Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery) (27 page)

“We’re starting to sound like the old timers around here, obsessed with burial mounds and curses.”

“Langley Peterson’s childhood fears were well founded, Chief Ludlow. What’s more, the source of it all, the knife his uncle dug out of the ground, is still out there and back in circulation, as is the malevolent force that seems to be attached to it.”

When Ludlow spoke, his voice echoed the stress he’d been under. “Karen McDugan had family in Sand Springs,” he said, “up near your neck of the woods. I suspect she took Jeremiah and moved up there.”

Chapter Forty

The house, rather drab and unimposing, sat atop a small hill alongside an asphalt and gravel road, just another sleepy bungalow in an aging neighborhood, a suburb west of Tulsa.

Elliot took his foot off the accelerator and eased the truck to a stop. A little work checking the records had paid off. He’d found the address where Karen McDugan had taken her son after leaving her husband and the trouble he’d embraced nearly eighty years ago. A gravel drive curved in an s-shape from the road to the doorstep, though no cars were parked there.

Elliot pulled in, shut the truck off and stepped out. As he neared the main entrance, a sensation of being watched crawled over him and, though he knew it to be impossible, the thought that the house possessed perceptual abilities played through his head, and that it was watching him, following his movements, anticipating, hoping even he might find his way inside.

Elliot climbed the stairs and stepped onto a small landing, but as he prepared to knock, a reflection of light coming from the back of the property caught his attention.

Constructed of wood that had long since turned a color just this side of charcoal, an outbuilding sat about fifty yards behind the house with a set of double doors large enough to accommodate farm equipment.

An uncomfortable notion crept across Elliot’s senses, telling him he should get back in the truck and drive away from this place, but instead he stepped off the landing and started toward the outbuilding. When he reached the double doors, he stopped and studied the structure.

The hasp that held the doors was secured, but the padlock that ran through it had not been fastened, but merely aligned to look as if it had been.

Elliot surveyed the rest of the property. No one seemed to be around. He had no warrant, but he wasn’t on official business in the first place. He’d gone too far to stop now. He removed the lock from the hasp, pulled his service weapon and slowly opened one of the doors.

The barn had no windows, and the sunlight that came through the open door did little to alleviate the darkness, but even in the dim light, the shape of a familiar automobile became visible.

Elliot’s knees grew weak. Holding the Glock in front of him, he crept into the dark confines of the barn. A few steps later, with his left hand holding the weapon cocked at a right angle, he ran his free hand across the car’s fender.

No doubt about it. He’d found Gerald’s Cadillac.

Along the south wall of the barn, an old workbench supported a large vise bolted to the wooden top. Fastened to the wall above the bench, a pegboard held a few tools. Near the workbench was a stack of bricks.

Elliot made his way to the driver’s side door of the Cadillac.

The keys dangled from the ignition.

Again the sensation of being watched came over Elliot, and he wondered if his arrival had been anticipated. He shook off the notion and opened the door to the Cadillac.

The smell of old carpet and well-worn leather wafted out of the interior. Gerald had probably loved the old car. Elliot leaned over and removed the keys from the ignition. Keeping his vigil, he made his way to the rear of the vehicle where he inserted the key into the slot and triggered the latch. With a steady motion, he raised the trunk lid.

Elliot uttered a prayer of thanks. Sitting in the center of the cavernous trunk was a small, rectangular box, but neither Gerald nor his remains had been stored there.

Elliot exhaled some of the breath he’d been holding. He pulled the flashlight from his jacket pocket and ran the beam of light around the interior of the trunk.

The material from which the box had been made, along with the intricate designs carved into it, left little doubt in Elliot’s mind as to its nature. Father Davenport had described it perfectly. It was the rosewood chest, the keeper of secrets for Stanley Gerald Reynolds I.

Elliot stowed the flashlight and lifted the lid from the box.

Inside, coiled upon a bed of blue velvet, was a chain of gold and attached to it a crucifix embedded with a medal.

Elliot pulled the cross Father Davenport had given him from beneath his shirt. It was the same as the one in the box, the cross of Saint Benedict. The special crucifix had not been the intended contents of the box but had been employed to offer a measure of protection against what had been in it. It was here, inside the chest of rosewood, that Father Stanley Reynolds had kept the knife of obsidian he’d taken from Charles McDugan.

A sound like people gathered in a hallway and whispering filled the corners of the barn.

The hair on the back of Elliot’s neck stiffened as he remembered a book he’d read where people had been driven insane by something similar. He stowed the crucifix inside his pocket and dropped the lid of the chest into the trunk. Stepping away from the car, he quickened his pace as he crossed the floor.

The muffled voices started again, resonating now, as if coming from all directions.

Elliot tightened his grip on the Glock, eased through the door, and stepped outside.

The voices abruptly ended.

Elliot studied the area, methodically and incrementally looking in different directions. His emergence into the open had interrupted the menagerie of whispers, and that meant whoever or whatever was behind it was also aware of his location. A disturbing thought swept through him. The source of the strange sound could have been inside the barn all along. He turned toward the doorway.

A swath of daylight cut through the opening revealing a misshapen, triangular portion of the dirt floor, but it was something beyond that which grabbed Elliot’s attention. A pair of luminous eyes, like those of an animal, floated in the darkness.

Elliot backed away, mesmerized by the intensity of the disembodied gaze.

A wave of heat raked across his back and a force shoved him forward. He stumbled into the barn, the momentum taking him to the floor, knocking the Glock from his hand.

The dirt floor oozed a thick aroma, like a garden shack that’d been closed up for years. Elliot scrambled for the Glock, lurched to his feet, and swept the barn, his finger on the trigger.

The barn doors slammed shut, the hasp fell into place, and the lock snapped into position.

Elliot ran to the exit where he pressed his face against the doors and peered through the cracks between the planks.

The rough wood scraped against his face like sandpaper. Part of the yard and the back of the house came into view, but nothing else.

Elliot lowered his shoulder and thrust his weight against the door.

Dust belched into the air, but the heavy planks held firm.

Elliot looked wildly into the shadows, fear mounting as he wondered what to do next. He considered taking another run at the wooden barricade but abandoned the idea. Instead, he placed the Glock where he thought it would be most effective and fired two rounds into the wood. A hard right kick did the rest, and the doors swung open.

Elliot stepped outside and did a quick three-sixty, the Glock held in front of him with both hands.

Along the street that skirted the front of the property a car glided past the house and disappeared from view. From somewhere in the distance, the sound of a leaf blower droned on. Just another peaceful day in suburbia, until the grass near Elliot’s feet moved and something slithered past.

Instinctively he stepped away, ignoring the fact that whoever had shoved him into the barn was probably still around.

A brown, cord-like vertebrate continued its movement through the grass. Near the barn doors, several more of them wiggled free from a burlap bag while others, having already found the opening, slithered in the dirt.

Elliot’s pulse quickened. The place was swarming with Copperheads. Elliot backed away and ran toward the house. It looked no more welcoming now than it had earlier, but Elliot suspected whoever was behind this was probably in there. When he reached the steps, he climbed onto the landing and banged on the door.

The lock disengaged and the door began to open, not quickly but a few inches at a time.

Elliot leaned forward and peered through the open doorway. Like the barn, the house smelled of decay and lacked light, as if all places where light might have gained entry had been blocked and sealed off. “I know you’re in there,” Elliot said. “Why don’t you come on out, so we can talk about it. You’re not in trouble. Nothing’s really happened yet.”

No answer.

“If I have to come in after you, all bets are off.”

“You surprise me, Detective Elliot. I didn’t take you for someone given to gambling.”

It was a voice tinged with age. Elliot could almost place it, but not quite. “Who are you?”

A hand shot from the doorway, clamped around Elliot’s wrist, and yanked him forward, into the house. Just as quickly, the door slammed shut, closing off the light. In a near simultaneous action, something banged against his right hand, and the Glock fell from his grip and thudded to the floor.

Elliot went after the weapon, but he didn’t make it far.

A fist caught him on the forehead and he stumbled backward. With the quickness and skill of a cop, someone yanked Elliot’s arms behind him, wrapped them with a sticky binding, and forced him to sit. Using more of the tape, he bound Elliot to the chair. With the job finished, the captor walked away, his footsteps echoing through the black void.

Elliot tested the bindings. They were tight, but he could move his hands and wrists slightly. If given time, he could work them free. He wanted to ask questions, but feared the action might cause the assailant to tape his mouth as well. For what seemed a long time, he sat in darkness, struggling against the bindings. It was working. He’d gained some slack.

“Stop moving around.”

Elliot put his escape efforts on hold. Hearing the man’s voice after such a long period of silence surprised him. He’d even entertained the thought that he’d been left alone. The vaguely familiar voice had come from maybe ten feet in front of him, but he couldn’t see anyone. The darkness was just too thick. He decided to chance a question. “Why are you doing this?”

“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Elliot ran several recent arrests he’d been involved with through his memory, trying to imagine who the assailant might be. “Why didn’t you?”

“I do what I’m told. Works better that way.”

Elliot resumed his struggle with the tape. “So you’re telling me you’re not responsible for all of this, that you’re just the messenger?”

Elliot waited for a reply but none came.

“This guy who’s putting pressure on you, telling you what to do, maybe I can help.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, have no idea what you’re offering.”

Elliot worked one hand free. “Don’t be so sure. I’m a cop, and I’m pretty good at what I do.”

“I’ll bet you are. But this is different.”

“How is it different? Maybe you could explain it to me?”

After another period of silence, he said, “That would be the worst thing I could do, worse even than killing you.”

Elliot wondered if this was the son of Charles McDugan, and if he’d been exposed to the same thing as David Stephens and Angela Gardner. “Is it the voices,” Elliot asked, “the ones inside your head?”

“If you know about that, it’s already too late. I’d thought about letting you go, persuading you to forget about all this and go on about your life. That’s not an option now. In fact, I suspect you’ll welcome my killing you.”

Elliot removed the remainder of the bindings. The voice had moved behind him. He stood and turned toward the area from where the sound had come.

A small flame appeared in the darkness, the self-appointed warden of this prison having lit a match. He lowered it to a candle, and when the wick caught fire, its light revealed a man of medium build, about five foot eight in stature. The lone candle, though seemingly bright in the instant it had broken the darkness, did not remove enough of the gloom for Elliot to identify his captor.

 The man’s next move was not completely unanticipated. He hadn’t dragged Elliot into his world and tied him to a chair merely to observe his reactions.

He came forward, the Glock Elliot had lost held in his right hand and pointed at Elliot, though judging from the lack of rigidity in the aim of the weapon, Elliot did not think he intended to kill him with it, at least not yet.

He continued across the room, walking slowly in what seemed an almost non-deliberate manner, as if even he were unsure of his next move.

As he closed in, the barrel of the Glock grew larger, and at a distance of about six feet, he stopped.

From this proximity, even though the candlelight was partially blocked by the man’s body, Elliot now recognized him. He thought of the grizzled, almost ghostly face he’d encountered at the old house in Tulsa where Gerald had disappeared.

Elliot fought to gather his senses. The man confronting him did not look old enough to be the son of Charles McDugan. “I guess you gave up stealing motorcycles in favor of taking up kidnapping, not exactly a good career move, if you ask me, Jeremiah. It is Jeremiah, isn’t it?”

The son of Charles McDugan, if indeed that was who he was, did not reply, and when he brought from behind him his other hand, it held the obsidian knife, its jagged blade glistening, even though the light was dim and coming from a distance behind Jeremiah, who now raised the artifact above his head.

“That’s a fancy weapon,” Elliot said. “Where did you get it?”

“It is sacred to me. You have no right to doubt its power or to blaspheme its purpose.”