by J. S. Bailey
Thane heard a cough from behind Mia’s door and hurried back into his own room, his Father right behind him.
“Does he have any intention of leaving Ohio?” Thane asked once his door had been closed.
“We don’t know. It’s difficult to get an exact fix on his thoughts. He’s too protected.”
“Of course he is.” Thane’s lip curled. “What part of Ohio?”
“His hometown of Eleanor, we believe. If you’re determined, you can catch a redeye flight and find a way to kill him there.”
Hopping on a plane this late was just about the last thing Thane desired at the moment, but if it meant his own survival, then he’d do it without hesitation. “Very well. I’ll drive to the airport now.”
“That’s a good boy. I’ll trust you not to fail this time.”
His Father vanished the moment Thane pulled his suitcase from the closet. He threw in a few outfits and rolled it out into the hallway, then took it down the stairs into the vast entryway.
Thane made straight toward the door, fighting off fatigue, when a voice behind him said, “Stop right there.”
Thane stopped. Turned.
Mia stood beside the Christmas tree with arms crossed, wearing violet flannel pajamas and a frown. “You were going to leave without me?”
“I’ve just received word on where Bobby Roland has gone,” Thane said. “I’m going to go find him.”
“You do seem a little obsessed.”
“You’d be obsessed with someone too if their death meant your life.”
Mia shrugged. “I guess. Now if you’re going to hunt this Bobby down, how about I go with you? He won’t be expecting two of us.”
“You have nothing to do with this.” Thane willed his legs to move toward the door but he remained immobile. “Let me go.”
“Only under a certain condition.”
“Fine. Come with me, then. But if you find a way to foul things up, you’ll find yourself sorely regretting it.”
SINCE HIS home was still a crime scene, Phil opted to spend the night at Randy and Lupe’s house, though he doubted he’d be getting any sleep.
He’d been moved to uncharacteristic tears when he finally went in to see Allison. They had talked for a time, though Phil made it a point not to bring up anything about the attack. Better to let Allison discuss it when she felt comfortable enough to do so, than to interrogate her about it in her fragile condition.
Phil sat with his daughter Ashley on the couch at Randy’s house until she fell asleep. He smoothed back her hair, so much like Allison’s, and smiled at her peaceful form.
Then, growing more solemn, he rose and went upstairs. Murmuring voices came from beyond Randy and Lupe’s closed bedroom door, and Phil rapped lightly on it with his knuckles.
The voices fell silent, and the floor creaked seconds before the door swung open to reveal Randy, who had clothed himself in boxers and a white t-shirt. Beyond him, Lupe sat on the edge of the bed wearing a terrycloth bathrobe. Her eyes were red.
“I didn’t know you had white clothes,” Phil said.
Randy made an involuntary glance down at his shirt. “Must have accidentally bleached it.” He swallowed. “What’s up?”
“I’m going out.”
“Now?”
“There’s something I need to take care of.”
Randy’s eyes narrowed. “Okay.”
“So, would you keep an eye on Ashley? She’s asleep right now, but if she wakes up and wonders where I am, let her know that I had an errand to run and that I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Randy nodded. “That’s fine with me.” Phil knew he wanted to ask more, but Randy, ever tactful, didn’t pry.
Phil retreated to the ground floor, put on his coat, leaned over his daughter, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I love you,” he whispered.
Ashley stirred briefly, but she remained asleep.
Good.
Given that Allison’s would-be killer had not been caught, Phil was of half a mind to bring his daughter with him on this little “errand,” but it might be too dangerous for the child. Phil was taking an immense risk with this course of action. Ashley would be much safer with Randy and Lupe; that was certain.
Out in his car, Phil used his phone to look up any Bagdasarians who might live in the area. One couple—a John and Shirley—lived about an hour north of town, just west of Interstate 5. He didn’t know if these were Thane’s parents or not, but the rarity of that surname led him to believe that they were at least Thane’s relatives.
Despite the lateness of the hour, he set out.
While he drove, he prayed continuously for protection for him and his family. Thane may not have been able to harm Bobby directly, but Phil didn’t have that luxury. Anything could happen to him.
Allison, of course, would have told him not to worry.
Oh, Allison. Tears stung Phil’s eyes as the lights of Autumn Ridge receded into the distance. Though Allison had nearly been killed, she probably would have still encouraged Phil to engage in some positive thinking. It had been so long since he’d been free from worries that he could barely remember what life had been like before. Could he ever find it within himself to cast aside all his troubles and be a cheerful man once more?
I might, he thought. As soon as Thane is dead. Because even though Thane wasn’t the one who’d plunged the blade into Allison’s chest, Phil knew the man held responsibility for it. The bloody note left behind on the wall was proof enough of that.
The road grew increasingly twisty once Phil left the interstate, and the trees crowded closer on each side, the low mountains looming above the roadway hidden in the darkness of night. Phil realized he’d forgotten to call Allison’s family in Portland to let them know what had happened. He would have to do that in the morning. There was no need for them to wor—
A black shadow darted across the road mere feet in front of the Taurus, and Phil stomped his foot onto the brake so hard he laid two stripes of rubber on the pavement. Trembling, he craned his neck around to make sure no other cars were coming up behind him, then looked toward the trees on his right to see what animal had nearly killed him.
Nothing was there, and the underbrush didn’t appear to have recently been disturbed.
A swooping bird, perhaps? Maybe an owl.
Phil returned his attention to the windshield so he could continue to the Bagdasarian residence, and felt his blood run cold.
A black silhouette the height of a man stood directly in the glare of his headlights, but it wasn’t shaped like a man. It looked more like…a blob? No, not quite. It was moving, and for half a moment it looked as though it had wings. Whatever it was, the creature seemed to be absorbing the light, as if it were a void instead of an object with mass.
“It’s not real,” Phil whispered. “It’s just in my mind.” He had seen many such apparitions during his years as the Servant. As a child he’d had recurring nightmares featuring monsters identical to this, so the demons threw it back at him as a cruel joke.
And here he’d thought he’d never see one again.
He tapped on the gas and inched forward. The silhouette inched forward with him. He accelerated up to twenty miles per hour. The silhouette sped up with him, always staying no more than five feet in front of the car.
It’s blocking my view of the road, he realized as a spike of fear made his heart skip a beat. Because real or not, he couldn’t see through it.
“Father, protect me!” he said aloud, looking for a place to pull off but seeing nowhere suitably wide for a car to park. “Please let me see where I’m going.”
Almost languidly, the silhouette passed through the windshield and occupied the passenger seat, lounging there like an old buddy.
It didn’t leave.
As a result, Phil’s nerves were virtually worn raw by the time he arrived at the proper address roughly one eternity later. A black, metal gate adorned with three-foot-high cursive B’s was closed across a cobbles
tone driveway, and the elegant home, silent and imposing, sat a short distance beyond it. Lights glowed behind several of the windows.
A speaker sat beside the gate. Phil rolled down the window and spoke into it. “Is anyone there?”
“Depends on who’s asking,” said a male voice.
Phil didn’t think that lying would be the proper option in this instance. “My name is Phil Mason, and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to speak with John and Shirley about their son Nathaniel.” That’s assuming he is their son, he thought.
“You’re aware it’s midnight,” the man said.
“Yes. It’s…important.”
“Life or death, I’m sure. The mister and missus are still down by the pool; I’ll go let them know you’re here.”
The speaker fell silent, and Phil released a heavy sigh. It would be a miracle if they let him in. He wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered driving out here when the chances of a face-to-face meeting were so slim.
A handful of minutes passed before the speaker crackled to life once more. “Mr. Bagdasarian says to come on in.”
The gate swung open. Phil stared at it, almost unbelieving. This was what he’d wanted, yet at the same time this felt wrong, like he was walking right into something he had no business getting involved with.
The black shape in the passenger seat disappeared as Phil pulled forward.
A small blessing, or a portent of worse to come.
He parked the Taurus in front of the mansion, trying not to be envious at the display of wealth. By the look of it, at least half a dozen homes the size of the Mason residence could have nestled inside this monstrosity of a dwelling. These people never had to wonder how they would pay the bills.
Phil got out of the car, went to the door, and pressed the buzzer. After half a minute, the door swung open, and a bleary-eyed, pale-faced woman in black greeted him.
“You’re Phil Mason?” she asked, stifling a yawn. By the look of it, she’d been asleep in bed mere minutes earlier.
“That’s me,” Phil said, hoping he didn’t look as frightened as he felt. He certainly wasn’t used to barging in on people like this, especially ones who may or may not prove to be dangerous. “I’m sorry for having anyone wake you, but I’m desperate.”
“Vance said you want to talk about Nathaniel,” the woman said. Strangely, her expression bore no hint of curiosity—just fatigue.
“That’s right,” Phil said, guessing that Vance must have been the unseen man monitoring the gate. “I understand that—”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me. I’m Meryl, by the way. Please come inside.”
Shrugging, Phil stepped into a massive entryway with white tile flooring and sweeping staircases. It made little sense that these people would let him in, especially at this time of night. Did Thane know he was here? Had he used his bizarre telepathy to make these people let him in?
“I’m sorry I came so late,” he continued. “This visit was a bit unplanned.”
“No worries, sir. Mr. Bagdasarian doesn’t mind the intrusion.”
Meryl led Phil into a study that had a roaring fire aglow on the hearth. Bookcases filled with antique tomes lined the walls, and a man who could only be Thane’s father stood before the fire with his hands clasped behind his back.
The man turned upon their entry. Roughly sixty years old, he had black hair shot through with gray and wore a cream cable knit sweater and gray slacks, which he’d probably just put on if he’d been hanging out at his pool when Phil first arrived. Bags beneath his eyes showed his weariness. Phil could see a slight resemblance between him and Thane: the latter’s apparition had a similar, yet more slender, build as his father.
“Mr. Mason is here to see you, sir,” Meryl said, though Phil found the announcement unnecessary. “Mr. Mason, this is John Bagdasarian.”
The man bowed his head. “You may call me John. Meryl, please leave us.”
The housekeeper or whoever she was glided out of the room and closed the door.
Phil and John faced each other, and Phil found he wasn’t sure what to say. He had to remind himself that Thane might be causing him to imagine the entire scene and that for all he knew, he might still be sitting in Randy’s driveway an hour away from here.
“Please take a seat,” John said, gesturing at an armchair upholstered in gaudy floral fabric. “Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Phil said as he sat down in front of the fire. Then, so as not to come off as rude, he added, “But thank you for asking.”
John went and poured himself something from a bottle sitting on a sideboard and then planted himself in the other armchair. For a minute neither spoke, and Phil made covert glances around the room. His gaze landed on a flag hanging on the wall above the fireplace. It consisted of three horizontal bars: the top one red, the middle blue, and the bottom a sort of apricot color. Beside it hung the national flag of Ireland.
Discussing the flags seemed as innocent a conversation starter as any, so Phil pointed at the one on the left and said, “Which country’s flag is that? I don’t recognize it.”
John set his glass down on an end table and beamed up at the flag in adoration. “That is the flag of Armenia: my ancestors’ homeland. My wife’s ancestors are from Ireland, so we put the two up side by side as a way to symbolize our union.”
Phil nodded. “You must have a lot of pride in your heritage, then.”
“It’s important to remember where we came from. It would be a grave disservice to those who came before us if we forgot they existed. Take the stripes, for example. The red symbolizes the blood of those who were slaughtered during the Medz Yeghern. The blue represents the Armenian sky, and the orange is a symbol of our courage.”
“Excuse me for misunderstanding, but the Medz Yeghern? What’s that?”
As soon as the words left Phil’s mouth, a subtle change came over his companion. John’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, and his dark eyes seemed to stare off into a distant time and place. “I wish I didn’t have to explain this every time someone brought it up,” he said. “You’ve heard of the Holocaust, yes?”
Phil wasn’t sure where John was going with this. “I don’t know of anyone who hasn’t.”
“Nobody has to explain the Holocaust to you. You know exactly what it was because you very likely learned about it in school. The Medz Yeghern? Not so much. I suppose the slaughter of one and a half million Armenians pales in comparison to what happened in Europe.”
Phil opened his mouth to speak, but it seemed that John had no plans of stopping.
Maybe mentioning the flag hadn’t been the best idea after all.
“In 1915,” John said, plucking up his glass and gripping it tight, “the Ottoman Turks decided to exterminate my people from their land—women and children as well as the men. They were forced into labor and on death marches. They were beaten, raped, and starved. And to this day, Turkey and many other nations deny that it ever happened.” He took a vicious swig of his beverage before thunking his glass back down with less finesse than the first time.
Phil refocused on the flag, which hung oblivious to the turmoil it memorialized. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You’re not a Turk, are you?”
“What? No. My family was mostly Scottish and German. Why?”
John gave a soft laugh. “Because if you happened to be a Turk, I would have to ask you to leave. I won’t tolerate them. Because of them, my ancestors were driven out of their homeland as refugees. Today there are more Armenians living outside of Armenia than in it. You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be torn away from your home. Your family probably came here to get jobs in a country with far more opportunities. My family came so they wouldn’t be murdered.” He settled back in his chair and clasped his hands together in his lap. “So why did you come here tonight?”
Phil cleared his throat, somewhat jarred by the man’s change of subject, though the previous discussion
had made it rather clear from where Thane had inherited both his hatred and his passion. “I’d like to talk about Nate. He’s your son, right?”
Confusion flickered across John’s face, but it vanished in an instant. “Oh, right—they said you wanted to talk about him. What’s he done?”
“I understand he no longer lives at Arbor Villa in Autumn Ridge.”
“That’s right.”
“Is he here, then?”
“I—I don’t know where he is. I think I heard him leave a while ago.”
“Leave?”
John’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so unusual? He’s a grown man. He’s welcome to come and go as he pleases.”
Phil stared at the man, his thoughts reeling. “Someone was with him, then?”
“I’m not sure. Why all these questions?”
“Maybe you don’t know this, but your son is dangerous. He has this…gift. If you could call it a gift. He can make people hallucinate anything he wants, and he’s used that ability to hurt people I care about.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’ve seen him do it. Last summer, at Arbor Villa; and before that he turned one of my friends into a killing machine. Now he’s set his sights on another friend of mine, and is hurting everyone close to him.” He pictured Allison lying so still in her hospital bed. “And to me.”
“You expect me to believe that? He’s my son. I’d notice if he was capable of that sort of thing.”
“Not if you’re under his influence as well.”
John’s face darkened. “I’m under no one’s influence but my own.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s why you pulled him out of that nursing home after twenty years. He would have made you do it; otherwise you’d have continued to let him rot there.”
“Nate showed up on his own,” said a female voice.
Phil turned to see a slender, sixtyish woman standing in the doorway wearing a hot pink one-piece bathing suit with a cream-colored towel wrapped around her waist. Her auburn hair was a graying version of Thane’s.
So this was Shirley, Thane’s mother.