was there, but she wasn't precisely on a first-name basis with him. She didn't play tennis with the manager of the public utility or any of the upper-class citizens. Someone who owed her a favor. But who? Certainly not the Mayor.

  The crowd shifted, formed into new conversation groups, and she saw a solitary man, looking a little lost as he stood by the pavilion. Narrowing her eyes, she recognized the thin form with the horn-rim glasses. Eagleton Haas, a political science professor at the UNM. He'd written numerous books and articles on the American political system and several on New Mexico politics; he was a popular lecturer and the state government's leading authority as well. While at the University, she'd signed up for several of his classes; after she was out of his classes, she'd reviewed his books for the campus newspaper.

  And she knew he knew Kent. Haas knew everyone in New Mexico politics.

  She took a large swallow of her drink, tucked her purse , under her arm and, wearing a warm, but determined look, advanced on the unsuspec
ting professor.

  "Professor Haas," she said, smiling even more widely now and extending her hand. Haas had always liked his female students, and she certainly wasn't above using a little charm on him.

  It wasn't lost either.

  "Ah, Ms. Rainey. What a delight." He stooped to read the letters under her name. The position also gave him a better view of her bosom. "I see you're with the Courier now. A superior newspaper."

  "Thank you, Professor. We think so."

  "No, no, Laura. Now that you're out of school, please call me Eagleton. We can be much more informal now." He smiled.

  "All right … Eagleton." What a mouthful. She studied him over the rim of her glass. "What do you think of all this political hoopla?"

  He was in his element now. "I think the Mayor knows it's an election year and he wants to help his good friend Senator Kent, who in turn just might be able to help him politically. Did you know they were at the University together?" He shook his head, swallowed some of the dark liquor in his glass. "You couldn't get much more of a contrast than those two. I've been toying with the idea of examining the relationship of political friends, tracing their beginnings to their school days. For my next book," he added quickly, as if she'd ever doubted his meaning.

  "Like the British system," she said. "You make a friend in school, and after that it's just a matter of the right connections."

  "That's right." He was obviously pleased with her. "You must be doing well yourself lately. Are you covering this for the paper, or are you here more for your amusement?".

  "A little of both, really." She thoughtfully watched the Mayor, now deep in conversation with three women city councilors. "I have to confess that I've never liked Griffen—too much the typical politician for me. But Senator Kent, on the other hand, seems like a decent fellow. But maybe that's the PR I've been reading and not the real man."

  "He is pretty good. Politics-wise and human-wise." He watched the senator speaking to a small group of men and women, which included the country-western singer and the playwright. At the moment they were laughing at something Kent had just said. "Still, he's the political beast at heart. He knows he's up for election, too. It's apparent in everything he's done this afternoon. And of course there's all this nonsense about the Indian Statue." Haas shook his head. "It should make for an interesting book, if he wins.”

  "He certainly is elusive. I've been trying to get closer so I could talk with him, and those big lunks lurking around him won't even let me get within spitting distance of him." She waited, hoping he'd take the bait.

  "Would you want to meet him?"

  "I'd love it, Eagleton. If you can manage it—and only if it won't be any trouble."

  "No trouble at all," he reassured her. "I'm sure it can be arranged." His tone was faintly dry.

  "Thank you." It was easy, so very easy.

  "C'mon then." Without any prompting, he took her hand in his.

  As they cut through the crowd, Haas talked of his latest project, a survey of current politicians in the state and the breakdown of the influence of their regional backgrounds, and when at last they reached the Senator and his group, Haas stood for a moment, listening to Kent speak about the demographics of voters, before he broke in.

  "Utter bullshit."

  Startled, Laura stared at her companion.

  Kent, a frown forming on his face, swung around to respond. The expression softened when he saw Haas.

  "My God, Eagleton, I didn't know you were here."

  "Couldn't keep me away. Have to get more notes for my book, y'know." He chuckled as he extended his hand. "How've you been, Rob?"

  "Fine. Just fine." He flashed on his politician's smile. "Couldn't be better. Things are looking good for the Party this year."

  "You always say that," Haas said now, grinning at what was an obvious in-joke with them. "If it got any better for the Party, it'd be in control of Arizona as well."

  Both men laughed, and Laura tried not to stare at Haas. Rob? He was on a first-name basis with the Senator? She was surprised, but pleased by the unexpected intimacy. It made her introduction to Kent all the safer.

  "Rob, I have a young woman here—she's a former student of mine, in fact, and a good friend as well—who's been dying to meet you. Isn't that right?" He gestured to her, and she stepped forward.

  Privately she would admit that this close Robinson Kent was even more impressive than at the distance she'd seen him before. She had the feeling that this was a man destined for greatness. Maybe even the White House. She smiled dryly. She'd been reading too many Allen Drury books lately; she'd better cut out the nonsense and get back to the real world. The real world that included Senator Robinson Kent.

  But he was impressive, and very handsome. A real heartbreaker, too. The type of man some women—and also men—would vote for because he was so good-looking, because he looked the part, because with his face and bearing he couldn't be anything else but a legislator. And the charm was there as well. She could feel it, and it was obvious that even Haas had been affected. It was a real presence, something she was sure Kent counted upon to help him.

  She looked at him, waited.

  "Senator, this is-"

  "Ms. Laura Rainey. Yes." The smile broadened, and she knew his grey eyes held amusement. "I've heard a lot about you, young woman."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When he awoke, he felt refreshed, felt better than he had in days. He rubbed his eyes, and as he left the room to get a soft drink from the machine by the office, he glanced at the mirror. Saw only himself.

  Tenorio had come to him from … wherever … to tell him to hunt the creatures in their lair. Twice he'd seen the old man after his death. Ghosts, and Josanie long ago, did not always leave when the body died.

  It was also considered bad luck to see a ghost.

  He took a healthy swig of the soft drink, sat on the bed and thumbed through the phone directory. First things first—where the hell was this monastery? As he expected, Roman Catholic monasteries weren't listed in either the yellow or white pages.

  Randomly he picked one of the Catholic parishes, and when he had the secretary on the line, he explained he was writing a book about the Catholic Church and needed to know the names of some of the monasteries in the state.

  He jotted them on a pad of paper as she gave him the names and locations. Afterward, he stared thoughtfully at the list, tapped the pencil on his knee.

  He could rule out the monasteries way up north and way down south. Same with those either too far west or east of the city. He figured he was looking for a monastery somewhere in the Albuquerque area. Close to the Mayor. Someplace where she could be reached, could be moved quickly.

  Only two matched those requirements. One was the Holy Innocents Monastery located behind the mountains; the second was St. Basil's out on the West Mesa.

  So which one was it?

  Did he have time to go to both? He had to select one. What if his first choice were wrong? He'd still end up going to the second one.

  Choose one.

  And only one.

  Around and around goes the wheel of chance. Pick one.

  Only one.

  He took a long swig of Dr. Pepper, stared at the now-reduced list. Hurry, one part of him said. Stay, the voices whispered, and he shook his head, trying to force the sibilant voices away. But they wouldn't leave. They stayed and made his head hurt and he couldn't think and—

  NO!

  He thrust them away, forced his mind to a dark blankness, and when all was quiet, when his head no longer throbbed, he breathed deeply, evenly.

  The decision couldn't be put off any longer. He had to decide. The decision of your life, one part of him said. West Mesa or behind the mountains?

  Was there ever any choice? he wondered, laughing without sound as he drained the last of the soft drink and headed outside for the truck.

  Holy Innocents—behind the mountains—it would be.

  As he drove toward the mountains, th
e voices grew louder. Again he slammed them away, and in response he heard a whining laughter. Of the black Buick he saw no sign.

  When he reached the exit for state Road 14 in Tijeras Canyon, he turned south. The woman had said to go fifteen miles until he saw the sign. From there it was straight down the road. She didn't say how far, but he knew it probably was more than a few miles.

  More than twenty minutes later he saw the freshly painted wooden sign. Its wide red arrow directed him onward to the Holy Innocents Monastery. As the distance narrowed between himself and the monastery, something clawed at his stomach. Nerves, he told himself, concentrating on the narrow dirt road, liberally provided with chuckholes and deep ruts, the results of erosion and flash floods.

  It was the charge of the U. S. Cavalry, this time played by the Indians, rushing in to rescue the fair maiden, and—and he didn't know how to do it. He couldn't exactly stroll in and announce that he'd come to rescue the woman the monks were holding. Not unless he wanted to end up in jail again.

  He'd have to sneak in. In broad daylight. And he didn't look much like a monk.

  The odds were definitely against him.

  Would there be much outside activity? How large was the complex? How many brothers would there be? How was he going to do this?

  And there it was, shimmering in the heat. The Monastery of the Holy Innocents proved to be a small group of stucco buildings, surrounded by fir, elm and piñon trees.

  Honeysuckle wound its fragrant way up the walls. There was plenty of shade and overgrown bushes in the front that would provide cover for him. To the south, connected with the main building by a breezewalk, was the chapel, a large white cross atop its flat roof. The cross blazed starkly in the sunlight. Even from this distance he could see the muted colors of the stained-glass windows. Not the richest monastery he'd ever seen, but a fairly respectable one.

  He parked in the dirt lot that sat to one side, studied the grounds. Where would the woman be held? He could automatically discount certain areas right away. The cafeteria. The laundry. The chapel.