by D P Lyle
“And see your parents?” Sam asked.
“Not likely,” Penelope said.
“Why?”
“They probably think I’m dead. Which is just as well.”
“Are you sure?” Sam couldn’t grasp this sort of family dynamic. She had seen it before, but didn’t understand how it developed. Neglectful parents. Rebellious kids. It was all so far removed from her own childhood.
“My parents were not what you would call enthusiastic about parenthood. I was a useless appendage.”
“I’m sorry.” Sam said.
Penelope shrugged. “Tonight. Sitting here with you and Nathan. Like a family. I’ve never done that. Not once.”
“Really?” Sam said.
“Just because she grew up in a Beverly Hills’ mansion with movie star parents, doesn’t mean she was happy,” Melissa said. “Her parents were awful to her.”
“I was raised by a nanny,” Penelope said. “I saw my parents rarely and almost never together. A family dinner was a dress-up affair at the latest hot spot where they preened for other people who were just as shallow as them. Most of the time, I ate with my nanny and the maids or the gardeners.”
Sam walked around the table and put her arms around the two girls. “You can stay here until you decide what you want to do.”
The girls hugged her.
After they all pitched in and cleaned the table and the dishes, the girls went to bed, excited about sleeping in a real bed for the first time in over a year.
Sam walked Nathan to his car. “Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“Everything. The dinner. The wine. Just being here.”
He pulled her to him. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”
She looked in his eyes, parted her lips, and accepted his kiss, holding him tightly.
Breaking the kiss, Nathan brushed his fingers down the side of her face. “I enjoyed tonight. Sharing it with you. And Penelope and Melissa. It was special in many ways.”
“I know.” She brushed her lips against his. “And, I appreciate your being patient with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sure you’re used to having any woman you want at the snap of a finger.”
“I wish.”
“You know it’s true. And you know that even though I give you shit all the time, I’m terribly attracted to you.”
He smiled. “I thought I was a parasitic bottom feeder.”
“You are. But, I’ve wanted you ever since I knocked you on your butt.”
“I knew it,” he laughed. “You were trying to soften me up.”
She took his face in her hands and kissed him, their tongues intertwining, their bodies sharing their rising heat.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.
“God, yes. But, not yet. Besides, I have guests,” she smiled. “But, soon.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Absolutely. But, you better carbo load beforehand. You’re going to need it.”
*
Sam stripped down to her panties and pulled on an oversized tee shirt that hung to mid-thigh level. She rummaged through her closet, moving aside shoeboxes and photo albums, until she found what she sought. Her grandmother’s Bible. She lifted the heavy leather-bound book, swiped dust from it with her hand, and climbed into bed.
As she snuggled beneath the covers, Scooter, who had already staked his claim to half the pillow, gave her his “will you hurry up and get settled” look. She ran her fingers over the delicate carvings in the cover of the book that had been in her family for eighty years. The leather was creased and cracked and the golden “Holy Bible” on the front had flecked and faded.
How long had it been since she had last held this book? Fifteen years? Longer? She opened the cover and looked at the family tree on the first page. It held the names of four generations of her family, each printed in her grandmother’s exacting hand. Her name appeared last. Beneath it, a blank line awaited the names of her children. Someday.
She leafed through the delicate pages until she stumbled on the page she had stained purple with grape jelly at age five. She remembered her grandmother scolding her for not washing her hands before touching it.
“The Lord doesn’t like jelly on His words, Samantha.” She could hear her voice as if it were yesterday. She smiled.
She remembered learning the names of the books of the Bible in Sunday School. Such strange, yet beautiful names--Exodus, Deuteronomy, Ecclesiastes, and Thessalonians. The stories of Noah, Daniel, and David and Goliath she remembered well. Yet, when she turned to Revelation, she realized she knew little about it. It was never taught in Sunday School and rarely mentioned in church. As if it were a bastard stepchild. Stuck to the end of God’s work, it seemed as though it had been inspired by someone other than God. Someone sinister and threatening.
She knew it told horrible tales of man’s end and held frightening prophecies for the future. She knew Charlie Manson had quoted from it. She knew Reverend Billy had talked of it.
She turned through the pages of Revelation until a passage caught her eye:
And I saw an angel come down from heaven,
having the key of the bottomless pit and a
great chain in his hand.
And he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent,
which is the Devil, and Satan, and bound him
for a thousand years.
That’s what we need about now, she thought. An angel to come down and capture Garrett and his beloved Satan and haul their asses away to some pit. She laid the Bible on her night table, turned out the light, and drifted to sleep.
Chapter 36
Richard Earl Garrett lay on his bunk, seething. His perfectly laid plans, his exquisite timing, trashed by Judge Westbrooke’s arrogance. And Reverend Billy’s conniving. And of course, the incompetence of Mark Levy, that worm of an attorney they had dumped on him.
Levy delivered the news. Just like room service. He walked right into the jail, peered through the bars, and told him his sentencing had been moved up to the day after tomorrow. Relief etched Levy’s face as he added that Garrett’s transfer would immediately follow. Whether he was going to death row or not would depend upon Westbrooke’s decision. Either way he was to be packed off to San Quentin by a waiting armed contingent.
He had counted on another week to complete his work, but now he had less than forty-eight hours. For some that would be good luck; for others, not so good. He would merely reprioritize. No more time for honing his skills, for terrorizing this pathetic little town, he must now concentrate on the important task of completing his union with Lucifer. Too bad. Things had been going so well.
But, was he prepared? Were his newfound powers strong enough? Could he draw Samantha to him? Make her come willingly? He couldn't shake the sensation that the time was not yet ripe. But, what choice did he have? It must be now or all his work would be for nothing.
He closed his eyes and called on each muscle to relax. His legs, chest, arms, neck unwound, releasing their tension. He felt weightless and warm. His breathing slowed as he entered that special realm available only to him. A place he had worked long and hard to attain. He eased from his being and rose high into the cool night air.
As he circled the perimeter of Mercer’s Corner, he marveled at the beauty beneath him. A landscape of soft blues, grays, and pastel greens stretched to each horizon. Everywhere, patches of brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows interrupted the muted palate. The thrill this carnival of colors brought to him was often overwhelming, exciting him to the point that at times he felt it would surely consume him. For it was these colors that released his powers and gave him mastery over all he saw. Not complete mastery. Not yet.
It hadn’t always been that way. His initial excursions into this world, soaring high above the landscape, had frightened him. It required total concentration for him to stay aloft and not plunge from the heights and find himself once again in the
shabby garage apartment he had called home ever since coming here.
Hundreds of trials followed by hundreds of failures shredded his confidence. Yet, somewhere deep inside he knew he must persevere. His destiny demanded it, compelling him to try again and again.
His hard work and focus were rewarded. When was it? Six months ago? Eight months? Definitely, after his search for Satan drew him to this forgotten town on the fringe of the Mojave, to Devil’s Playground. He couldn’t recall the exact moment, but he possessed vivid memories of that night when he slipped the bonds of fear and soared endlessly, without failure, as if he had held the secret all along. It reminded him of learning to ride a bike at age five. That magic moment when everything jelled and balancing, turning, and braking were suddenly innate.
For months, he reveled in this newfound ability, soaring high above a world blanketed by monochromatic grays. But, he knew something wonderful and powerful existed beneath the dull blanket that covered and obscured the landscape. At times, he glimpsed faint reds and blues and greens that seeped upward through the drab fabric, revealing themselves briefly. He could taste the richness and strength of the colors, but like cotton candy, the sensations quickly evaporated as the colors sank from sight, leaving behind only frustration and anger.
He beseeched Satan, his prince and mentor, pleading for the ability to drink in the full flavor of the colors. For months, he received no answers, no instructions. Finally, Satan responded. He came to him in a dream as a fiery pentagram, telling him he must unlock the doors to Hades and drink from the River Styx. Only then could he become one with the Prince of Darkness.
“What must I do? Where will I find the key?” he asked.
“That is the trick, isn’t it?” Satan replied as the pentagram faded to blackness.
He frantically searched for the answer, reading books on Satanism and black magic, but found only frustration and confusion. He prayed to Satan, but received only silence.
Then, one night he awoke, sweating, writhing, gasping for breath, feeling as though the fires of the Hell he sought were coursing through his veins. Just when he felt he could endure no more, like a chilling breeze or a drink of cool spring water, the answer sprang into his mind: To drink from the River Styx and become one with Lucifer, he must drink the blood of the innocent.
He knew what must be done: three innocents, sacrificed in an exacting ritual, beneath a full moon.
That night, after the sacrifice of the three children, he soared high into the sky, basking in the creamy glow of the full moon. He rose so high that Mercer’s Corner appeared as a pinpoint of light. As he descended, the gray coverlet slid away, revealing a world of dazzling color.
He intuitively understood the power of the various hues. To his eyes, humans possessed distinctive auras, typically shades of yellow, orange, or red. Those with yellow or orange halos were easily manipulated, yellow being more compliant than orange. These people he quickly learned to manipulate, control. The trucker with his orange aura and Juan Rodriguez with his yellow halo, proved to be easy, requiring little effort. But, those with red auras, like Samantha, proved to be more difficult, as they possessed some resistance. Not complete immunity, but enough to prevent total control. He could invade their dreams, exploit certain thoughts and emotions, but could not direct their actions. Not yet, anyway.
But, he now knew what he needed, what sacrifice Lucifer required, what would clear the way for him to enter Lucifer's domain and join the battle against God and His army of fools. It became crystal clear two nights ago, during his first dream world union with Sam. It was then that he realized she was the one. The one that would complete his transformation, his bond with Lucifer.
He needed more time to complete his mastery over all the colors, to crack Samantha's red aura, to entwine himself so deeply into her soul, as he had with the children, that all her resistance would dissolve and she would give herself to him. But, time was running out and a sense of urgency invaded him. If he failed to complete his tasks, Lucifer would turn him away, leave him behind, and he would be consumed in the coming apocalypse. Exiled into nothingness for all eternity.
He had hoped for more time. Had expected more time. But now, he must find another way.
As he soared through the cool night air, a plan began to take shape. It was not without risk. Sam might be killed before she came to him, and if she were, he would be lost forever. Yet, he had to take the gamble. The ticking clock on the wall opposite his cell continued its forward march and he could neither slow nor stop its advance.
He circled south of town until he located what he sought. He descended and hovered a hundred feet above Sam’s house. It was quiet and dark, but he clearly sensed Sam’s red aura as she slept. His Sam. His key to the kingdom. At the far corner of the house, he felt the entwined orange auras of Penelope and Melissa.
Perfect, he thought.
Ascending once again and turning to the north, he passed over the empty streets of Mercer’s Corner, a two-mile stretch of open desert, and settled above Reverend Billy’s collection of buses and vans. He clearly saw Billy’s fat yellow body and, in the next bus, the block of orange that was Carl Angelo.
He dropped lower.
Chapter 37
He had killed before. Maybe a dozen times. Mostly with a gun, at a distance. Impersonal, without passion. Once he had tossed two victims into the swamp, where alligators ravaged them. Their screaming and thrashing of the water had been exhilarating, but nothing like last night. The woman far surpassed any of those earlier sensations. To feel her lifeblood flow over his hands, to hold her heart aloft in triumph, opened the door to feelings, primitive feelings, he never knew he possessed.
It was for that reason, he did not fight when the presence invaded him once again. Last night, when it first took hold and his world exploded into wild colors, it frightened and confused him. But after ripping the heart from Betty McCumber, he could no longer resist the seductive intruder. Nor did he want to.
Tonight, when the entity returned, he welcomed it.
He crept into the luxurious bedroom at the rear of the bus and stood over the sleeping pair--Reverend Billy’s fleshy body and the girl, her lithe form plastered against him. To his eye, the dark interior appeared like a fractured rainbow, whose neat, linear arrangement of the seven spectral hues had shattered into thousands of colors. Colors that were beautiful and lurid and frightening at the same time. Colors that he knew and others he had never seen.
The bright yellow walls cast a jaundiced pall over the faces of the sleeping pair. Their eyes, though closed, shone like brilliant rubies and their breath escaped in delicate green curls. Her blonde hair, now bright blue, flowed over her shoulder and partially covered one small breast. How innocent she looked. Like the others before her. At sixteen, she was older than most of her predecessors, but like the others, she had been a present to Billy from her mother as if this gift would purchase the mother a place in heaven. Billy did nothing to discourage this belief.
The colors intensified, the walls now a pulsating orange, the ceiling a swirl of red and silver. He raised the knife he held and plunged it into the girl’s chest. She recoiled, sucking air into her lungs with a loud wheeze. Her eyes snapped open, pupils expanding like a drop of oil on a clear blue lake. Again, he drove the knife into her. She arched, expelling red frothy liquid from her mouth, and relaxed as death took her.
Billy sat up in bed and reached for the lamp that sat on the bedside table. The killer, with feline agility, circled the bed and slammed the butt of the knife across the extended forearm.
Billy recoiled and cried out, then looked up at the intruder, squinting, obviously unable to see clearly in the dark room. “Who are you?” His eyes cut to his left, where the girl lay. He reached out and touched her, but jerked back, his hand covered with blood. “What’s going on? What have you done?”
The killer grabbed Billy by the throat and slammed his head against the headboard. He stared into Billy’s eyes and curled his lip in
a sneer.
Recognition erupted on Billy’s face. “Carl?” he stammered.
“I am not Carl.”
“But...”
“I am all that you fear. All that you disdain. All that you dismiss.”
“I don’t understand,” he sobbed. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I must. Because I can.”
Billy shook his head. “Please,” he moaned. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Why should I spare you? Would you spare me?”
“Of course.”
“I think not. But, you have neither the power to condemn me nor spare me. You thought you did. In you arrogance, you thought you were in control of my fate. But, as you can see, I control my own fate. And yours.”
“Please. I don’t know what this is about. Carl, please...”
“I told you. I’m not Carl.”
“Who are you?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“No. Please...leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Because, like the others, it is your time.”
“My time? What are you talking about? What others?”
“All of them.”
Horror etched Billy’s face. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you know? Can’t you feel it?”
“No. Please.” His breath came in great labored gasps. “Tell me who you are.”
“I have many names. Garrett, Beelzebub are the ones you know.”
“Oh, God.”
“God had nothing to do with this. This is your own doing. And God can’t save you. But, you never truly believed he could, did you?”
Billy sputtered and sobbed, unable to speak. His fleshy body quivered with fear.
Carl leaned forward, his face only inches from Billy’s. “Had you taken your money and left this town, you would never have seen me again. But, you needed more. Needed to extract your vengeance. In the name of God, you stoked the fires of hatred and contempt. Against me. Against my blessed work. You have interfered with my plans and put my destiny in jeopardy. You have forced me to act before I am truly prepared. Now, you must reap that which you have sown.”