by Bill Bennett
Dr Johnstone smiled. ‘I’m afraid not, Lily. You’re an important asset to us. We can’t risk losing you, not now. Soon everyone else will arrive. I’ve come early, to deliver you. And I’ll be around. Don’t try escaping. You won’t get far, believe me. Now, I’ll get you some water. And something to eat, too. Just relax. And don’t worry. You’ll be with your mother very soon now. Very soon. And it will be glorious!’
He smiled, a smile that sent a shiver of revulsion through her body. Then he left and shut the door, and she heard a bolt slide across and a padlock click shut too.
Black. Totally black. No windows, no other doors, no way out. Then slowly, a faint line of light appeared at the bottom of the door, as her eyes adjusted to the dark. That was all. That thin line. Otherwise black. She stepped back, closed her eyes, focused her energy, searched for her mother, for her energetic heartbeat. But she found nothing. She was alone. In black. With nothing.
CHAPTER 28
They drove up the winding muddy track to the mine, through shifting mist and intermittent rain, until Kritta spotted a vehicle up ahead on a far ridge. She ordered Kevin to pull over and she jumped out, he too. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around his torso to gain some warmth, stood beside her and watched as she looked through her binoculars.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s that doctor from Santa Fe and his driver.’ She lowered the glasses. How did they get here? she wondered. How did they find the mine? The mine was in the valley on the other side of the mountain. Another forty-five minutes driving and they’d be there.
Kritta turned back to the car and called out, ‘Andi!’
She unwound her lithe, lanky body and got out, walked over to Kritta. ‘What?’ Andi asked. ‘It’s cold out here.’
‘See that car?’ she said, pointing to the Jeep Cherokee on the far ridge. ‘It’s two Cygnet witches – that doctor and his driver. Get to work.’
Kritta dropped into a moment of intense meditation, uttered a few quiet words and shifted Andi into her magnificent golden eagle form. With a couple of powerful flaps of her broad wings, Andi was airborne and heading off into the mist towards the Jeep.
‘What are you doing?’ Kevin asked.
‘Watch,’ Kritta said, grinning. She raised her binoculars again as the Jeep Cherokee began to make the last precipitous climb before disappearing around the other side of the mountain.
She wanted to make this neat and clean. It might be that they wouldn’t ever find the wreckage, being so remote. But if they did, no doubt there’d be a thorough investigation. The death of the doctor would be a big deal and the cops would send in their top forensic units. They’d be all over it, so she had to make it look like an accident.
The Jeep was now approaching a sharp bend on the track. Ahead was a straight drop of several hundred feet to a gully below. With the rain lately, the track would be wet and slippery. Perfect, Kritta thought, and she smiled to herself.
She watched Andi carefully time her approach. She was waiting for exactly the right moment. Then as the vehicle began to round the bend Kritta saw her swoop down fast, extending her talons and hitting the windshield with full force, spider-webbing the safety-glass. Through her binoculars she could see the driver jerk the wheel and slam on the brakes, but too late. The Jeep crashed into the rock siding, bounced off and hurtled back towards the edge and over – hovering in the air for what seemed like a minute or two, but what must have been only a fraction of a second before it began to drop down the side of the mountain.
It rolled and crashed, careening off rocky outcrops, its windows smashing, its roof caving in, Kritta and Bess shrieking with laughter as the car hit massive trees, staving in its sides, rolling and crashing, crashing and rolling, tumbling down the mountainside, glass exploding and metal tearing, hitting stony spurs and flying through the air before crashing down again onto more rocks below, ripping out bushes and small trees as it kept tumbling down the cliff face, nearly at the bottom now and the vehicle no longer a vehicle but a twisted tangle of metal as it finally came to a shuddering thumping stop in a creek bed in the gully way below.
After all the din of the crash, there was silence. An unearthly silence. And then Kritta saw flames erupt, and a few seconds later, the sound of the explosion.
She shrieked with laughter.
Kevin stood beside her, in shock.
CHAPTER 29
His daughter looked up from texting on her phone, slightly irritated at the interruption. ‘When are you back?’ she asked, not really interested in his answer.
‘Monday,’ he said.
Her eyes flicked back to her phone, she texted some more, making it clear that whoever she was communicating with was far more important than her dad right at that moment. ‘Have a good time. I hope all your planets align okay,’ she said, smiling at her wit. She offered up her cheek for him to kiss.
And kiss it he did.
Chappy Waterstone, as the state’s district attorney, travelled regularly, so going away for the weekend was no big deal, particularly a short trip like this within the US. Twice a year he also went overseas, in his capacity as the United States Secretary General of Night Watchers International. Those trips happened to coincide with the biannual meetings of the Golden Order’s Inner Sanctum in Budapest. Chappy Waterstone, as Head of the North, was required to attend these meetings and inform Centrum and the other Quadrant heads of what was happening in his neck of the woods. Invariable the discussion would focus on plans for Ganglia – the giant disturbance they hoped to mount after Unholy.
Night Watchers was, to any investigator that dug down, an organisation of amateur astronomers with branches all over the world. Being a sophisticated and well-hidden front for Baphomet, it allowed its members, particularly those with families, an excuse to get out nights and go to remote locations to watch the stars and the planets, an integral part of their witchcraft practice. But it also allowed them to convene in secret for important satanic ceremonies and rituals, such as Unholy.
They’d been waiting for this sacred night for 125 years, the last time there’d been a similar convergence of astrological events. At midnight, the sun would pass through the centre of Xibalba be, or The Black Road, a massive section of black dust in the Milky Way that the pre-Christian Mayans believed was the entrance to their underworld, a cosmic link between celestial planes where the soul goes after death.
Simultaneously, a massive meteor storm called the Eta Aquariids would hit, with several hundred meteors lighting up the sky in a display worthy of a New Year’s Eve fireworks spectacular. At the same time, the new moon would be at its zenith, making it the darkest night possible, and it would be at its closest point to earth on its elliptical orbit, making it huge in the night sky – the astronomers called it a supermoon.
The witches believed that the simultaneous alignment of all these extraordinary cosmic events would provide them with an infusion of celestial energy that would deepen their divine connection to Satan. It would also be the perfect occasion upon which to make the sacrificial offering of the Maguire-clan woman’s soul.
Chappy Waterstone walked into his expansive kitchen and kissed his wife Mary goodbye. Married for thirty-two years, they lived in a magnificent plantation house on the banks of the Mississippi just outside Baton Rouge, and as far as he believed, she knew nothing of his activities as the top witch in North America. She might have suspected infidelities, given the strange hours he kept some nights, and the odd inexplicable trips that took him away, but she never questioned him. She was quite happy with her life.
He carried a massive case containing his Schmidt – Cassegrain telescope out to his shiny black Lincoln. Mary stood on the porch and watched as he put the gear in the trunk, and then she smiled and waved goodbye as he drove out of their circular driveway and headed to the airport. But he soon changed direction and made his way to an industrial park on the outskirts of town where he drove into a large You-Store-It facility.
He opened up
a tilt-a-door garage, walked in and closed the door behind him. He sorted through what he needed to take – the vestments of a grand master, his silver chalices and two small double-edged athames, a black embroidered altar cloth, his venerable Book of Shadows and a large bladed sword. Its hilt was studded with gems, its blade inscribed with ancient runes. He packed it all carefully into a nondescript hockey bag, then locked up the garage again and continued on to the airport.
He would be in Charleston by one o’clock, that is if he wasn’t delayed by emergency services dealing with the atrocity at the State Fair. In a sense, he hoped there would be disruption. That after all had been the whole purpose of the exercise. At any rate, with a bit of luck he’d be at the mine by five. Hundreds of witches were coming from all over the country, members of Night Watchers if anyone asked, carrying their scopes and tripods and cameras. But like him they also secretly carried all the Baphomet gear they’d need for what would be the greatest satanic sacrifice in living memory.
Yes, it would be a night that would be talked about for generations and those fortunate enough to be in attendance would be feted by lesser witches, and they would be asked to recount every tiny detail until, after the telling and retelling, it would eventually morph into myth.
A double soul extraction – mother and now daughter too – the complete extinction of the family line. The soul debt repaid, in full. And now that they had their Book of Light, they could slowly and methodically extinguish Cygnet once and for all.
CHAPTER 30
Skyhawk drove fast for a few hours, then took an exit off the highway and soon he was passing empty houses with front doors papered with faded eviction notices and lawns that had lost all respect. He passed disused industrial plants and timber mills, chains and padlocks on their rusted gates, signs up outside boasting of opening hours that were no longer relevant. He drove fast through small soporific towns with main streets that had once bustled with hope and prosperity. Now there was no hope, and the prosperity had long since packed up and gone somewhere else, somewhere cheaper.
He soon left the dying-if-not-dead towns behind and, as the two lane road gradually devolved into a one-lane pot-holed track, he found himself driving through forests ungraciously denuded by long-ago timber-cutting, past the occasional farmhouse hideously landscaped with cannibalised cars on chocks and past the odd cow standing alone in a fenceless field, looking at him forlornly as he drove past. Skyhawk realised that the track was heading inexorably up towards dark mountains in the distance, their peaks shrouded in mist, their malevolence pervasive. Somewhere beyond those mountains lay the Deep Sink Mine.
He pulled into an abandoned gas station, more fitting in a museum of some kind, or perhaps in a coffee table book glorifying the decay of the American Dream. He took out his smartphone and studied a satellite map of the area around the mine. He saw that there was only one track in that threaded its way up and around mountains until it dropped into a valley, in the centre of which was the mine. To one side was a large black circle – a tailings dump perhaps.
He shifted the map into a higher magnification and noticed there was another track – barely registering on the satellite image, more like a goat track and probably not usable by even a four-wheel drive, but it circled around the sink and stopped at the rear of the mine. Perhaps in the distant past it had been used as an emergency exit if the main track became impassable. Now it looked to be overgrown and beset by washaways and erosion ditches – but to Skyhawk, it was perfect.
The main track in would be heavily guarded, he figured, and he wouldn’t even get halfway down the mountain to the valley floor before they’d attack him. No, this goat track seemed the only alternative. He doubted they would have it guarded, or have lookouts stationed there. They probably didn’t even know it existed. Surely their focus would be the main access track. But taking the smaller backtrack would be slow going and time was now of the essence. It was mid-afternoon already and tonight was the full new moon. Unholy. He only had a few hours in which to break into the mine, find Lily, find her mom and somehow get them the hell out of there. He smiled to himself, grimly.
Easy, he thought.
The track was rougher and slower going than he’d anticipated. It was barely a track at all – it was just the notion of a track – but it got him to within a few miles of the rear of the mine until a deep washaway prevented him going any further. He hid the car under a thick grove of trees so it couldn’t be seen from the air, then he took to foot.
Once again, he ran.
And once again he leapt and bounded and flew.
For several miles he ran.
Until the fence around the mine stopped him.
It was too high to jump, there was razor wire atop, and it was electrified. There were signs up regularly along the fence, warning not to touch it because you could get a shock so severe you could die – and the Deep Sink Mining Company would take no responsibility for your death or injury.
Through the wire fence he could see the mine complex laid out below him. It was spread over a couple of acres, its perimeter surrounded by the high fence, interrupted only by two large gates at the front entrance. There was a security office in a small demountable shed just inside the gates.
Further back there were several timber buildings, all in an advanced state of disrepair. Skyhawk could see people walking into and out of the largest of the buildings – it must have once been the main administration block – with cars parked out front, and at the rear of the buildings there was a camping site where a dozen or more RVs and vans were already settling in, making ready for the night.
And then there was the mine itself, some distance from the buildings – the main shaft at the bottom of a subsidence that must have been the original sinkhole. The entrance to the shaft was boarded up with two large doors.
Looming ominously over the entire complex was the huge black tailings dump he’d seen in the satellite image. Seeing it for real, it was even bigger and more oppressive than it seemed on the map. It was conical in shape, with a track that corkscrewed up to a level area on top, about the size of two football fields. It seemed to throb with a dark foul energy that Skyhawk could feel, even from a distance.
He walked back into the woods until he found a tree with two suitable branches. He used his knife to cut them off, then sat on a rock and whittled them into two drumsticks. He’d left his other pair back at the lake. Every now and then he would stop and check the drumsticks’ balance, he’d rap them on the rock listening to the sound they made, the vibration they created, and then when he was satisfied he put them into the back pocket of his trousers, got to his feet and set off, following the fence back around towards the entrance.
As he approached the front gates he saw that they were locked – a big padlock hanging from a thick chain. He looked across to the security office – through a grimy window he saw a guard, sitting at a card table, tapping into his phone. Most probably playing a video game, Skyhawk thought. There was no phone coverage here. He looked further into the mine site. There was no one around. All the activity now seemed to be at the back of the buildings, at the camping area.
He picked up a large rock weathered smooth by the elements, then he walked over to the gates, sat down cross-legged in front, placed the rock on the ground in front of him, pulled out his two drumsticks and started drumming on the rock. And as he drummed, he began to sing. A primitive song, with rhythms and harmonies that were ancient, yet they had a powerful resonant potency.
The sound was mesmerising, entrancing. It drifted up and out, the sound like a siren’s call, like an Indian reed flute coaxing the cobra out from its basket. He saw through the window the guard turn and look outside, then get to his feet, curious, and step out of the shack. He walked up to the gates, and saw Skyhawk sitting in front, drumming and singing. The guard’s movements were disconnected, mechanical, as if they were being pulled forwards by strings and pulleys over which he had no control. There was a remote dullness behind his eyes,
as though his very being had been hijacked and taken to a faraway place.
‘What are you doing there?’ he asked, in a voice that sounded manufactured.
Skyhawk didn’t answer. He just kept drumming, kept singing.
‘Cut that out!’ the guard yelled.
Skyhawk increased the tempo of his drumbeats. He sang louder. This infuriated the guard. He shook his head, put his hands over his ears to try and keep the sound out.
‘I said stop it, goddamn it!’ he screamed, and reached for his keys on a ring on his belt. He walked over, quickly undid the padlock, swung the gate wide and stormed up to Skyhawk. ‘I told you to cut that out, you little –’ He reached for a weapon holstered on his hip.
In a flash Skyhawk was on his feet, his knife out. He stepped forward and swung the knife around, smashing the butt of its handle into the guard’s forehead. The dumb-founded man stood there a moment, stone still, his eyes staring blankly in disbelief at Skyhawk, his mouth agape like a fish blowing bubbles, then he crumpled to the ground.
Skyhawk heard a car coming down the track. It was out of sight around a bend but would soon be at the gates. He quickly closed and re-padlocked the gates, dragged the guard back into the shack and propped him up in his chair as he’d been before, then he took the guard’s keys, slipped out of the shack and raced across to the admin building. As he ran across he noticed that parked out front was the Lexus SUV that he and Lily had seen the previous day. The one they’d followed, but then lost. It was as he’d thought. The doctor had somehow doubled back, followed them to the lake and taken Lily during the night.
He hid behind the side of the admin building then peeked out and saw a car pull up at the gates. It was the Mustang. The tiny biker woman hopped out, strode up to the locked gates and yelled for someone to open up. She was joined by the tall dark-haired boy, Lily’s school friend, and he too called out to the guard, who wasn’t responding. He had a few minutes, Skyhawk thought, before they figured the guard was out to it and they raised hell. He discreetly ducked into the building.