Griffin, Rocky and Devin were silent, looking at her.
“Yes, it’s a stretch. But hey, the attacker or the cult or the group is saying that Satan will come back. That implies that he’s been here, and we all know that the devil and Massachusetts have quite a history. We have the very sad truth of the worst witch trials in the New World, for instance. But there’s more because of the very harsh situation of the times—brutal winters and repressive societies and, of course, constant fear of Indian attacks. The darkness in the forests—all those things made it easy for impressionable minds to believe in Satan. The human creature hasn’t changed so very much. People have always wanted power. They’ve always coveted what others have.”
Again, silence greeted her words. Then Devin smiled. “I like her, Griffin. I really like her.”
“We know a little bit about that witchcraft thing,” Rocky said ruefully. “And very sick minds.” He looked at Griffin. “She really might have something.”
“But where does it all lead?” Vickie wondered. “Where do you start?”
“Well, the good thing is—we are part of the Krewe of Hunters,” Griffin said. “Adam Harrison and Jackson Crow call the shots, but they’re the kind of guys who just don’t believe in micromanagement.” He smiled at Vickie. “When we need help, we can call the office. When we don’t, we go where our intuitions take us. We start with what we know, and we investigate from there. And sometimes, what we know about the past—in this case, the witch trials—can lead us into answers for what is happening now.”
“Here’s the good—God help us, the trials are remembered for their inhumanity! We look back at them now and shudder at the concept that anyone was condemned on spectral evidence. And the thing is, I don’t think we’re looking back at Salem.”
“The good old founding Puritan fathers might not have seen a difference, but today, there is a tremendous difference. We’re not looking at any modern form of witchcraft—or the midwives and other healers who might have been persecuted as witches. We’re really looking at Satanism,” Vickie reminded him. “‘Hell’s afire and Satan rules, the witches, they were real. The time has come, the rites to read, the flesh, ’twas born to heal. Yes, Satan is coming!’”
“But you told me that rhyme is not even original,” Griffin said. “Right?” He glanced at Devin and Rocky. “Alex and Vickie had been researching the words left on the victims. They date way back.”
“From 1665,” Vickie said. And she went on to explain what they had discovered about Ezekiel Martin, his obsession with Missy Prior—and his early invention of cult wherein he was able to “marry” any woman he chose, share them with his closest male followers and wield strict control over his little colony of “Jehovah.”
“I have heard of Jehovah,” Rocky said, “and we even learned about Ezekiel Martin. Of course, Devin grew up in Salem and I’m from Peabody. That history was just a brief side note for us, though. When you grow up anywhere near Salem, you kind of live and breathe the Salem witch trials. And due to the case occurring when we met, we’ve been pretty heavily steeped in it all, too.”
“We all knew there were other instances of supposed witchcraft and that there were other executions in Massachusetts—and even the other colonies,” Devin said. “I believe that the Salem witch trials just grew in such hysteria, volume and ridiculousness that they dwarfed everything else we learned. And, of course, for the Puritans anything suggesting witchcraft had to do with the devil, so it wouldn’t have been like today. Wiccans these days have a recognized religion in which they honor the earth. But in the 1600s, the only concept of witches was one which included Satan.” She shrugged. “Even if, when you look at the pagan religions from which the Wiccan derived, the tribes practicing the religions wouldn’t have even heard of Satan.”
“To be fair, in Boston, you pretty much had to rub the faces of the powers that be in the fact that you were a Quaker or other religious dissenter to be executed,” Vickie said. “You were usually banished. And, from what I’ve read, I believe that Ezekiel Martin was furious that he wasn’t permitted to become a minister and given a congregation. We know that when people are disenfranchised, miserable and can’t find their place in society, they are most vulnerable to join a cult. There must have been people back then who were equally susceptible, especially if he was a charismatic speaker.”
“That quotation,” Griffin said. He shook his head. “Whoever is pulling the strings here knows all about Ezekiel.”
“And whoever it is has Alex,” Vickie said. She looked at them one by one, ending with Griffin. “I just have this strong feeling that he’s been kidnapped. They want to use him, use what he knows about history, about old cults, about ancient religions, about Massachusetts,” she added.
“About Jehovah?” Devin asked.
“He definitely knows about Jehovah—he is a veritable encyclopedia on the state,” Griffin said.
“So, should we head for Jehovah to look for Alex?” Vickie asked.
Griffin looked back at her thoughtfully. “You know that, officially, at the moment, the powers that be believe that a single person was responsible for the attacks and leaving the message, and that one person committed suicide tonight.”
“I don’t believe it and you don’t believe it,” Vickie told him.
“Jehovah doesn’t exist anymore,” Griffin said.
“But we can find out where it was!” Vickie argued.
Griffin’s phone rang and he excused himself but didn’t move away to answer it. He looked at them and nodded.
Yes, the call had to do with the case.
He listened, gave brief answers and then hung up.
“Our young attacker-turned-suicide from tonight has been identified. He was Darryl Hillford of Framingham, twenty-five.”
“What a waste of life!” Rocky said.
“Sad,” Vickie agreed softly.
“Tragic,” Devin agreed.
“Except, of course, that he was willing to hurt other people. Possibly kill,” Rocky said flatly.
“Barnes did some checking on the guy, and I think we are looking at a ‘type’ that is easily maneuvered,” Griffin said. “He dropped out of college—too much debt, too many drugs and a few arrests. His past didn’t look so great. Alcoholic father, mother not in the picture. They’re doing a toxicology screen, of course, and we’ll know everything that was in his system tonight.” He paused for a minute, casting his head thoughtfully to the side. “I don’t think they will find that he was on drugs. He was doing what lots of people do...trying to find some kind of meaning for himself in the jumble of the world. He strayed onto a bad path. His last known address was a fraternity house, but he hasn’t lived there in over three years.”
“Well, then, he was living somewhere. If we can find out where...” Vickie murmured.
“Maybe we’ll find Alex!” Griffin said.
* * *
Alex was provided with an outfit to go over his jeans and T-shirt; it was a red cloak, conical hat and attached scarf-type mask, just like that worn by the man who’d called himself a high priest.
While other people were with him, none of them identified themselves—even by a fake name.
Not one of them seemed to even notice the headless corpse in the corner!
He tried to still his shaking hands. He didn’t know what the others thought, but he was pretty sure that the so-called “high priest” had left the rotting corpse there with calculated intention.
And now...
They led him out of the surgery room.
They didn’t speak much. There were four of them with him, two about his height, two a little shorter. He wasn’t even sure if they were men or women, young or old.
They brought him to a little cubicle. It had a heavy wooden door with a little panel that opened in so that he could be seen from outside. H
e was pretty sure that, once upon a time, such a space had held dangerous patients, the criminally insane.
Or perhaps those made dangerously insane by the crude treatment of the disabled in years gone by. Actually, he’d seen a few places where things hadn’t changed so much.
The small room had a cot. With a blanket. And a bedpan. That was it.
The blanket gave him hope.
He wasn’t going to die. The high priest seemed to want him. He had to play this right.
And pray that he wasn’t going to be asked to stick a knife into a living sacrifice!
He wasn’t shut up in the locked room for long. They came for him again—the four red-clad figures. They chanted as they led him out beneath the moonlight. Once, there had been something of a courtyard—a place where patients might have precious moments in the sun.
When there was sun, of course. It was, after all, Massachusetts. His mom used to joke that everyone should come for summer in Massachusetts—it happened every July 27.
He almost laughed aloud; he was so terrified, and grasping at strange, old memories.
He wondered if he was supposed to chant. He didn’t know what they were chanting, so he probably couldn’t chant with them.
Others joined.
He saw that an old tiled garden table had been stripped and set with inverted crucifixes. There was a large empty space on the table...
Room for the sacrifice!
Maybe there was no sacrifice. Maybe...
There would be a sacrifice. There was a large knife on the tiled surface. Its clean blade glinted in the dim light.
The chanting continued. They began to form a circle—twelve, all in all, including him. And then, as the chanting increased, another figure stepped into the center. He raised his arms, and he began to speak. At first, it was some other language—what, Alex just couldn’t be sure.
And then his words were in English.
“Do what thou wilt! For the day is coming, the day that is his! He will embrace his followers, those who bring him to flesh, to the pleasures of the flesh. For those who bring him to blood...oh, yes, the sweetness of the blood!”
As he spoke, a tall blonde woman was led into the group. She seemed to come willingly, but she walked as if she was in a trance.
She wore white where the others wore red.
Alex began to tremble.
Sacrifice...this beautiful young woman!
The high priest raised his hands. He reached down for the knife on the altar. He lifted it high.
Alex’s knees were giving; he was going to fall. They were going to sacrifice the young woman!
But the high priest continued to talk. “The time comes for the ultimate, as we prepare this world for he who is coming—he who will touch you all, and give you life and freedom. We prepare, we come closer and closer!”
Someone stepped forward, touching the young woman by the shoulders. The white gown fell to her feet.
No! He had to protest; Alex had to do something, had to stop this...
Alex heard a noise. A horrible bleating, a protest.
He turned.
It was a goat.
And as Alex watched, the poor creature was trussed up by a pair of the figures and stretched, screaming and terrified, over the altar.
And the knife went down on the creature’s belly and then its throat.
Blood sprayed across the table and down onto the cobblestones. The bleating stopped.
“All hail Satan!”
The cry went up. The gushing blood was caught in a chalice. The cup was passed around.
It was brought before the girl; she was marked in blood over her breasts—what the markings meant, Alex didn’t know.
But she was alive!
The chalice was passed again. It came to him.
He was supposed to drink.
He did.
It was amazing what terror and the will to survive could do for a man.
* * *
He didn’t vomit until he was back in his little cell.
He fell on his little cot, shivering and sick.
“Vickie, please, please, find me!” he said softly. “Please, please!”
He thought he might cry; he felt he should, but didn’t. He was too bewildered, too weary, after the night.
He just lay there. He tried to assure himself that help would come.
“One thing for sure, Vickie, if I make it out of here alive. This fellow is going to be a vegetarian! Maybe I’ll even be vegan!”
His cell had no windows, but he thought that it was late in the night when he finally slept.
He might be an agnostic, but he drifted off whispering the Lord’s Prayer.
And he couldn’t forget the woman, the beautiful, blonde woman standing there, obviously drugged, smeared in the blood as if...
As if she was being prepared for a time when it was her blood that would be spilled.
3
“Oh, no, no—I think that the mood has been quite killed for the night,” Vickie told Griffin.
“All right, I imagine that was a bit uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable? Understatement!”
“But so cool!” Griffin told her. “And it wasn’t like the postman walked in or anything—”
“It was worse! Those are your friends.”
“Who thought you were incredibly cool, beautiful, sexy, sensual...”
Vickie couldn’t help but burst into laughter; Griffin was trying so hard.
Rocky and Devin were gone; they had headed to Griffin’s apartment, where they’d stay for what was left of the night. But they’d all determined their course of action.
Rocky and Devin were on a week’s leave from work, heading up for a visit to the Salem area, which they did at least once every year. But it wasn’t necessary that they hurry. Jackson Crow, Krewe field director, had told Griffin to take whatever time he needed weeks ago, when Alex Maple had first been attacked.
They had time to devote to this. So they’d start looking for Alex as a team. They’d find as many people involved in Alex’s life as they could. And they’d keep looking into the saying that had been written on Alex’s chest.
And then finally, after making all their plans, for what remained of that night, Vickie and Griffin were alone together at last.
“Glorious, gorgeous, naked flesh and spiked heels,” Griffin said huskily, sliding his hands beneath the oversize T-shirt she’d chosen for bed. “Beyond sexy, beyond sensual.”
There was nothing like the feel of his hands on that naked flesh for her, Vickie knew.
“Forgive me!” he murmured.
His kiss, hot and deliciously wet, all along her naked flesh. T-shirt gone, panties shed, his mouth, his touch on the length of her...
“You’re forgiven,” she told him.
He rolled with her, straddling over her, looking down deeply into her eyes.
“Prove it!” he challenged.
And so, her lips on his then-naked flesh, she did.
It was very late when they finally slept.
Vickie assumed that she’d sleep well.
She didn’t.
She dreamed that she heard her name being called. There was a plea to the sound; it was desperate cry for help.
She got up in the middle of the night. It was very dark at first—there was just the bed with Griffin lying on the light patch of the white sheets, the darkness stretching before her.
She found her robe and slipped into it, seeing a vague form of light in front of her.
She was walking through a forest trail. The trees were rich and deep and beautiful. She could smell the lushness of the earth.
“Vickie...please...”
The sound was closer. She kept moving.
She could hear a rush of water. She was coming to something...a stream or a river.
She hurried through the trees, and she came to a clearing.
The water was to her left; it was a big river, or a lake. Little mountain-peak-like islands seemed to rise from it.
“Vickie...”
She looked straight ahead.
There was a terrible scream; the misty light increased.
In front of her there was an inverted cross and, from it, a woman had been hanged upside down.
For a horrible moment, it seemed as if she looked at Vickie. As if she was pleading for help.
But that was impossible. The world around her was red. The ground pooled with red. Her hair fell in crimson streams.
Her throat had been slit.
And the red everywhere was the blood that ran from her throat. Ran...
And then gushed. And it filled the path and the river and began to climb, obscuring even the mountains, and Vickie turned and ran back, tried to run away from the blood.
“Vickie!”
It was Alex’s voice. Alex was behind her, calling for help.
“Vickie!”
She woke up in Griffin’s arms. He was holding her, cradling her, soothing her.
“It’s all right...it’s all right.”
“Griffin...”
“You were dreaming. A nightmare.”
“It was Alex, Griffin. I mean...is it possible? He was calling to me. I could hear him, I could hear him in my mind just as clearly as if...as if he was here.”
Griffin pulled her closer, smoothing back her hair.
“We’re going to find him, Vickie. We’re going to find him.”
“Do you think that he could be calling to me?” she asked.
He eased her back down with him. “From what I’ve seen in life—and death—just about anything is possible,” he told her softly.
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