Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery) (30 page)

Elliot thought he saw a glimmer of hope cross Cyndi’s eyes.

“You know how I feel about it. But I won’t ask you to do that. I love you, Kenny. Cop or not, that’ll never change.”

Elliot leaned against Cyndi’s car. Had she just told him she loved him? Yes, he thought she had. He pulled her close and brought his lips to hers, lingering in the warm pleasure. When he pulled away, he said, “I love you, too.”

“Kenny, you’re so honest it’s almost scary.”

Cyndi’s remark seemed strange, but everything about this day was murky at best. “I’ve never thought of honesty as being frightening.”

“You wouldn’t, would you? You’re a most unusual man. But you belong to me now, and that’s forever.”

Once again, Elliot experienced a bout of dizziness, and during the interlude he thought Cyndi’s eyes had changed, that their shape had altered, and her pupils had become like those of a cat.

When he regained his balance, he shook off the ridiculous notion and walked around to the passenger side and climbed in.

If this seemed unusual to Cyndi, she showed no sign of it. She watched Elliot fasten his seat belt, then started the car and backed out of the parking lot.

George and Evelyn Bannister lived near the university where Mr. Bannister had worked. The red-brick house, an old bungalow of eighty years, preserved by hard work and diligent maintenance, looked as if it could have been constructed yesterday. The driveway, consisting of parallel strips of concrete separated by a strip of grass, ran beside the house and ended at a one-car garage, also immaculately maintained—the nice but modest home of a college professor.

Elliot took Cyndi’s hand and together they walked to the door and rang the bell. Once inside, Elliot stood beside Cyndi while Mr. and Mrs. Bannister hovered near by.

Elliot felt like a teenager who’d brought his date home past curfew. The Bannisters seemed kind, even gracious, yet Elliot detected a hint of sadness behind their smiles. He’d seen the look before, and he wondered what kind of private pain they might be hiding.

Cyndi put her hand on Elliot’s shoulder. “Mom, dad, this is Kenny, the guy I’ve been telling you about.”

Mr. Bannister, who wore a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, was lean with blue eyes and greying hair. He stepped forward and shook Elliot’s hand. “Call me George.”

Elliot wondered if the garage at the end of the drive housed an old British sports car. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

Like members of a bluegrass band taking turns at the microphone, Mr. Bannister stepped aside and the missus came forward for her turn in the spotlight. She took Elliot’s hands and squeezed them. “Why, you’re a fine looking lad, Mr. Elliot.”

“You’re too kind,” he said, trying to place her accent, Scottish, he thought, though years of American influence had eroded it to the point of being only slightly detectable.

She spun around and led Elliot into the living room. “Come, sit with us and we can talk.”

In the area where they sat, two couches faced each other in front of a fireplace where a yellow blaze flickered. On a coffee table, an English teapot with matching cups sat beside a tray of cookies. Evelyn Bannister filled one of the cups and offered it to Elliot.

Elliot took the tea and glanced at the cream and sugar, the room becoming void of conversation as the soft tinkle of spoon against china filled the air. A few uncomfortable moments later, Mrs. Bannister raised her shoulders and smiled over her teacup. “True love is forever, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Elliot?”

Elliot rested his cup and saucer on his knee, hoping his nervousness would not cause the pair to rattle. Mrs. Bannister’s loaded question had caught him off guard. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you’re right.”

Mr. Bannister, who had remained standing, sat his cup on the fireplace mantle. “Come with me, Mr. Elliot. I’ve something to show you, if you don’t mind.”

Elliot followed Mr. Bannister out of the room. The preliminary was over and the inquisition was at hand.

Inside Bannister’s office, shelves stuffed with books went from floor to ceiling, lending the space a crowded, claustrophobic atmosphere. A two-sided desk made of mahogany sat in the middle of the room, with brown, leather chairs on either side of it. Bannister pulled out one of the chairs and lowered himself into it, then opened one of the drawers and pulled out a pipe and tobacco. He packed the bowl and struck a match, hovering the flame over the tobacco until it lit.

Elliot sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

Bannister cut to the chase. “I take it Cyndi’s rather serious about you.” He paused and drew on the pipe. “How do you feel about her?”

“I’m in love with her,” Elliot said, though the words felt strange as he spoke them.

Bannister held the pipe with his teeth and spoke around the stem. “I’m inclined to believe you, but there’s something you need to know. Out of all the rooms in the house, she fancied this one as a child, always in here, always reading. She’s a spirited woman, Mr. Elliot, and quite intelligent.”

Elliot tried to imagine a young Cyndi and what books she might have chosen. “I think it’s part of the reason I’m attracted to her.”

From around the pipe stem, Bannister’s lips curled into a grin, and when he spoke his voice had taken on a raspy, unholy quality. “Indeed. But are you worthy of the revelation, or prepared to bear the weight of its significance?”

Elliot wiped perspiration from his forehead. Though the temperature was winter-like outside, the room had grown unbearably warm. A desire to leave this uncomfortable meeting began to form in his mind. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

Bannister reached into the desk and when his hand was once again visible, it held a silver frame which contained a large photograph. He slid it across the desktop.

Elliot stared at the photo. It was not something he thought a family might cherish, but a thing that should be hidden, even thrown away. It was a snapshot of a jungle setting, clearly and graphically depicting a large cat, a jaguar, Elliot thought, feeding on a fresh kill, blood dripping from its fangs.

Elliot pushed away from the desk. What kind of sick person was Bannister, anyway? He’d had enough of this. He found his footing and started toward the door.

Bannister was already there, blocking the exit. In one hand, he held the photograph of the jaguar, and in the other he had the relic, the ceremonial knife with the blade of obsidian.

Instinctively, Elliot reached for his service weapon, but found only emptiness where it should have been. He remembered having checked his pockets at the park. He had nothing, no keys, no change, not even a wallet.

Bannister readied the knife and came toward Elliot. Bannister was not alone in the attack. Evelyn Bannister and even Cyndi had come into the room. The knives they carried were not made of obsidian, they had come from the kitchen, but the dingy steel of their blades would inflict sufficient damage. They formed a circle around Elliot and they began to chant in a language he could not understand.

Elliot studied his surroundings and decided to make a run for it, dash for the door and hope to knock one of the three down and buy enough time to clear the exit and make his way out of the house.

Seeming to read his mind, Cyndi stepped between Elliot and the door.

Elliot lunged toward her.

Pain shot through his left shoulder and across his back. One of the blades had found him. He kept going, colliding into Cyndi as he forced progress.

Cyndi screamed and dropped to the floor but she was not finished. She wrapped her arms and legs around Elliot, trying to bring him down.

Elliot wrenched free from the entanglement and stumbled into the hallway.

Fire climbed the walls and ran in streamers along the wood flooring. The curtains on the windows in the living room exploded into flames.

Chapter Forty-Three

At the end of the hallway, a ghostly figure that resembled McDugan emerged from the smoke and flames.

Elliot began to grasp the outer edges of what had happened. Going against Professor Stephens’ warning, he’d touched the obsidian knife, and its poison, its curse, had affected his mind. In whatever place he had been, as real as it had seemed, it existed only in his imagination.

He saw the Glock lying on the floor near a bunch of wiggling snakes. As if someone had poured gasoline onto their backs and tossed a match onto the mix, the snakes squirmed and writhed as the fire consumed them.

Elliot was no longer an unwanted guest at the modest home of George and Evelyn Bannister but had been transported back to Sand Springs and the previously dark house of Charles McDugan. It no longer lacked illumination. The fire had changed that.

McDugan ambled closer, seemingly oblivious to the fire.

Elliot jumped back as a flaming rafter crashed in front of him. He fought to get oxygen into his lungs but gagged at the hot smoke. He brought his arm up and covered his face with the sleeve of his jacket. With McDugan behind him and flames to his left, there was only one way to go. He stumbled to his right, though his feet responded sluggishly as if mired deep in mud. Fatigue set in. Smoke and hot air clouded his senses. He pushed forward but his progress was short lived.

McDugan clamped a hand around his throat.

Elliot jabbed backward with one elbow and then the other but neither connected.

The grip around his throat tightened.

Elliot struggled to breathe, to again pull the smoke-tainted air into his lungs. He flailed behind with his arms and finally grabbed the arm that held him.

McDugan refused to let go.

Maintaining his hold on McDugan’s arm, Elliot summoned the remainder of his strength and spun to his left. Following the momentum, he leaned into his attacker.

The twisting motion combined with Elliot’s change of direction worked, and he twisted free. Not wasting the opportunity, he grabbed McDugan by the shoulders and slammed home a head-butt.

The impact jarred Elliot all the way to his toes, but had little effect on McDugan. He wrenched free from Elliot’s grip. In the final seconds, Elliot had held in his hands skin that seemed to be covered with fur, and though McDugan had retained some of his characteristics, what Elliot saw disappearing into the darkness was not human.

Elliot set his focus on the exit and began to force his way toward it.

When the sound came, Elliot wondered if it was the roof collapsing, or if the fire had found a renewed source of oxygen and rapidly expanded to feed on it, but in his heart he knew it was nothing so benign. It was a cry, an animal’s scream, and with it came a pain that raked like a band of razor blades across Elliot’s back.

Elliot began to lose consciousness, but he refused to go down. He held his jacket to his face, trying to filter out some of the smoke. His chances of surviving another attack were not good.

Another section of roof gave way, providing a burning blockade between him and McDugan.

Elliot grabbed the opportunity and scrambled away, climbing over piles of debris toward the exit. Once there, he slung the door open and stumbled outside into the cool, clean air. After a gagging and coughing fit, he drew in as much fresh air as he could and went back inside the burning house. He could not go through with it, could not walk away, knowing the evil he’d encountered was left to go its way. He had to stop it.

Elliot groped the area where he’d last seen the Glock and located the weapon lying on the floor.
He could not see McDugan but he had no doubt he was close by. He had made no attempts to escape the fire. Elliot could only assume McDugan did not fear it. The implications of that buzzed through his senses, and he wondered if the Glock would do any good. His lungs craved oxygen, but his throat refused to take in the hot air.

Recalling his training, he got down to the floor where the air would be fresher, dropping first to his knees then to his stomach.

Tears and smoke blurred his vision, but he saw McDugan lurch forward.

He aimed the weapon, but it was too late. McDugan grabbed him and flipped him over onto his back.

The beast stood over Elliot, and though it walked on two legs and retained some of the features of Charles McDugan, the head protruding from its shoulders was that of a jaguar, and what hung from its arms were claws. The beast dropped down over Elliot, pinning him to the floor. With its buttocks against his torso, its knees clamping his arms, it withdrew the ceremonial knife and lowered the blade to Elliot’s chest. The beast reared back and let out a primeval cry, the same death-scream Elliot had heard a few days ago coming from the abandoned apartment house in Tulsa.

It was then that Elliot remembered the other crucifix, the one he’d found in Gerald’s Cadillac. He worked his left arm free, drove his hand into his pocket, and pulled out the crucifix. His pockets had been empty when he’d been with Cyndi, but that had been something other than this reality.

The beast stopped howling and turned its eyes down upon Elliot.

Holding the cross suspended by the chain, Elliot shoved the crucifix toward the face of the beast.

The thing growled and pulled back.

Elliot freed his other hand, a short burst of relief flaring through his senses as he squeezed the handle of the Glock. He jabbed the cross of Saint Benedict against the chest of the beast, slammed the barrel of the Glock behind it, and squeezed off three rounds.

Elliot got to his knees and crawled to where the beast had fallen.

He found Jeremiah, who now looked merely like an old man. The power of the knife must have given him youth. He checked for a pulse but there was none. Whatever had been inside of Jeremiah McDugan, life and all, it was gone.

Elliot grabbed the obsidian knife and crawled to the exit. He rolled through the opening and onto the small landing. Later, he crawled down the steps and onto the driveway. His thoughts came in jerky, fragmented pieces and a deep-rooted sickness ran through him, but he clung to consciousness. The job was not finished. He got to his feet and staggered across the yard, falling several times before he reached the barn where Gerald’s car was hidden.