There were too many unanswered questions. If the old man had meant to kill De Roché and the artifact truly had power, why then hadn’t he succeeded? Had this been the first time he’d tried?
So many questions, so few answers.
There were a few remaining onlookers close to the action, but most had scattered, standing well out of harm’s way. Some were making a fuss over De Roché, others wandering pointlessly. Some were crying. Others were talking in heated exchanges. News people were looking into cameras and talking into microphones. A small group of citizens had finally gathered around the remains of the dead man. People were asking about his identity. Theo was back and he was going through the old man’s pockets looking for identification. When none was apparent he rose in frustration, setting his sights on Doug.
An ambulance had pulled up onto the grass and two paramedics were trundling a stretcher toward where De Roché and Annie stood. Doug could hear De Roché’s raised voice in what sounded like a protest. The police had arrived and two men in plain clothes were now talking to father and daughter. They were gesturing toward the dead man, explaining what had happened.
Several policemen were now examining the body of the gunman and one was taking a statement from Theo. John Carradine stood over the dead priest reading from an open bible.
Annie came to Doug. “He’s all right,” she said, hugging him for comfort. “Thank God.”
Doug could have told her that he’d seen a bullet strike her father in the center of his chest and go straight through him. But he kept silent. What would be the point? Annie would not have believed him. Besides, Doug’s life was already in danger. Why invite unwanted attention? “Was he hit?” Doug asked instead.
“One of the bullets grazed his right upper body. There’s some blood. It’s possible that one of his ribs is broken. He’s going to the hospital for treatment. Under great duress, I might add. I’m going with him. I’ll meet you back at the house later, okay? Unless . . . you want to come?” Annie raised an eyebrow.
“No thanks, I’ve had quite enough of your father for one day.”
“You can ride back with Theo in the limo.”
“I’ll take a cab,” Doug said. “I need to buy an airline ticket. Besides, I don’t like Theo.”
Annie searched Doug’s face.
“Stay away from him, Annie. I don’t trust him, and if you know what’s good for you, you shouldn’t either.”
Theo finally got away from the cops and approached them. “I saw you kneeling beside the gunman,” he said to Doug. “What were you doing?”
“Go to hell.”
“Afraid I can’t do that,” Theo said, his voice hard but controlled. “Mr. De Roché pays me to protect him. I’m just doing my job.”
“And did my father also pay you to protect my mother?” Annie asked Theo. Her voice filled with barely controlled rage.
Theo eyed Annie without emotion for a long moment before he turned and walked away.
Chapter 37
Doug stood at the foot of the bed watching Annie sleep, wondering how his life had come to this moment. Ten years gone. From where he stood right now it felt like another life entirely, not his and Annie’s life. They’d been happy, hadn’t they? Or was it all some sort of illusion. Now, suddenly all his hopes and dreams were in jeopardy. Annie had come under her father’s spell. For reasons unclear, he had bargained for the life of their unborn child. De Roché wanted him dead; the hammer blow could come at any moment. The man might not be mortal, perhaps he wasn’t even human. And if he wasn’t human then what was he? And what of Annie? If she’d been spawned from the seed of a monster then what was she? And what of their unborn child? Suddenly there were far too many questions without answers. Grief wanted to drive him to his knees, but he knew now, more than ever before in his life, that he had to be strong.
He drew the bedcovers up over his sleeping wife, careful lest he wake her. He’d only gotten a few hours of restless sleep. They’d made love until nearly dawn, tumbling, struggling, coupling and uncoupling in the dark until they were nearly delirious with fatigue. They were both scared shitless, each for their own reasons; Annie, her past; Doug, their future, and they’d been attempting to scatter their demons with the power of obsession. As a result, Doug’s demons only burned brighter within him. He could only guess as to Annie’s.
He picked up his trousers from the tangle of clothing on the floor and slipped them on. He felt for the airline ticket he had bought yesterday and tucked into the breast pocket of his new jacket. For a moment he panicked. It wasn’t there, but then he discovered it in the opposite side of the jacket.
He’d been startled awake by something shortly after falling into an exhausted sleep, and he’d lain for a long time trying to puzzle it out. When he’d forced his mind to focus on identifying it, he saw black flapping images with cold red eyes. Birds, bats, fluttering demons. They were one and the same; ugly tumors at the center of Doug’s very existence.
He looked over at the door.
The burden is now yours. You are the chosen one.
He didn’t understand what those words meant now any more than he had the moment the dying old priest had uttered them.
Follow your heart.
His heart, his plan, had simply been to find and stop those who would destroy his home, his family, his future. Those who would rob him of everything he had ever dreamed of. Is that what the old man had meant by follow your heart?
One of those destroyers, he knew, lived inside the walls of this very house, and if he could find proof of his crimes he would bring it back to Annie so that she too, could see the true face of the monster hidden inside the man.
Leaving Annie was probably the most difficult thing he’d ever done. He had the feeling that when he walked out that door he might never see her again. But the old priest had told him that if Annie and the unborn child were to be saved it would have to be this way. Was he supposed to believe that? Was he supposed to trust the words of a dying old man? Truth is, he did, and he couldn’t say why. Had it been the undeniable sincerity in the old man’s voice? Or was it because he had known Doug’s true heart better than Doug himself had known it?
He also told Doug that there would be a great test, and if he survived he would have the direction he needed. If he survived. There were no guarantees. It all seemed so crazy.
And what of Annie? Would she be safe remaining here with a father who might be in cahoots with the Devil himself? Doug didn’t think so, but whatever persuasive powers he might have once had over Annie were now being eclipsed by a greater power. What happened yesterday at the cemetery had not been a natural occurrence. The bullet that should have killed De Roché, the bullet that passed straight through his heart, had done no damage at all, and now, less than twenty-four hours after putting his wife in the ground, De Roché was most probably planning his future as king of the world; it was as if Rachel’s death and Annie’s coming home had been the catalysts necessary for De Roché’s continuation. But in the final analysis none of this actually mattered. The old man at the cemetery had been right when he’d said Doug must follow his heart, because his heart told him to put as much distance between De Roché and himself as was humanly possible.
So without the benefit of further thought, Doug opened the door and slipped quietly out of the room.
He tiptoed through the upstairs hallway to the top of the stairs, stopping and listening, careful lest he encounter De Roché, the man who might not be a man at all.
Halfway down the stairway he stopped abruptly. De Roché’s voice sounded from the direction of his study, and there were both humor and vitality in it, sending a chill scurrying down Doug’s spinal column and reaffirming his suspicions about the man. Stealthily, he made his way down the stairs, through the foyer to the door, where he slipped carefully out into the new morning. He scanned the yard looking for some sign of life. There was not a living soul in sight, but that did not mean he wasn’t being watched; this place had ears and eye
s.
Doug strode purposefully down the drive toward the gate, expecting the hammer blow to come at any second. He stopped at the gate, gazing through it at the lane he hoped would lead him back into the world. There were no keepers this morning, and the gate was closed. He scanned up along the wall but saw nothing. No security guards. No dogs with glittering teeth and silent voices. He turned and looked back across the dew-covered lawn to the gray stone mansion, paying particular attention to Annie’s bedroom window. He had an unsettling vision of Annie succumbing to whatever persuasive forces lived within those walls. Had she finally come home to stay? He wiped the thought from his mind; it made him feel sick and helpless.
“I’ll be back, Annie,” he whispered. “You bet your ass I will.”
He turned and gingerly tested the gate. What the hell, he thought. Electrocution is as good a way to go as any. But instead of frying him to a crisp, the gate began to trundle open. He turned again, scanned the guardhouse and located the cameras mounted there. He understood that his every move was being monitored. De Roché was no fool. If he’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.
As the gate closed behind him, Doug stepped beyond the walls of De Roché Manor and back into the world.
Several hundred yards down the lane he turned left and walked into the woods, carefully marking his way through thick undergrowth. At the base of a particularly large cypress tree he stopped and looked around him. He saw no one and heard nothing except birds calling in the trees. He dropped down onto his hands and knees and began digging in the soft, sandy soil at the base of the tree. He extracted the object wrapped in a soft piece of fabric. He had hidden it there yesterday after returning from buying his airline ticket. He opened the fabric and stared at the object. It seemed to pulse mildly, but it could have been his imagination. He closed his eyes then opened them. The object did not change shape or color.
There are those who believe it is the path to God, the old priest had said.
The path to God? Doug thought. That would really be something.
It is a fragment from an ancient weapon.
On a tree limb above him a blackbird with a single red eye sat perched watching him. Doug wrapped the artifact back up in the soft cloth and dropped it in his jacket pocket. As he walked from the woods the bird took wing, cawing loudly.
Chapter 38
It was slow going along the dusty lane that passed through quiet, deserted citrus groves and dark cypress swamp. It took more than half an hour to reach the boulevard. Although he kept close watch for one-eyed birds he was not bothered again. Finally he reached the boulevard, giving a sigh of relief for having been allowed to get this far.
Traffic zoomed past in either direction. He picked the south-traveling traffic and stuck his thumb out. Vehicles streamed by in an endless procession. Finally, a van with Florida Dreams fancily air-brushed on its side panels pulled over onto the shoulder, sending dust puffing up into the air in a choking cloud. Doug ran and opened the door. A kid with long, stringy, brown hair sat beating his hands on the steering wheel in time to the loud and pulsing reggae music that blasted out of the stereo.
“Hey, amigo, jump in,” the kid shouted, smiling infectiously. But now Doug could see that he wasn’t a kid at all, just some old hippy who never grew up.
“Where you headed?” the guy asked.
“Tampa International!” Doug had to shout to be heard above the music.
The guy reached for the radio and turned it down. “Sorry about that, man. You get t’ groovin along with the tuneage and sometimes you forget how loud the shit is.”
“Yeah,” Doug said, “happens to me all the time.” The day had warmed considerably and he took off his jacket. He was looking over his shoulder for a place to put it.
“Just shove some of that shit out of the way and drop it anywhere,” the guy told him.
Doug saw that the van was loaded with tons of electronic equipment.
“Name’s Jeff Dean,” the guy said, seeing the look on Doug’s face, “and this is my mean surveillance machine.”
Doug nodded.
“Got into this shit a while back,” Jeff Dean explained. “Work for three or four private investigators. Mostly divorce cases.” He gave Doug a sidelong glance. “Hey, what can I say, buys the beans.”
“You’d never know it from looking at the outside,” Doug said commenting on the van’s general appearance.
“That’s the main idea, amigo. Just some old hippy, come down to Florida for fun and sun. No one’s the wiser.” Jeff Dean shot Doug another wide grin.
“You know how to use all this stuff?” Doug was amazed.
“Don’t seem the type, right, amigo?” the guy said grinning again. “Like I said, that’s the general idea. If I seemed the type, well, wouldn’t get away with much, now would I? Actually I’m some kind of genius. Least that’s what my mom always told me.”
“Name’s Doug,” Doug offered his hand. Jeff Dean took it and shook it vigorously. He pulled the van out into traffic and soon they were moving south on Alternate 19 toward Clearwater. “You can take me as far as you’re going. Appreciate the ride.”
“Hell,” Jeff said. “I’ll take you all the way. Need to cross over the bay sometime today anyway. Might as well be sooner as later.” He reached in his pocket and fished out a card, handing it to Doug. Doug quickly scanned the bold black lettering. It said, ‘Jeff Dean, Professional Surveillance’ and stamped on all four corners surrounding the lettering were speakers with waves emanating from them. “If you ever need to spy on anyone just give ole’ Jeff a call. I can tune into your living room from half a mile away and hear ice melting in your highball glass.”
“Comforting thought.”
Jeff Dean slapped the wheel and laughed. “You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I’ve heard.”
“I’ll bet.”
“If you lose the card the number’s easy. I’m out of Clearwater, so as long as you got the Clearwater exchange the rest is easy. 1776. Just like the ole’ American revolution. No problemo.”
Doug stared at the card for a long moment.
Jeff Dean shot Doug another sidelong glance. “Put it in your pocket, amigo. Never know when you’re gonna need some surveillance.”
Doug stuck the card in his shirt pocket, but Jeff had given him an idea. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
“Absolutely, amigo. Shoot.”
When Doug was through explaining what he wanted he wrote something down on a sheet of paper and handed it to Dean. “That’s the address, but be very careful. They’re a slippery bunch.”
“No problemo, amigo. I do slippery well.”
“I’ve written down two phone numbers,” Doug said. “If you can’t reach me with the first number the second one is a friend of mine. He’s a good guy.”
“Got your back, amigo.”
The guy yapped all the way to the airport, and when he dropped Doug off he said, “Adios amigo, stay cool and watch your back.”
“You too, man.” Doug closed the door feeling both melancholy and uplifted. It was the first dose of sanity he’d experienced in more than two days, yet there was something about the encounter that intrigued him, as if it had been more than just coincidence. Ah well, it was comforting to know that there were sincere, if not entirely sane people left in the world.
He went through the terminal, received his boarding pass and promptly forgot about Jeff Dean and his mean surveillance machine.
Chapter 39
Rick Jennings stood in the airport terminal waiting area watching the television monitor, which was tuned to CNN. He could not believe what he was hearing and seeing. Possible Presidential candidate, Édouard De Roché was shot and wounded at his wife’s funeral yesterday. The gunman, who apparently acted alone, had been shot and killed by one of De Roché’s security personnel. The gunman was an elderly man who had not yet been identified. The camera panned to a shot of De Roché kneeling on a mound with Annie, his daughter, kneeling at his side. Jennings scanned
the shot looking for Doug but did not see him.
The news clip went on to say that De Roché’s wound hadn’t been serious and that he had been taken to a local medical center where he’d been treated and released.
Furthermore, it seemed the media had learned of Doug’s and Annie’s house explosion and were trying to draw a correlation between De Roché’s wife’s murder, the attempt on De Roché’s life, and the apparent attempt on his daughter’s life in Maine the morning before. The belief was that someone was trying to derail De Roché’s presidential hopes.
Derail was an understatement, Jennings thought. Even so, it was the same correlation he had been trying to draw since all of this started. And he was at as much of a loss at explaining it as was the media. Nothing made sense. He wondered what would happen if the press picked up on Spencer’s suspicion that Doug was somehow connected to the strange murder of a New Hampshire family and the disappearance of a child named Ariel. But that was too far out there for the media to draw any sort of correlation, wasn’t it? As far as Jennings knew, the only two people who suspected a connection at all were him and Spencer.
He’d tried calling Spencer twice this morning at the number he’d left with Rosemary, but had received no answer and no voice mail. What was going on? Nothing made sense.
Jennings decided he was not going to hang around and wait a minute longer. He’d booked a flight to Tampa. He would go directly to the source. He’d find Doug and Annie and bring them back by force if he had to.
His flight was called. As he began making his way toward the security gate his cell phone rang. Anxious, he pulled it from his jacket pocket looking at the caller ID. The number told him nothing. He answered it.
Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) Page 23