Dance For The Devil

by S. Kodejs

  And Amy. By now, Jake would be ripping his hair out with worry for his daughter. Beautiful. At first Gil thought about providing a body, but this was so much better. The uncertainty. The lack of closure. For the rest of his life Jake Montclaire would wonder about the fate of his daughter. Never know that Amy was safely locked away, paying for the sins of her father. Poetic justice.

  Now it was the son’s turn. Skeeter. What a stupid name for a kid. Gil knew the boy’s real name was Michael. Michael was a decent name. Why burden the poor kid with a handle like Skeeter? No matter. When Gil was through with the boy, Skeeter wouldn’t be able to be called anything.

  He closed his eyes and tried to visualize what Jake was doing right now. Was he crying? Was he ranting and raving? Or was he being comforted by that stupid bitch he’d taken up with?

  What was the deal with her, anyway? For the past year, Montclaire hadn’t so much as looked at another woman. People were starting to wonder if he was gay. Then, suddenly, that dumb twat jumps out of the woodwork, and presto, he’s living with her. Living with her. Now, what’s that about?

  Gil chuckled suddenly. Well, I suppose he has nowhere else to go.

  There was something about her.... Something intriguing. When he tried to probe her mind it was like hitting a wall. Even Jake seemed less assailable. It could be attributed to Gil’s own fatigue. Masterminding and revenge, no matter how enjoyable, was all very exhausting. Ah, well, when he had a quiet moment, he would look into the problem of Montclaire’s slut. If she proved a valid threat, then he’d eliminate her.

  **

  “Explain to me again what you see in him.”

  Cari stopped unpacking the new shipment of books and looked over her shoulder at Ramona. “Jake Montclaire is nice. I like him.”

  “In other words, you’ve got the hots for him.”

  “Oh, nicely put. Very classy.” Cari was annoyed.

  “Hey, I call a spade a spade. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but you’re wrong. I don’t deny he’s attractive, but it’s more than that. He’s nice and he needs help. I’m doing a good deed so stop crucifying me.”

  “Okay, play at being good Samaritan but don’t invite the guy to live with you. Geez, Cari, you don’t even know him. He’s a total stranger.”

  “True, but he has no place else to go. He hasn’t lived here very long, hasn’t made many friends. He’s a loner, like me.”

  “What if he’s a pervert? Or an axe murderer?”

  Cari grimaced. “Hardly, he has children.”

  “So? You think perverts don’t have kids?”

  “He’s not a pervert, Romi, or an axe murderer. He’s a perfectly nice gentleman who’s in deep trouble.”

  “So why does it fall on you to save him? Who are you, Mother-fucking-Theresa?”

  “I want to help him. Actually, I need to help him. I don’t know why, but I feel compelled.”

  Ramona walked over to stand beside Cari. At close to six feet, she towered over Cari. “I’m telling you: don’t get involved. It could be dangerous.” Cari smiled and Ramona turned away in disgust. “You’re not listening, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then at least let me help you.”

  “Thanks, Romi, I knew I could count on you.”

  Ramona rolled her eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

  Cari laid out the plan.

  **

  “Amy?”

  She blinked. The sudden influx of light hurt and she squeezed her eyes together. It was the first time she’d been exposed to light in several days, and Gil waited patiently for her vision to adjust.

  “Amy? Are you alright?”

  “Mr. Vandercamp?” Her voice was a tiny squeak. “Mr. Vandercamp? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Amy, I’ve come for you.”

  She began to cry. “Oh, thank God!” She stood up on wobbly legs, assisted by Gil. When she would fling herself into his arms, he held back, his nostrils wrinkling in disgust. The girl truly was filthy. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger. “I want to go home!” she wailed.

  Well, he hadn’t broken her. The girl still had spirit. “Shhh,” he said, eyeing her matted hair. “Shhh. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Where’s my Daddy? Can I see my Daddy?”

  “No, dear, that’s impossible.”

  She stopped wailing and held very still. “Wh-what? Does he know I’m here?”

  “Of course he does.” Gil’s voice was tender, soothing. “He sent you here.”

  “What!”

  “You’re a bad girl, Amy, your dad can’t handle you. He doesn’t want you, so he sent you here.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Face the facts, Amy, neither of your parents want you. First your mother left you, now your father. But I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

  Her eyes were wide now, full of shock. “You’re lying.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s true. See these papers? There’s your dad’s signature, relinquishing guardianship. The official seal makes it legal and binding, dear.”

  Amy turned away. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why would I lie, Amy? I’ve come to help you, to take care of you.”

  “I want my dad. I want to go home.”

  “Your home is gone, Amy, burnt down, nothing left but smouldering ashes. Look, I’ve brought a newspaper. See? It’s on the front page. See the date? Two days ago. There’s your dad right there, and your brother. Go ahead, read it.”

  She took the paper, reading Carmen had been trapped inside. Amy looked at Gil with swollen eyes, and he nodded. “Yes, it’s true. Read the rest.” Wordlessly, she carried on. The last paragraph stated that Jake Montclaire was moving back to Toronto. Immediately. With his son. No mention of her.

  “It’s a mistake,” she sobbed stubbornly. “Daddy loves me.”

  “Maybe, but he can’t handle you anymore. You’re disobedient and nasty, and you skip school and lie. What comes next? Drugs? Stealing? Running away from home and living on the streets? Your Dad didn’t want to see that, and he knew he couldn’t control you. So he found someone who could.”

  “My dad wouldn’t send me to this horrible place.”

  Gil pursed his lips. “Actually, he had no choice. I fired him for stealing ideas and selling them, then your house burnt down, and he has no money. He’s completely broke. I think he did love you, once, before you became so difficult and horrible. How can anyone love you the way you’ve been acting? And, by getting rid of you, he can concentrate on Skeeter, the good child. Still,” he added, his voice soft, “I don’t think he realized it was this horrible. These people put up a good front. They look respectable, like a boarding school. They call it The Elizabethan House for Wayward Girls, but it’s a front for child slavery. Know what’s happening to you? You’re being sent to Africa, a white slave, to service men. Know what I mean when I say ‘service men’? You’ll be raped, Amy, over and over. Men will pay for it. They love young, blond-haired girls in Africa. You’ll fetch a pretty penny.”

  She started to cry. “Don’t fret,” Gil soothed. “That’s over now. I’ll save you, give you a new home. Just like I’ve done for other girls. You’ll like being with me, Amy, you’ll be safe.”

  He stroked her cheek. “Your decision, Amy. Go to Africa as a white-trash-slave or come with me? I won’t force you.”

  “Go with you,” she sobbed. “I want to go with you.”

  “Then we better go, quickly, before they find us. Can you walk? Thatta girl, you’re doing fine. Follow me, right this way.”

  **

  Detective Birney was direct. “We believe the fire was deliberate. We found empty kerosene cans a half block away, and combined with the other unfortunate incidents occurring lately, we believe you may be targeted by either an individual or an organization. Can you come down to the station?”

  Jake’s hand squeezed tightly on the phone. “Do you have any information
about Amy?”

  “Possibly. How soon can you be here?”

  “I’ll come immediately.”

  “I don’t mean to alarm you, Mr. Montclaire, but please be careful. If our suspicions prove correct, you could be in danger.”

  Jake blinked. “Danger? Can you elaborate?”

  “We’ll talk in person.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  He made it in fifteen. The detective was waiting. “I’ll take you to Sergeant Carmichael. As I said before, he’s our cult expert and he’ll be handling your case.”

  “So you do think it’s a cult?”

  “Not for me to say. However, Carmichael is intrigued with the inverted pentagram cut into your daughter’s arm. It might indicate a Satanic link.”

  “Or normal teenage rebellion.”

  “Mr. Montclaire, normal teenagers don’t slice Satanic symbols into their skin.” Upon seeing Jake’s anguished expression, his tone softened. “Or it could be nothing. You’ll be in good hands with Sergeant Carmichael.”

  Five minutes later, Jake agreed. Benny Carmichael, with his weathered complexion and moderate Scottish-burr immediately inspired confidence. The man was solid, from his ham-fisted handshake to the observant glint in his eye.

  “I want my daughter back and I don’t care what it takes.”

  “Easy, young fella,” the sergeant countered. “We don’t know for sure she’s been kidnapped.”

  “She’s been gone three days and you guys haven’t done jack-squat.”

  Carmichael laced his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. “Got a ransom note yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know she’s been abducted? You’re divorced, right? Perhaps she took off to see your ex. Or, maybe she’s pissed at you and is shacking up with friends. From what I understand, you two have a rocky relationship, correct?”

  Jake pressed his fingertips to his forehead, immensely frustrated. “She’s been kidnapped. I don’t have proof, but I know it. I feel it.”

  Carmichael regarded him for a moment. “Tell me your story, from the beginning.”

  “I’ve already told it to a half-dozen different officers. Don’t you have it in your report?”

  “Yeah, I have it. I just want to hear it from you.”

  Jake sighed, then reiterated the entire story, leaving nothing out. He finished by telling about Cari Valentine, and the generosity she’d shown him and Skeeter.

  “A witch, hmmm? That part of the story I didn’t know. How does she fit in?”

  “She doesn’t, actually. Accidental meeting.”

  “There are no accidents.”

  “That’s what Cari says. So, what do you think? Was my daughter kidnapped?”

  “My best hunch? Yes.”

  Jake breathed deeply. It was a relief to have someone acknowledge his fears, to treat them seriously.

  Carmichael regarded him. “Let me get this straight: your wife leaves, daughter disappears, house burns down killing your housekeeper, plus your insurance is cancelled without your knowledge. Suspicious activities occur at your jobsite and the boss has bogus proof of your guilt and terminates you from a job he begged you to take. For fun, he threatens you with criminal charges. Now you find yourself living with a witch you hardly know.”

  “It’s been a hell of a year,” Jake agreed.

  “Understated fellow, aren’t you? It’s been a bloody disastrous year.”

  “But are these incidents linked to a Satanic cult?”

  “By themselves, no. All we have to suggest that is the razored pentagram and your daughter’s bizarre behavior, which could be completely coincidental. However, it is true that teens are often targets; they are moody, susceptible to cult coercion. And, if we take into consideration other recent events, such as the deaths of Elise Keeler and Alex Kreschenski, it seems possible. I’ve dug up some old information you might find interesting.”

  “Wait – go back. Alex is dead?”

  “You hadn’t heard? His body was found this morning, off the south coast, still strapped into his car. It was a stroke of luck to find him – an anonymous tip, otherwise we’d never have dredged the bay.” He flicked some photographs on the desk. “Take a look at these.”

  “Jesus.” Jake paled. “That poor kid. Christ, who could do that to him?”

  “The fish, mostly. They’ll nibble a human corpse pretty quickly. They go for the eyeballs first.”

  Jake put his hand to his mouth and shut his eyes. “Excuse me... I feel a bit sick.”

  “Good. That was the reaction I was hoping for.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Helps rule you out as a suspect.”

  “What?!”

  “To me, everyone’s a suspect. If you hadn’t reacted to these photos I’d be concerned. Put your head between your knees if you’re gonna puke. I hate it when people puke in my office. Stinks for ages.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. Now look at the pictures again. See anything unusual?”

  “No... Wait a minute. No.” Jake shook his head.

  “Go on, what did you see?”

  “I thought his skin’s too white, but I suppose that’s the way a corpse is supposed to look, especially one that’s been in the water. How long was he there for?”

  “Undetermined. Coroner’s report will pinpoint time of death. You’re on the right track, though. The body does look funny, but unless you’ve been around a lot of bodies, you might not notice. It’s been blood-let.”

  “What?”

  “Blood-let. Bled dry. Someone removed a great deal of blood from this kid, and maybe an organ or two. That suggests cult activity. Satanic activity.”

  “But,” Jake began, shuffling through the photos, “perhaps he was injured in the accident and bled to death, and the water washed it away. Perhaps the fish ate his innards.”

  “Fish aren’t that selective. They don’t leave stitches and they don’t leave calling cards.”

  Jake shook his head quizzically, and Benny pointed. “See? Look closely. Look at his left butt cheek.”

  Jake looked, squinting. “I can’t make it out.”

  “I wasn’t sure myself, so I went to the morgue and took a look at the kid. It’s a pentagram, upside down.”

  “Jesus.” He thought of Amy’s arm. “Carved?”

  “No, punctures, probably from a syringe. My guess is the killer pumped drugs into his ass.”

  Jake looked bewildered. “But why? Surely there’s better ways of getting into the bloodstream?”

  “Ceremony. The kid was probably drugged, tortured and sexually abused before execution. His blood would be saved for a ritual, drunken. The organs removed and eaten – steady, boy. You aren’t going to puke, are you?”

  Jake swallowed. “No.”

  Benny gathered the photographs and slipped them into a folder. “There is something else. Your boss, Vandercamp – name twigged a bell. Kept bugging me, couldn’t get it out of my head. So I dug through my old files and came up with a small item, dated sixteen years ago. It involves his son.”

  “Jason? He would have been an infant sixteen years ago.”

  “Yes. He was adopted, privately. Shortly after the adoption, during the grace period before the adoption became final, an expose about cult activity appeared in the local newspaper. It was very sensationalized, caused quite a stir. People began to lock their doors for the first time. No allegations were made, but a photo appeared of Gil and his wife... Suzanne. The Vandercamps were holding an animal corpse, a cat, I believe. It was an old photo, with no names, but the faces were exceptionally clear, and Gil Vandercamp’s expression was frightening. He looked, well, possessed. Someone at the lawyer’s office saw it and balked, and tried to halt the adoption. Vandercamp took the issue to court and won. He kept the infant.”

  Jake sucked in his breath. “But how?”

  “Vandercamp claimed the photo was taken at a costume party and the animal corpse was
fake, a prop. He’s kept a low profile ever since. Actually, I’m not surprised to see how successful he’s become.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People involved in cults, Satanic or otherwise, are frequently dynamic, charismatic individuals, often leaders in their fields. Aggressive, enigmatic and ruthless, qualities we admire in corporate America. They’re used to being idolized, they begin to believe they’re different from everyone else. Better than ordinary people, omnipotent. And why not? Everywhere they go, they’re adored, treated like celebrities, like Gods. For all intents and purposes, they are Gods.

  “They also continue to seek thrills. They’ve worked hard to master their profession and they’re addicted to the adrenalin rush. Challenges are like drugs and they need increasingly outlandish successes to feed their habit. Sex fills this need, so does violence. Cults offer both, and if they succeed at this, they can sometimes amass huge followings. Minions who constantly do their bidding and reinforce their beliefs.”

  “Why don’t you stop them?”

  “We try, but the cults are too diverse, too organized. Satanism is the fastest growing underground criminal movement in the world today – in the world.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in. “And we’re sitting on a nice little hotbed of activity right here.”

  “You know who the principal members are?”

  “We have suspicions but no proof. If they’re very good, we don’t even have suspicions. The leaders are too well protected. It goes like this: a meeting is planned, perhaps in the wilderness. Sentries are posted. By the time the cops show up, all they find is a bunch of people toasting marshmallows around a campfire. Same thing at a private residence or warehouse. When we get there, their activities are legitimate. These are not stupid people we’re dealing with, they’re organized. And they have huge resources, hundreds of people willing to help them.”