Kitty's House of Horrors (30 page)

I tapped my finger on the arm of my chair as I swiveled back and forth in a quarter-circle, like a kid in detention. I’d been
staring at my microphone so long it was blurring. My headphones itched. And this woman just kept talking. It was hypnotic.

My caller had a very serious problem, surely. It just didn’t seem like it to me at the moment. Especially not after the last
couple of weeks.

Finally I interrupted, like I should have done a long time ago. “Margaret, are you sure it’s brownies that are wrecking your
house every night? Maybe the saucers of milk aren’t working because it’s not brownies.”

“Well, what else could it be? I swear, I go to sleep at night, don’t hear a thing, and when I wake up there are dishes knocked
down and broken, my Beanie Baby collection is scattered everywhere, the pillows are shredded, and what else could it be?”

Lightbulb moment. “Do you have cats?”

“Yes. Six.”

It wasn’t brownies. It was crazy-cat-lady syndrome. I needed a separate hotline for callers like this. “Margaret, have you
considered that maybe your cats are a bit rambunctious and may be the ones wrecking your house?”

“Well, of course I have,” she said, sounding indignant. Not that I could blame her. “But if it were the cats, wouldn’t I hear
something?”

“I don’t know. Are you a sound sleeper?”

“Can anyone possibly be
that
sound a sleeper? Even medicated?”

“Wait a minute,” I said, losing patience. “You have six cats and you take sleeping pills at night?”

“Well… yes…”

“Okay. That’s just
asking
for it. I think you need to call a different show.”

“But—”

I hung up on her, sorry I had only a button to slam and not a whole handset, which would have been more satisfying. Not that
I wanted to lose my temper. Not that I was feeling violent.

I couldn’t take another call right now. I couldn’t stand another call. I couldn’t deal with another not-problem. It was all
I could do not to lean into the mike and yell, “Get a life.”

But I’d get over it.

“Sorry, people. My tolerance for bull seems to have gone way down lately. I hope you’ll understand and forgive me, but I think
for tonight I’ve just about had it for calls. I’d like each and every one of you out there to consider your problems for a
moment and consider that maybe they’re not as epic as you think they are. The solution may be staring you in the face. Or
it may be you’ve let a mere annoyance take over your life until it’s become a problem. And while you’re considering your problems
and grasping for solutions, you should also take a moment to find that one good thing that makes getting through the tough
times worthwhile. Those of us who spend our nights awake and watchful need those reminders, that sunrises are beautiful and
worth waiting for.”

God, I was going to start crying again if I kept this up. No crying. I was just having a bad night. Fortunately, Matt in the
sound booth tapped his watch, telling me time was up. I took a breath, reset my mental state, and managed to sound cheerful
when I gave my usual wrap-up.

“This is Kitty Norville, voice of the night. Stay safe out there, people.” The on-air sign dimmed, and I sat back, exhausted.

The mass murder I’d managed to escape had been all over the news. I’d spent the last show talking about it, fielding questions,
condemning the kinds of people who perpetrated these crimes, but mostly talking about my friends who’d died. Begging the world,
or whatever part of it listened to the show, not to let anything like this happen again. Be kind to each other.

The same message I tried to deliver every week: be kind. Not that it was helping.

“Kitty?” Matt said.

“I’m fine,” I said flatly, before he could ask the question.

He hesitated, then said, “Okay.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

And I wanted people to stop fussing over me.

The police, working with the FBI, had pieced together most of the story, and it wasn’t pretty.

Joey Provost really was a TV producer and really had been working for SuperByte Entertainment for several years. But he also
had ties to a couple of whacked-out right-wing “clubs” that promoted various shades of fascism and gun mania, and the members
all had impressive weapons collections stashed at home. Through those leads, he’d met Cabe and Valenti. Cabe was the hunter
among them, with a fascination for the supernatural. He’d probably done most of the nitty-gritty planning and designed most
of the traps. The three men had met, hit it off, and decided they didn’t like the way entertainment and popular culture were
going. They didn’t like that monsters and the occult were being legitimized and glamorized. They wanted to strike back, so
they cooked up a plan: trap the worst offenders of this movement, wipe them out, and distribute a film of the accomplishment.
They were declaring their own little war. Provost pitched the front show to SuperByte, who then inadvertently funded the enterprise.
The company itself was absolved of wrongdoing, except maybe for the mistake of trusting Provost in the first place. The producer
hired Valenti and Cabe. During filming, they chose their moment, shut down production, and slaughtered the witnesses. Then
they launched their own show. The clips they’d filmed of us talking about each other and how much we missed our families were
meant to be our own obituaries.

None of the three had prior criminal records, but their activities, known associates, and known obsessions were indicative.
None of it raised flags until you put the three of them together and added lighter fluid. Individually, they never would have
acted. Together as their own little army, they egged each other on to destruction. Their egos, their sense of superiority,
had never let them think for a moment that they could fail. I remembered Valenti, in Anastasia’s arms, as the full realization
of what was happening to him dawned. And maybe Anastasia was right, and they’d been encouraged by someone like Roman.

They’d planned so well. They’d known so much about what they were facing. But in the end they hadn’t had a fucking clue.

I’d called the families of Jerome, Lee, Ariel, and Jeffrey. Not that there was anything I could say. But I was one of the
last people to see their loved ones alive and wanted to bear witness. My chattiness failed me, of course. All I could say
was I’m sorry, which was so inadequate.

As far as I could tell, Gemma and Dorian didn’t have families. I couldn’t track them, except through Anastasia, and she already
knew how I felt.

Like he often did, Ben picked me up after the show. I climbed in the passenger seat, and he didn’t say a word, for which I
was grateful. He just leaned over, touched my face, and kissed my cheek, resting his lips there for a long time. I leaned
into the touch.

It was going to be okay.

T
ina survived. She got better. The first time I saw her back on her own show, I cheered. Her cohosts were babying her, I could
tell. They wouldn’t let her carry any equipment and helped her out of their van. That she didn’t argue with them said a lot
about how hurt she really was. But she was back in action, and it felt like a big middle finger to Provost and company. We
talked often, but not about Jeffrey. When she was ready, she’d bring him up. Me—I had no doubt he was still around, looking
out for her.

Conrad also lived, and so did his leg. I got e-mails from him all the time. Updates, pictures of his kids—at the pool, on
the beach, playing ball. Conrad was still processing. For him, the only way to believe that it had all happened was to keep
in touch with our insane little survivor group. Whatever worked. He was also planning his next book—about his moment of epiphany,
and about reconciling skepticism with the supernatural. I promised him an interview for it. I was happy for him, and grateful
we’d been able to save him. No, not grateful—relieved. Relieved that I hadn’t had to call his wife and kids to tell them I
was sorry.

Grant came to see me at my office a couple of weeks after. He’d spent time in Montana recuperating and was on his way to Vegas
to return to his magic show. Another middle finger to the bad guys. When he sat down in the chair across from my desk, he
moved slowly. He still looked ill, which was disconcerting. He was one of the strongest people I knew, but his face sagged,
shadows marking his eyes. He sat unevenly, favoring his left, injured side.

We studied each other for a long moment. Hunting for the nonvisible scars.

“Well,” I said. “We made it.”

Ducking his gaze, he hid a smile. “I admit, I had some doubts for a while.”

“Naw, I never did,” I said, grinning and lying.

“How are you holding up?” he said, when I should have been the one asking.

I sighed. “I’m very, very angry. And I think Anastasia’s right. There’s a war brewing.”

“But Roman wasn’t involved with this.”

“Maybe not directly. Maybe not literally. But I think they’re both symptoms of the same thing,” I said.

“Good versus evil?” he said, brow raised.

I shrugged. “Let’s say order versus chaos. Kindness versus fear. No, never mind. False dichotomies, all of them.”

His smile quirked. “You’re learning.”

“Anastasia wanted you to have her card.” I handed him the copy I’d made of it.

He didn’t look at it but folded the page with scarred hands and tucked it in a pocket. “So Roman is recruiting his alliance,
and Anastasia is recruiting hers. Do you wonder where this is all going to end?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it will. I think this same damn thing’s been going on for thousands of years. It’s just our
turn to play the game now.”

“Well, then. Until next time.” He stood to leave, I stood to see him out. With anyone else, I’d have stepped forward for a
hug, but that wry smile was all I was going to get from him. After he left, I sat at my desk, staring at his empty chair for
a long time, ignoring the nervous knot in my stomach.

C
añon City was a small town in the foothills between the prairie and the Rocky Mountains. It was also, at least to people living
in Colorado, synonymous with the several prison complexes that occupied a good chunk of land here, marked by miles of tall
chain-link fence topped with razor wire and clusters of concrete institutional buildings. The Colorado Territorial Correctional
Facility was in town, right off the highway. That was where we stopped. The late-summer sun baked off the blacktop and concrete,
and I squinted against the glare of it. The whole prison area shone like its own little nightmare.

I was pacing by the car. Ben leaned against the hood, trying not to pace, but he had his arms tightly crossed and was tapping
his foot. We were both fidgeting.

“Is it time yet?” I said.

“There’s still ten minutes.” He didn’t even have to look at his watch, which led me to think he’d been all but watching it
since we arrived ten minutes ago. We’d gotten here early because we didn’t want to be late. The last thing we wanted was to
have Cormac get out and not have anyone here waiting. We owed it to him not to fail on that little thing.

I paced because I kept thinking about how I almost wasn’t here at all.

Finally, Ben uncrossed his arms and straightened from the car.

“It’s time?” I said.

He just smiled and started walking toward the first of the chain-link fences. I rushed to join him, grabbing his hand. We
squeezed tightly and walked on together.

Ben knew where to go, and I realized he’d probably done this before with clients. I’d come here dozens of times to visit Cormac
over the last couple of years, but this was a different gate, a different part of the complex. It felt like a new start. Maybe
that was the idea.

Just inside the gate in the fence here was a white plank-board guardhouse. Beyond that looked like three more stages of chain-link
fence, forming a series of cages that led to the first of the cinderblock buildings. The idea of cages made my hair stand
on end. I wanted to start pacing again.

A guy in a uniform stepped out of the guardhouse and started unlocking one of the interior gates. Another guard emerged from
the building and did the same.

“The suspense is killing me,” I hissed. Ben didn’t say anything but just kept watching.

Then a tall, lanky man in a pair of faded jeans and a gray T-shirt stepped out of the building. He had brown hair and a trimmed
mustache and carried a canvas duffel bag over his shoulder. He shook hands with the guard by the building, who locked the
gate behind him as he walked on.

God, that was a really long walk.

It probably wasn’t more than thirty yards, but when you were waiting on the other side, it took forever. Especially when Cormac
couldn’t seem to be bothered to speed up his usual calm saunter. But I recognized Cormac by that walk.

At the gatehouse, he stopped and signed something on a clipboard offered to him by the guard there. Then
they
shook hands.

“Time off for good behavior,” Ben said to me. “You can always tell because the guards actually look happy for him.”

I had started bouncing a little.

Then the last gate opened, and Cormac was standing outside.

He paused for a long time. Tipped his head back, looking into the sky, just breathing. The gate wheeled shut behind him, and
he didn’t move. I resisted an urge to run forward and instead gave him time.

He seemed to shake himself free of the introspective moment. Then he looked like Cormac again, calm and watchful.
Then
we went forward to meet him.

Ben reached him first, hand outstretched. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“Jesus Christ, you have no idea,” Cormac said, his relief plain.

They shook hands and fell into a guy hug, one-armed, thumping each other’s backs. My eyes started tearing up. I quickly wiped
them clear before anyone could see.

Ben was rambling. “Are you okay? Is everything okay? They didn’t hassle you, did they? Here, let me take that.” They argued
over his bag for a minute. Rolling his eyes, Cormac finally let Ben slide the duffel bag off his shoulder.