She was stroking the soft hair of his sternum. “Everything’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
She was giving him that, ‘I want to be serious because I’m feeling a little insecure’ kind of look. Doug could never imagine how someone like Annie could ever feel insecure.
“Well, I was just thinking . . . when we have a baby we don’t really have to worry about anything, do we?”
Doug’s heart-rate picked up. He pulled back slightly, gazing quizzically at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you know, things. Money and education and all that stuff?”
“No, no, I mean, why are you talking about this?”
“I’m talking about having a baby.”
“I know. I thought we’d decided against children, at least for now.”
“We did, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Doug, that was almost ten years ago . . .”
Doug felt panic rise in him. “No, Annie. It’s out of the question.”
Annie pulled away pouting. “Why does it always have to be out of the question? And why do you get the only vote?”
“Because we’re not ready. Because . . .”
“I’m pregnant, Doug.”
Doug felt like he’d been sucker punched. Jumping out of bed and landing flat-footed on the floor, he cried, “Jesus Christ! You’re what?”
Annie began to cry. “It wasn’t my fault, Doug. I’m sorry. I take my pill faithfully every day. The doctor said that sometimes these things happen. That nothing is infallible.”
“Annie? Annie, please don’t cry. I’m really not mad, just shocked is all.”
“You’re not mad? Honest?”
In that moment Doug thought his heart would surely burst with joy. “Honest.”
“I’ve been trying so hard to find a way to tell you. I’m so glad. I’m so happy, Doug.”
“Me too.” He dropped to his knees and took her in his arms embracing her fiercely. Tears began rising in his eyes and before he could get himself under control they were spilling over onto his cheeks. Actually he’d been relieved. Up till then he’d felt terrible because he knew Annie wanted kids. Hell, he wanted kids, but that underlying dread at the thought of what might happen if they did have a baby would never quite go away, and although time had a way of making light of issues that once seemed critically important, deep down Doug knew that De Roché was not the kind of man who would ever forget; he was a man of his convictions, perverted as they might be, and his convictions were most likely the very secret of his tremendous success. He’d been waiting all these years, a patient man, a man who always got what he wanted.
But on that morning, a whole two months before the shit hit the fan, Annie and Doug were alive and happy and there was a child, their child, growing inside her. They were free and in love, and life was good and brimming with hope and possibilities. Dark clouds were for another day.
He and Annie had gone back to bed that morning and made love for a second time. This one had been Doug’s, and he’d made sure it had been a long and deep and ecstatic kind of love.
“Annie, I love you,” he’d said afterwards as he held her. And it was true. In his life he had never loved anyone like he loved Annie. Perhaps he had once loved his mom and dad as much, but now he could not remember, because the pain of their loss had been so great that he had willingly allowed the years to wipe the memory of his love for them clean.
Aunt Tessa, the kind and gentle woman who had raised him to adulthood, had tried to get him to love her, but he had never quite dared to. The fear of losing someone else he loved was more than he could bear. He had treated her with the kindness and respect that she had expected and deserved, but he was not sure he had ever actually allowed himself to love her.
Then there had been Nadia Ziegler, Doug’s high school sweetheart. She had been his friend and greatest champion through some of the most difficult times of his life. Doug had been very fond of her, and for a time he even believed he loved her, but after high school they’d gone their separate ways. As he’d grown to adulthood, as the years and the terrible memories had faded behind him, he began to open up a little more with each passing year. Thus, when the time had come, he had given himself wholly to Annie.
The morning he’d found out about the pregnancy was the happiest morning of his life; there was no doubt about that. But there had been something bad in amongst all the happiness. A distant storm filled with ominous clouds. It was the terrible secret that he’d kept from Annie all these years, the knowledge that what was theirs might not really be theirs at all, that in some terrible and twisted place there were men who made deals for the souls of the innocent.
Chapter 8
The Blackhawk helicopter was waiting at idle when Jennings arrived at the airport. There were no problems with security. They rushed him right through. He boarded the military transport, strapping his hulking frame into a seat as a crew member handed him a headset.
“What’s this for?”
“Things are noisy,” the crewman hollered above the racket. “Besides, Boss Man wants to talk to you.” Jennings nodded and put the headset on. He knew who Boss Man was. The chopper’s engines whined distantly as the craft lifted into the air. The airport slid away beneath him giving way to the Portland skyline, a jagged coastline, and finally, open ocean.
“Rick, can you hear me?”
Jennings reached up and adjusted the mouthpiece. “Yeah, I hear you fine.”
“You’ll be here in about thirty minutes. You’ll be touching down at Pease International Tradeport. The scene is just ten minutes from there. There’ll be a car waiting.”
“What have you done with the bodies?”
“We haven’t moved them. They’re still at the scene exactly as they were found. Forensics has been poring over them trying to figure out what the hell happened.”
“So you say it’s the same MO as those people back in the nineties? The ones McArthur saw in his visions?”
“No doubt about it. That’s the reason I wanted you down here. You were the guy that introduced me to the kid. He told me how he’d seen the murders in some sort of . . . trancelike-state or something. I’ll tell you what, spooked the shit out of me.”
“I wish I’d never said a word about it.”
“Why, Rick? Were you trying to protect him?”
“God damn it, Spencer, I wasn’t trying to protect anybody. The kid had suffered enough.”
“Yeah, I know. He was sort of famous, or should I say infamous, back before that. Don’t think I didn’t keep track of what was going on. Very interesting cases. All of them unsolved, I might add. All the talk shows wanted him and the tabloids wrote about the things he’d seen—”
“Most of it was bullshit!”
“The facts weren’t bullshit, Rick. Those people did die. Christ, he even saw his own parents die. How tough can that be?”
“What’s this about, Spencer?”
“I’m not sure,” Spencer said. “I just can’t figure out McArthur’s connection to it all.”
“Simple, there is no connection.”
“I don’t think you believe that, Rick.”
“Listen, Spencer, he’s clairvoyant. He sees things. Or he used to. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
“Does McArthur still live in the area?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact he and his wife Annie are friends of mine.”
“What do you mean by friends? Like beer buddies and backyard barbecues?”
Jennings knew he was being baited. Those had been Spencer’s agents at the scene of Doug’s and Annie’s ruined house this morning. He didn’t trust Spencer. Hell, he didn’t even like the man. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Do you think he . . . saw these murders last night?”
“Are you crazy, Spencer?”
“No. Actually I’m quite sane. Probably saner than I’ve been in a long time.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I told you, I’m his friend.”
“Have you talked to him this morning?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Spencer, but—”
“What I’m getting at, Rick is, as far as I know nothing like this has happened in more than ten years. And this morning McArthur’s house blows up and in its wake he leaves two square miles of carnage. A little bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“That’s all it is, Spencer. Coincidence! Period!”
“Where do you suppose McArthur is right now?”
“I don’t know, but if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”
“You’re not playing nice, Rick.”
“Go to hell!”
Ignoring Jennings’ remark Spencer said, “Do you think it’s possible that perhaps whatever causes him to see these terrible things came awake and he just went nuts?”
“And he blew his own house up and killed people, and then zipped on down to New Hampshire and killed some more? No, I don’t think that’s possible. It isn’t logical—”
“These deaths aren’t logical, Rick.”
“Listen, those guys were trying to kill them, in case you didn’t know. He was simply trying to protect himself and his wife.”
“You know that for a fact, huh?”
“I was at the scene all morning and that’s what the preliminary evidence suggests. And it’s what I believe, yes. I told you, I know the guy. But you made sure I was taken off the case. So screw you if you want my help now.”
“That guy sure does elicit a lot of passion in you, Rick,” Spencer said calmly.
“Why don’t you start leveling with me, Spencer?”
“Okay, fair enough. How’d you like to get dealt back in?”
“You lousy son-of-a-bitch.”
“It wasn’t me, Rick. It’s not personal. It’s just that the people upstairs thought you were a little too close to McArthur to be objective.”
“So why am I here?”
“I convinced them that you were important.”
“You thought I’d be able to lead you to McArthur, didn’t you? Well, you’re wasting your time. I don’t have a clue where he is.”
“I believe you, Rick.”
“So my involvement is over. Tell your pilot to turn around.”
“I really want you to see these bodies.”
“You can’t actually believe that McArthur was involved in the murder of a family two hours away from his home? I told you, it’s not logical.”
“Nothing about this case is logical. I think if McArthur saw these murders and if he didn’t do them, then I believe he’s capable of leading us to whoever did. And furthermore, I think you’ll agree when you get here.”
“You bastards just want to grab him, don’t you? You’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this. Take his mind apart, see what makes him tick.”
“Rick, we could have had him any time we wanted.”
“But now you’ve got the excuse you need. I told you, I don’t know where he is.”
“That’s okay, Rick, we do.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Silence.
“Spencer?”
“I can’t say any more on the air. We’ll talk when you get here.”
Now Jennings was more confused than ever. What if Doug was connected in some way to these deaths? Even though he knew Doug well, or thought he knew him, they never talked much about what happened back when he was a kid. Those regressive sessions back when he was in college had been the end of it as far as Jennings was concerned. He’d come away believing that McArthur had gone through some sort of psychic ability period, an ability to see the future, to see murder and mayhem in its most brutal form, and the most difficult one to believe: perhaps the ability to see the supernatural creature behind the murders. Jennings couldn’t explain any of it and he’d given up trying a long time ago. McArthur’s sight went far beyond the territory of ordinary police investigative work into the realm of the unexplained. What he did know was that Doug’s sight had diminished as he’d grown older until it was nearly non-existent. At least that’s what Jennings believed because Doug never talked about it any more. Growing up had been a tough time for the kid, losing his parents like he had and the media circus that Doug had endured. No, he wasn’t the least bit sure Doug would say a word even if he knew. And he wouldn’t blame him.
But Jennings was still uneasy. This was all happening so fast he wasn’t sure of his instincts. The feds wanted McArthur; there was no doubt about that. Maybe they already had him. And their interest in him went far beyond this particular case. Jennings was suddenly sure of it.
“Tell you what, Spencer,” Jennings said. “Let’s wait until I see the bodies so I can get a handle on this thing. I don’t know if these killings are the same thing as before.”
“Oh, they’re the same all right, Rick, and I think you’ll agree when you see them.”
“What if it’s some sort of copy cat?”
“Wait till you see the evidence, and then tell me that.” The line suddenly went dead. Evidently Spencer was through talking.
Jesus Christ,” Jennings thought, settling back in his seat. I wish Doug would call me.
Chapter 9
The chopper landed right on schedule. Spencer’s men were cool and efficient. Jennings was shown to a waiting car. He got in, sat back and tried to relax. But there was no way in hell he could. All his muscles were tensed and his mind worried. Spencer seemed quite anxious to pin these deaths on McArthur. McArthur was a suspect; there was no doubt about it. But perhaps he was more than a suspect. What if the government had been watching him since—? The thought struck Jennings that perhaps they’d never taken their eyes off him. Yes, it was a definite possibility. Frankly Jennings was a little surprised they’d waited this long to make their move. He supposed that guys who could see the kinds of things McArthur could see were valuable. Sure they were. Doug’s was a rare gift and the government wanted to dissect him, to see what made him tick, and they were looking for an excuse to grab him. Jennings was suddenly and absolutely certain of it. McArthur would be a hell of a guinea pig for those CIA spooks to dissect.
But right now he couldn’t think about that. He needed to find a way to contact Doug and warn him of his suspicions. The man needed protection from his own government. He knew that Doug wasn’t capable of murder. Hell, the man wouldn’t harm a bee if one was stinging him. But they would accuse him to get what they wanted, wouldn’t they?
Jennings needed a clear head and some time to think. Unfortunately that wasn’t going to happen. Everything was moving too fast, and he felt like he was caught in the middle of a nightmare. He sat forward in his seat as they approached the circus, his muscles tense like over-stressed strings on a musical instrument.
The crime scene was an average suburban home on an average street in a very average small New England town. The place had a front porch, a two car garage and a lawn with two towering oak trees growing up out of it like titanic guardians. One of the trees even had a rope swing attached to a rugged-looking horizontal branch. Right now, however, the house, as well as most of the street, was taped off, and inside the cordon there was a buzz of activity. There were at least ten parked emergency vehicles with people moving busily to and from them. Outside the barricade, Jennings noted as they passed, were several news vans and a crowd of anxious-looking spectators. As he got out of the car a crowd of reporters moved toward him in a wave.
“Can you give us any information?” A young man asked breathlessly, a cameraman at his side.
How they knew he was a cop, Jennings couldn’t say. Maybe he smelled like one. His shirt was stuck to his back and his underarms were wet. Yeah, that must be it. He smelled like a pig. He tried to smile as he pushed his solid frame through the crowd but could only man
age a grimace. “As you can see, I just arrived,” he said. “Don’t know any more than you do. Maybe less.” He pushed past the crowd of reporters and spectators and into the cordoned off zone.
He stepped up onto the porch and peered through the open door. The first body he saw nearly undid him. The kid stood there like a statue, frozen in time, looking like he’d been sculpted from marble. Nothing about him looked real. Not even his clothes. Everything seemed calcified. His hair stood straight up like slivers of glass. The face was stretched unnaturally, elongated somehow in an almost supernatural way, the mouth wide open in a silent scream. The eyes were open and dull-white, no pupils or corneas, more like the eyes of some renaissance sculpture than those of a human being. They seemed to be staring out at some unseen horror. A team of crime scene investigators hovered around the body, photographing, carefully taking samples.
Spencer stepped out onto the porch from inside the house walking carefully lest he step on some important piece of evidence. He was of medium height but solid, as though there were flexed muscles beneath his dark-colored suit jacket. His sandy hair was short-cropped and his complexion was deeply-tanned, like he’d just stepped out of the Florida sun. “Rick,” Spencer said extending his hand, “glad you could make it.”
Jennings ignored the outstretched hand. He could not take his eyes off the kid. Cold shivers ran through him as if he was witnessing something extraordinarily evil. “Where are the others?” he asked.
Self-consciously Spencer dropped his hand, turned and led Jennings into the house. The mother and father sat in their chairs looking pretty much the way the kid looked, frozen in place, calcified, and like the kid on the porch the faces were stretched in an almost supernatural way, eyes dull-white and staring, mouths open in twin silent ovals that made it look like the victims had been screaming in their final moment of life. They’d seen whatever had done this to them. There was no doubt about that. The terror frozen on their faces didn’t lie.
The room was crawling with forensic people. Just to the left of the door lay a dog on its side. It looked just like the humans, freeze dried, calcified, its mouth open in an eternal howl. Even its fur seemed brittle, standing straight up like glass stalagmites.
Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) Page 6