Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery) (28 page)

“It belonged to your father, didn’t it? But that meddling priest tricked it out from under him. I suspect, though, had you anticipated the consequences you would have left it alone.”

He didn’t answer.

“I have to hand it to you, McDugan. Tracking the knife down after all those years must have been difficult.”

“I knew the name of the Catholic who secreted the
tecpat
l away. It was simply a matter of waiting until it showed up at the right time and place.”

Elliot grabbed the chair he’d been bound to and thrust the makeshift shield between himself and Jeremiah McDugan.

“Your spiritual presence is strong. Submit to me and I will make you a powerful priest in my name.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

McDugan’s face remained passive, his eyes reflecting no passion, and he did not bring the ancient weapon slashing down upon Elliot. Instead he gently lowered the relic and held it out, as if it were a peace offering.

The words of Professor David Stephens ran through Elliot’s head.
Don’t touch the knife.
He took a step back. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you put the gun and the artifact on the table, and you and I can have a little talk about your father, Charles McDugan.”

“My father’s dead. Now take the knife. It is the reason I’m here, and the reason you’ve made it your quest to find me. Come on. Just think how easily you could kill me with it. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Elliot said. “I’m here to help you.”

McDugan laughed. “Don’t pretend you’re different. You’re all alike. You’ll do anything to save yourself, anything at all.”

Elliot took a step back. “I’ve seen the results of the knife’s influence. Losing my sanity and sense of self-awareness doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Careful,” the McDugan thing said, “you wouldn’t want to disturb my little servants.”

From every corner of the room, they emerged from the shadows, slithering, tongues darting, their bellies whispering across the floor.

Elliot’s throat tightened. He slammed the chair down and jumped onto it, his stomach churning at the thought of having sat in the dark with those things crawling around. “You’re nuts, McDugan. What makes you think your little friends won’t turn on you?”

Like a child playing with a toy airplane, McDugan moved the obsidian knife through the air. “They’re even more afraid of me than you are. And your fear runs deep. I am given to pity, something of a rarity I assure you. If you wish that I should take your blood instead of your life, I’ll make it so. Get down from the chair and lie on the floor.”

McDugan’s voice had turned softer, almost consoling.

Elliot glanced around the room, and as he considered his options his hope that both he and McDugan might make it out of the house alive evaporated. He decided to jump from the chair. His sudden weight upon his adversary would be considerable. He could knock him off his feet and make a dash for the door. If he could avoid the snakes, he would be free.

He studied his adversary, who now stood motionless, as if he were calmly awaiting Elliot’s decision, his hands held loosely at his sides, the knife in one and the Glock in the other.

Elliot shifted his weight to prepare for the attack, but before he jumped, the room again went dark. He had thought he and McDugan were alone, but something had doused the candle.

Elliot recoiled at the tickle of fingers groping at his throat, and it was then that the cross of St. Benedict was ripped from his neck.

Chapter Forty-One

Elliot reached out, trying to locate McDugan, or whoever had taken the cross. He found only emptiness, nearly falling from the chair for his efforts.

Perspiration broke out across Elliot’s forehead, though this was followed, not by a sense of calmness but of reassurance in his belief that if the crucifix afforded protection, it came not from a loyal follower, but from the one whose death and resurrection it symbolized. However, if McDugan, or what he’d become, feared the cross and was now, in its absence, more willing to do whatever he had planned for Elliot, that was something to consider.

Listening to McDugan’s footsteps as he moved about the room, Elliot reminded himself that McDugan did not seem to want to kill him, at least not yet. He could have done so several times. The knowledge of this did not bring Elliot comfort. He began to conjure up all sorts of alternative fates, most of them dealing with torture.

Elliot groped his jacket pocket for the flashlight but found that it, too, was missing. He’d probably lost it in the same manner as the Glock.

He decided to stay on the chair for the time being. He had a pretty good idea where the front door was, but with snakes crawling about in the darkness, his chances of escaping were not good. McDugan was not near. His footsteps had come from the area where the candle had been.

In the darkness, a low, guttural growl, the kind a predatory cat might make, evolved into the voice of Jeremiah McDugan.

“No one knows you’re here,” he said. “Last anyone heard, you were somewhere in Eastern Oklahoma.”

Elliot waved his arms to regain his balance but remained silent and as still as he could. Certainly McDugan knew where he was, but any bit of doubt would work in his favor.

McDugan was much closer now, his voice a whisper in Elliot’s ear. “I’ve been waiting a long time for someone like you.”

Elliot’s skin prickled beneath the moist heat of McDugan’s breath upon his neck, and even though the voice had been soft, his ears rang, as if he’d chosen a seat too close to the speakers at a heavy-metal rock concert.

Elliot squeezed his hands into fists and lashed out in different directions, hoping to get lucky and land a shot, knock McDugan off his feet.

He found only emptiness, though the sensation of McDugan’s presence remained strong.

He felt a vibration, though it came not from his surroundings but from within, originating in his throat and lungs, a silent scream, not unlike the tormented cries that had torn open the evening in Poteau, during the attack on Father Williams.

Elliot looked around the room. It had been he who had growled, and with it something within him had changed. The darkness had not been removed or lessened to any appreciable degree, but there was no denying he now sensed, in detail, what was around him. More than his intuition was at work here.

McDugan stood near the doused candle, still and lifeless, his eyes empty, as if he were not a man at all but an elaborate suit of armor designed to mimic a real person.

An expanse of the hardwood flooring was cleared, the snakes having wiggled into rows on either side, creating a pathway, leading to McDugan.

Elliot lowered one foot from the chair then the other. He stepped onto the pathway and began walking toward McDugan, slowly at first but gaining in both speed and confidence. It appeared his adversary was unaware of what was happening.

Without warning, McDugan raised the Glock and fired.

Elliot dove for the floor, the slug whizzing past his head. He caught his breath and scooted toward McDugan, hoping to reach him before the wiggling wall of copperheads changed their minds and decided to attack.

McDugan fired another shot.                                            

The projectile hit the floor, splintering the wood just inches from Elliot’s head.

To Elliot’s left was a sofa and a coffee table. He got to his hands and knees. McDugan had missed, and at that distance it was more than could be accounted for by a lack of experience with firearms. He had heard Elliot coming, but he had not known his exact location. Elliot didn’t analyze the disturbing indications of why his senses had been heightened while his adversary’s had seemed to fade. McDugan would fire again, and he might not miss the next time.

Elliot rose to his feet and brought his forearm down against McDugan’s hand.

The Glock hit the floor, but Elliot didn’t have time to retrieve it. McDugan came toward him, slashing wildly with the obsidian knife.

After the physical contact McDugan had honed in on his location. In addition, the snakes had closed the pathway behind him.

The blade caught Elliot’s shirt, ripping a long slash across the material.

He didn’t think the blade had touched him. He felt no pain.

McDugan readied the knife for another attack, his eyes as flat and lifeless as those of a sightless animal.

Elliot jumped for the coffee table, his right foot catching the edge, though he managed to balance and stay atop it.

Adjusting for what Elliot had done, McDugan, like an automaton under someone else’s control, altered his course and again came toward him.

Elliot transferred his weight to his left foot and delivered a kick to McDugan’s chest.

He kept coming.

Elliot kicked again, landing a well-placed shot to the Jeremiah’s forehead.

Jeremiah McDugan did not fall but the action caused him to halt his progress. As if trying to gather his senses, he stood nearly motionless.

Elliot seized the opportunity. He grabbed the wrist of McDugan’s knife hand and bashed it hard against his knee.

The obsidian knife dropped and thudded heavily to the top of the coffee table where Elliot stood.

He and McDugan stood in motionless silence, neither seeming to know what might come next. Elliot ended the standoff by reaching down and taking the knife, not quickly but slowly, gingerly running his fingers around the handle.

The action was not without effect. The room went black and Elliot began to lose his balance, swaying as if he might fall from the table.

Chapter Forty-Two

It was the cold that brought Kenny out of his sleep. He reached for the covers but there were none. Pain shot through his leg and he realized it had fallen asleep, and that something was beneath him, causing this to happen.

He found the object, pulled it from under his leg and brought it up where he could see it.

It was the BB gun Nick had given him just a few days ago for his ninth birthday. He must have been sitting on the floor, cleaning the gun or something, and had fallen asleep, leaning against the wall. He couldn’t remember ever having done that before. He must have been awfully tired.

Something didn’t seem quite right, though. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, or why he might feel uneasy. The bed was where it was supposed to be, still made and not slept in, the old dresser with a broken leg that Maggie, his mom’s friend, had given him, a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Nothing seemed any different, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling he didn’t belong here. Being an outsider was something he’d grown used to, but still, everything seemed foggy, like he’d just come out of a dream that’d lasted forever. He didn’t think that was possible, though his stomach told him he hadn’t eaten in a while.

He got to his feet, but the effort made him dizzy and he had to put his hand on the wall to keep from falling. He guessed being hungry could do that to a kid. He walked out of his room and went down the hallway to where his mom slept.

The door was closed, but that wasn’t unusual. He knew well enough about Mom’s privacy. He pressed his hand against his stomach to quiet the growling, and again he wondered how long he’d been asleep. He thought about knocking on the door but decided against it and walked up the hall to the kitchen.

Inside the refrigerator, a carton of milk sat on the top shelf, but other than that it was empty.

Kenny brought the carton of milk near his face, something he’d learned to do, but quickly jerked it away. It’d gone bad. He took the milk to the sink and poured it out. Afterward, he climbed onto the cinder block he’d found in the backyard to use as a step and checked the cupboard where the food was kept.

It was empty.

He couldn’t remember that ever happening before. There was always something, a can of beans, some corn, even some cereal on occasion, but not this time. He checked the other cabinets but found only dishes and stuff.

Going over to Nick’s house occurred to Kenny, to see if Nick had anything, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Nick’s dad kept a roof over Nick’s head, and made sure he had something to eat most of the time, but other than that, Nick’s life was nothing to envy. He sure was hungry, though, and getting something to eat was worth taking a chance at getting yelled at, or maybe even worse. As he started toward the door, he realized he didn’t know what time it was, what time of year even, and if it was hot or cold outside.

The thought of his memory being all messed up put a knot in his stomach. If something weird had happened to him, and he had slept far longer than usual, what about his mom?

He ran back to her door, having to fight the fear to knock, softly at first, but when she didn’t answer, he rapped his knuckles hard against the wood. Having completed the knocking, he pressed his ear against the door and listened.

He heard nothing.

He tested the door. It wasn’t locked so he eased it open. When the gap was wide enough, he poked his head through and peeked inside.

Mom was on the bed but she wasn’t moving, and the soft snoring sound that usually accompanied her sleep was missing.

Kenny wondered if she’d stopped breathing. He stepped into the room and tiptoed to her bedside. In a voice somewhere between normal and a whisper, he said, “Mom?”

She made no indication she’d heard him.

All sorts of thoughts spun through Kenny’s head and suddenly he wanted to be out of there, to run from the room and get away, and he had to fight the urge. He put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a small shake.

Still she did not answer and did not move.

Kenny glanced at the dresser along the wall beside the window.

The needle was there along with the other stuff his mom used. She looked awfully pale.

Kenny leaned closer, his face near his mom so as to hear any sound she might make. He shook her again.

Her eyes flew open and she grabbed his wrist, digging her fingernails into his skin. “What are you doing in here?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m hungry that’s all. I need something to eat.”