Dark Rites

by Heather Graham

  Lastly, she arranged a plate of strawberries and chocolates and set them at the end of her little throne, right by the ice bucket. She turned most of the lights off and set just a couple lamps down low.

  She took off the towel, curled her legs beneath her and posed and waited.

  “Ho-hum, eh? Call this ho-hum!” she said aloud.

  Then, of course, she felt a little ridiculous, naked on her sofa with high heels on. But their lives seemed to be twisted all the time by life-or-death situations, and—with Griffin’s work—it always would be that way. He’d told her that agents learned to seize their personal time, love it and embrace it. It was how they all managed in their world day after day, to appreciate every life they saved—and accept when there was damage they could not stop.

  She decided to turn on the television—if she just held the remote control, she could keep it low and ditch it the minute he came in.

  The news was filled with the evening’s reports. A recording of Detective Barnes was shown, giving out what information he could. The assailant was as yet unidentified. Yes, he had committed suicide with a pill; exactly what it contained, forensic experts would soon inform them. Did he believe there would now be a stop to the assaults? The police would be investigating all avenues, along with agents from the FBI.

  He promised that new information would be forthcoming as they had it. He reminded the citizens of Boston and environs that they were a large and important city and never immune to harm; whether they had stopped the assaults or not, residents should always be vigilant.

  As the news rolled to the next story, Vickie was certain that she heard someone at the building’s front door.

  She quickly switched off the television—Griffin didn’t need to hear about the night he had experienced.

  She switched into what she hoped was a truly sexy pose.

  She heard the key in the lock. And the door opened.

  For a split second, she froze.

  And then she let out a scream.

  * * *

  At first, Alex Maple stared in disbelief at the man—the creature?—who came toward him. His mind was not working at all well, he determined.

  Why would it be working well? He’d been kidnapped; he was a prisoner in a defunct loony bin!

  Get it together, Alex. Survive! he told himself.

  So. Figure, yes, figure—that was safe to say. The figure coming toward him was wearing something like a KKK outfit—only it was bloodred and trimmed with strange black markings.

  “Ah, Professor! You are awake—ready to join us!” the figure said.

  It spoke; it moved. It appeared to be human.

  Man.

  Alex fought for reason and reaction—for the ability to move his mouth and form words.

  “Join what? Who are you? Why am I here?” he managed to ask.

  The man came closer.

  “I am the high priest,” the man told him. His face was more or less covered by a mask that appeared to be loosely connected to his conical red hood. Alex could see the man’s eyes, though. They weren’t burning red or anything—they were just dark brown.

  “I am the high priest, Professor, and you will join with us.”

  Alex blinked. It would be laughable if it weren’t for...

  For the chains that held him.

  For the headless body that lay crumpled in the corner, with rats destroying it.

  “I’m sorry, join with you for...what?”

  “The resurrection.”

  “The resurrection of what?”

  “You, sir, are not just going to join us, you see. You are going to help us!” the high priest said.

  “Help you...?”

  “Well, we’re going to bring Satan to earth, sir! More specifically, we’re going to bring Satan to Boston. And you, Professor, are the man with the knowledge to help us do it.”

  He couldn’t see the man’s mouth, but he was sure that he smiled.

  Did this dude know how ridiculous his words were?

  “Yes, you are the man!”

  What if I refuse?

  Alex wasn’t exactly an atheist. He considered himself a deist, believing in a higher power, but not in all the myth that went along with it—through any religion.

  Satan wasn’t real to Alex, and, therefore, he couldn’t be summoned.

  But...

  He didn’t bother to ask what happened to him if he refused. He knew.

  He could see the instruments of medicine, surgery—and torture.

  He could see the rat-riddled body in the corner.

  “How intriguing,” he said. “I assume you believe that I will somehow be able to find the proper rites and means by which to do this through historical research?”

  “Oh, yes. You see, Satan has come to Massachusetts before,” the high priest said. “You will bring him again.”

  “Great challenge!” Alex said, trying to put some enthusiasm into his words.

  Find me, Vickie, find me, for the love of God. Yes, there is some kind of a God, I do believe that, Vickie, find me, find me...

  The high priest spoke, apparently accepting Alex’s words.

  “Indeed! Yes, hail Satan! He has lived among us before. Through you, he will return. All hail! Satan shall return!” The high priest stepped forward, a key in his hand. He was going to free Alex.

  Free, if he was free...

  He was skinny, but he was no weakling. He could try to overpower this man...

  “Hail Satan! Hail Satan!”

  It was a chant. Alex looked up; there were several people there now, in the doorway to the old operating room. They were all in the red capes and masked hoods.

  He could not fight...

  “Come, brother!” the high priest said. “We will initiate you by letting you witness our sacrifice!”

  He was going to see a sacrifice. Please, let it be a chicken! he thought.

  It wasn’t going to be a chicken.

  He suddenly found prayer, prayers he had known as a kid.

  Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let the sacrifice be me.

  * * *

  “Vickie!”

  Griffin suddenly came bursting into the room, pushing past the unknown man who had stood in the doorway when it had opened.

  “Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Vickie cried.

  She felt like an absolute idiot—no idea what to do, how to react. She was sitting on the sofa, naked and in heels, and Griffin was with Craig Rockwell, one of Griffin’s closest friends—and coworker!

  A man she had met just once!

  Pillow! She grabbed a pillow and pressed it before her.

  Griffin was doing his best to block her, and Rocky and Devin Lyle were backing away, excusing themselves awkwardly—and laughing, certainly.

  She wanted to disappear. To sink beneath the floorboards.

  Vickie could hear herself talking, garbling out something. Griffin was talking...his friends were apologizing as they moved back into the hall...and she was backing her way into the bedroom.

  In the bedroom she grabbed a robe from the closet and slipped into it as fast as humanly possible. By then, Griffin had reached the room. She started in on him furiously. “Why didn’t you call me, why didn’t you let me know, why...”

  She couldn’t help it; she let him have it with a pillow.

  “Hey!” he protested, catching the pillow. And she saw that he was almost smiling. His dark eyes shining in his rugged face, drawing her in and almost making her forget her embarassment.

  Almost.

  She got another pillow and let it fly.

  “I just wasn’t expecting such a greeting!”

  “Oh! Your friends! Your work associates. Your professional work associate
s!” Vickie said, shaking her head. “Oh, my God. What must they think? Oh!”

  Griffin pulled her tight against him, smoothed back her hair and looked down into her eyes. And now he was smiling. “They’re thinking I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he told her.

  He kissed her—a tender kiss, a great kiss. She wanted to forgive him.

  Her level of humiliation was just a little too high.

  “They’re still out there, right?”

  “I think they’re standing awkwardly in the hall, maybe trying to leave...”

  “You can’t...you can’t just leave people in the hall. Or make them leave. I mean, you—get out to the parlor. Go. Try to...oh, I don’t even know what you can try to do. When I can, I’ll come out.”

  “They’ll leave. They won’t mind.”

  “No!”

  “But after everything you did for me, your preparation...”

  “Out!”

  “Got it. I’m on it,” Griffin assured her.

  “I’ll never be able to face them if I don’t face them now!” Vickie said.

  He left her, heading on out to the parlor. During the moments the bedroom door was open, Vickie could see that his Krewe friends hadn’t stayed in the apartment; they were out in the hallway waiting. Or they had left altogether.

  She could also see that Griffin was still smiling. She felt like crawling beneath the floorboards.

  But as much as she wanted to, she knew that she couldn’t hide out in her room forever.

  Vickie slid into jeans and a T-shirt, and stood in front of the mirror again. Totally unsexy, she decided. Except for the flood of color that rose to her cheeks every other second.

  She hesitated, then opened the door to her room. She could hear Griffin speaking, hear a female voice, and another male voice. Griffin was in the kitchen, making coffee, it seemed.

  She paused, listening.

  “You think that there are a number of people, all of them assigned to randomly attack people?” Devin Lyle was saying. Vickie had met her—and Rocky—just briefly, earlier during the day. She’d instantly liked Devin. They had a lot in common. Even if they’d grown up in very different cities, they had both been born in Massachusetts, steeped in the history of the state, come and gone, seen the good and the bad—and still loved it as home.

  “I get how you figure it might be a number of people, but...why? I’ve been thinking about it since you were so convinced that the young man who died had to be one of many,” Devin finished.

  “I don’t know. Gut feeling. I can’t help it. But from the beginning, someone has been making a statement. That poem. Attacking people without killing them...thank God they’re not dead!”

  “Maybe the attacks are the statement,” Rocky said.

  “Or the attacks might be a way to distract law enforcement from what is really going on,” Griffin said.

  “If you believe that, what do you think is really going on?” Rocky asked Griffin.

  Vickie heard plates being set on a table. She figured that maybe Griffin and his friends hadn’t quite gotten through dinner. She hadn’t had much of a meal herself.

  And they weren’t talking about her, didn’t even seem to be thinking about her...

  She had to get over herself and just step out into the room.

  She managed to do so. It didn’t go quite as well as she’d hoped, but then again, she had no control over the flare of heat that rose into her face.

  Devin Lyle was sweet and charming and tried to pretend that she’d seen absolutely nothing when they’d come in. Rocky was just as circumspect. But then she could see that the man lowered his head and turned away, and that he was trying to keep from smiling when he looked over at Devin. But then Devin shook her head and gave Vickie a tremendous smile and said, “Hey, hi! Well, let’s try to get a bit more comfortable here! We’re so sorry...”

  “So, so sorry!” Rocky agreed.

  “On so many levels!” Devin said with a grin. “And even now, well, we have to mention the elephant in the room. Only way to clear it out. We are beyond sorry!”

  “And, wow, envious,” Rocky said.

  “What?” Devin demanded. “Hey!”

  “I’m referring to the fun of it, my love,” Rocky assured her. “What a cool thing to have thought of to do for someone after a hectic night,” he added.

  Devin grinned and looked at Vickie. “There you go—the pressure is on!”

  “So, anyway, we’re all good?” Griffin asked Vickie hopefully.

  “Terrific,” she said, deadpan.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Griffin said.

  “I’d leave it,” Devin told him sagely. “Take whatever you can get right now!”

  “Yep, just leave it for now,” Rocky said. “Anyway, for the last time, please forgive us the invasion. We were going to head straight to Griffin’s apartment and go to bed. Then we figured we’d talk among ourselves, see if we got anywhere, over a midnight snack. We never ate. The night became very long and convoluted.”

  “Because, of course, there’s what happened,” Devin said.

  “And the fact that your friend Alex is now missing. You still haven’t heard from him, right?” Rocky asked.

  “No,” Vickie said.

  “We’ve made sure that we—as in the Bureau, and especially the Krewe of Hunters—are involved at every level,” Griffin told her seriously.

  “FBI participation? In investigating the attacks, the death of the man tonight—or with the disappearance of Alex?” Vickie asked. “As far as I know, everything that has happened has happened within the state. And we’re not looking at murder here.”

  “We may be looking at a kidnapping,” Devin said.

  “Rules and protocol have changed,” Griffin said. “You know, Vickie, that all kinds of boundaries and jurisdictions changed after 9/11.” He turned toward the counter and she saw that he’d brewed coffee. It was late for coffee, but she doubted that it would keep any of them up.

  “Here,” Vickie murmured, moving forward. She went to get mugs. Griffin opened the refrigerator and drew out sandwich makings.

  “The FBI even does more on foreign soil,” Devin murmured. She looked at Vickie and asked, “May I help with anything?”

  Vickie laughed. “I’m not even sure what Griffin is doing.”

  “This is it, I’m afraid,” Griffin said. “Sandwiches, chips...”

  “A gourmet buffet at this point!” Rocky said. He took a plate of cheese from Vickie and told her, “Roles change, and it’s often good—we’re sometimes involved with cases that concern just one state or area—or the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as it is here. It can be a really good partnership, especially when the local police want help and are ready to become part of a task force with a lot of cooperation.”

  Vickie poured the coffee, taking her own cup and sinking into a chair at the table. “Well, naturally, I’m delighted that you’re all on this—whatever this is. You’re working with Detective Barnes? And everything is going well?”

  “Fine—I like Barnes,” Rocky assured her. He seated Devin and then he and Griffin took chairs at the table, too—and dug in. The three were obviously hungry. “He seems to be a very good man. Comfortable and assured—and not in the least daunted by the feds. But then, you’ve already worked with him, right?”

  “Yes, during the Undertaker thing,” Vickie said.

  “Doesn’t hurt to have a precedent set,” Rocky said.

  “So, do you know who the man was tonight—the man who killed himself when Griffin caught him? Was he the one who hurt Alex Maple before? And if so, why is Alex still missing?”

  “I admit that no one can reach him, but are you still convinced that Alex is missing?” Griffin asked her. “Even Barnes helped us start a report before it’d no
rmally be done.”

  “I haven’t known Alex that long, but I do know him pretty well. He didn’t show for dinner. I really believe that if he could, he would have found a way to have called me by now,” Vickie said. “I am seriously worried.”

  “We have people checking the local hospitals,” Devin said.

  “And the morgue, of course,” Rocky added.

  Devin nudged him hard.

  “Hey, it’s all...necessary,” Vickie murmured.

  “I know that Barnes said he’d call us, but...” Devin said, looking at Griffin.

  “I’ll go ahead and call him,” Griffin said.

  He dialed. Vickie listened, looking at him hopefully.

  “Have they found anything?”

  “They’re still tracing the phone. Alex is not home. His landlord opened the apartment and he wasn’t there. Also, there was no sign of a struggle in his apartment,” Griffin told her. “They’ve checked with every hospital—and the morgue. No sign of Alex.”

  Vickie nodded. “Thank goodness for that, anyway,” she murmured.

  “So far, people have been attacked in the street,” Devin said. “Are we assuming that the same perps who struck Alex Maple so hard they could have killed him have now kidnapped him?”

  “I know it sounds strange, but let’s face it—everything to do with these attacks is strange,” Vickie said. “Here’s why I’m scared that what you’re saying just might be what happened, Devin. There was a great deal of publicity about the attack when Alex was hurt. There was information about him on every channel, in every newspaper and on the web, as well. Alex is young and brilliant. He may know more about Massachusetts history than just about anyone else alive. What if...?”

  Griffin looked up from his sandwich, considering Vickie from across the table. “What if whoever is doing this needs someone who knows the ancient lore of Massachusetts?”

  “It doesn’t explain the random attacks, really,” Vickie said, looking at Griffin earnestly. “But from the beginning, those attacked had the same historical words written on them. So whoever is behind this is making a statement. Alex was the first victim—the press and media went wild with the story. Details about Alex were shared with just about everyone. He was happy at first—it was nice to be recognized as one of the youngest professors. Of course, he hoped the publicity would help his attacker be caught. This is just a theory—what if Alex’s attack was random at first. The attacks were random, or carried out on vulnerable people when help didn’t seem to be near. But after this person or these people learned about Alex, they wanted him.”