March Into Hell (11 page)

"Apparently, I've answered my question. If you could heal the sick, self-preservation would demand that you heal yourself first. As you can see, that is not the case." And then he laughed as though he had told the funniest joke in the world. "What I want to see is if your God can save you. Do you have faith, Mark?"

With a short nod to the cult members restraining Mark, he turned abruptly and strode away. The chanting renewed; the members' voices louder, more insistent.

They began with his right hand. Mark didn't want to look, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. "No...don't...don't do this...please...stop...
oh God
!"

Nobody looked at him; every person who held him kept their heads bent, ignoring his pleas. They forcibly pried his fist open, spreading his fingers and scraping his knuckles against the wood. The drum increased its tempo and a hooded figure held a long, thick nail to Mark's palm. He could feel the cold metal point digging into his flesh. The chant surged in time to the beat of the drums, and the firelight flashed off the hammer as it slammed down.

Mark never heard it connect with the nail head. He stiffened, his back arching in pain and shock. Before he could catch his breath, they moved to his left hand. He didn't look this time. Instead, he closed his eyes, his lips moving in prayer.

"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven..."

He felt the bite of the metal against his left palm; heard the chanting reach a crescendo. Mark raised his voice, hoping to drown them out.

"And bless us oh Lord, with these, thy gifts which we are about to receive through Christ our Lord,
Amen."

The hands holding him tightened, and his heart raced, the beat pounding in his ears.  Any second, the hammer would fall.

"And yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death --"

A bolt of pain shot through his palm. When he could breathe again, he licked his lips and swallowed. Mark had lost his train of thought and began again with the first prayer that came to mind.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death --"

They held his feet, one over the other, distracting him. He raised his head to look down at them, feeling sick fear at the spike held over his left foot. He couldn't look any more and turned his head as acid burned the back of his throat. The drums increased the tempo, matching the staccato rhythm of his pulse. The chanting reached a frenzy while embers from the fire drifted in the air above him, like pieces of hell.

The last prayer was silent, his breathing too harsh to give it voice.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...

They drove the last spike home and mercifully, darkness claimed him. When Mark roused again, the cross was upright, and he hung above the cult members. He didn't know how long he had been there, but the room was dimmer. The drums still beat, but the tempo had changed. The earlier frenzy had been replaced by a slow erratic beat. Kern held up a staff and the cult members bowed to him.

The pain in his hands went beyond anything he had ever felt. His weight hung on them, only the ropes binding his arms helped ease the burden. He almost didn't notice his difficulty breathing until he had to consciously make an effort to take a breath. Mark could feel his throat closing, the abuse his neck had taken earlier taking its toll. Sweat dripped down his face, the stress causing him to shiver and perspire at the same time. Each chill that shook him increased his agony until finally, his mind shut down.

* * *

"No! Oh God!"

Jim started awake and shot out of the recliner. "Taylor?" He glanced around his living room. The voice had been so clear, as though spoken by someone in the room. Mark's voice. He was sure of it. He'd heard that panic once before when Taylor had been water-boarded. Had he flashed back to that interrogation? Why would he re-live it? While unpleasant, he'd never felt terror during them.

Grabbing the remote off the floor where it had fallen from the arm of the chair, he pointed it at the television and clicked off the infomercial that droned on about a miracle weight loss solution. It couldn't have been the source of the voice he'd heard.

His shoulders ached, and he grunted and rotated one as he made his way to the kitchen. He must have slept on it funny. Instead of the pain decreasing as he tried to work out the kink, it intensified, and he gasped and sank onto the nearest kitchen chair. Cold sweat popped  out on his forehead. Was he having a heart attack? He was only 48 and in good shape. His heart thudded, resonating in his ears, the sound deafening in the silent house.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death...

 Jim staggered to his feet and spun in circle. "Mark? Where are the hell are you?"

The kitchen was lit by only the light from the oven clock. The green glow created a surreal atmosphere as the beating in his ears grew. After a moment, he realized it wasn't his heartbeat. It was a drum. No...drums. He checked the radio on his counter to make sure it was off. 

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...

Jim stumbled back, bumping into the counter. The kitchen dissolved and instead of his table, chairs, stove and refrigerator, he was in a room. A huge room.  To the left, in front of him was a bonfire. The woodsmoke stung his nose, and he rubbed his eyes. Chanting kept time to the drums, but Jim couldn't decipher what was being said, and as he tried to filter it from the rhythmic pounding, he picked out the dark hooded people kneeling on the floor before him in a half-circle. A shadow crossed the floor between him and the worshipers, and he turned to see the source. Looming to his left rose a cross. Jim blinked.
A
cross? Holy shit.

Hanging from the cross, as real as the kitchen stove that should have been there, hung Mark Taylor. 

Stunned, Jim stared. Was Taylor dead? The drums increased in volume, resonating through Jim's body. The sour taste of bile rose in throat. It was so vivid, so real but it couldn't be. He was in his kitchen, not standing in some warehouse. The hairs on his arms stood on end as a chill shook him.

He tried to rush towards Mark, but his feet seemed nailed to the floor. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reach the cross. While only appearing a scant ten feet away, it might as well have been an ocean that separated them.

The drums reached a crescendo, and stopped. The fire crackled and snapped, breaking the silence.

A man in a black robe lifted a staff, the others bowed to him. His mouth moved, but Jim had to strain to hear him as he mumbled,
"Satanus, non sum dignus... sed tantum dic verbo."

 For a moment, the black-clad figure seemed defeated, but then his head rose, and he boomed,  "
Levate. Evenit diabolus
.

 An instant later, the scene was gone. It didn't fade, it was just there one second and gone the next.

A sense of impending doom raced through him. It was a dream. It had to have been. He probably just hadn't quite woken all the way up before coming into the kitchen.

Despite his confidence that he'd just had the strangest, most realistic dream ever, a sense of urgency prodded him to action. As though released from a spell, his feet felt light, and his shoulders no longer ached as he sprinted to his bedroom and grabbed his cell phone. Flipping it open, he found Mark's number and called him.

Voice-mail picked up and Jim snapped the phone closed. He dialed again, hoping that Mark hadn't reached the phone in time. Still no answer. He plopped on the edge of the bed and glanced at the bedside clock.  Two-thirty in the morning. Where would Mark be at this time?

His car keys and wallet sat on the night table. At this time of night, he could get to Taylor's place in less than fifteen minutes. By three, he'd be back home and in bed. He felt silly enough calling Taylor, but he couldn't shake the sense of urgency that screamed inside of him like a banshee from the Irish legends his grandma used to tell him.

Jim grabbed his keys, stuffed his wallet in his pocket, and headed for the door before he could convince himself he was acting irrationally.

CHAPTER NINE

Fifteen minutes later, Jim pulled up in front of the studio and then wondered how he'd get Taylor's attention. He hunched into his jacket and shuffled a path through the light snow to the front door of the studio, hoping to find a doorbell for the loft. Having only been to Taylor's apartment a couple of times, he wasn't sure of the layout. He thought there was probably a back entrance in the alley behind the building.

The alley was dark and Jim hesitated before rounding the corner. He quickly peeked around the building, relieved to see that the alley was empty. Still alert, Jim faced the back door and jumped back in surprise when the door swung open. "Taylor?" There was no answer, and in fact, taking a step closer, Jim realized that there was no one there. The wind must have blown the door. The hair on the back of Jim's neck prickled. Taylor might be a little odd, but he wasn't stupid. He'd never leave the back door to his business open all night.

Jim rapped on the door. "Hello?"

Nothing. A soft glow from an exit sign threw off just enough light to illuminate the entryway. Not seeing anything amiss down here, Jim cautiously climbed the steps, noting lots of little puddles scattered on the stairs, as though someone, or lots of someones had entered recently with wet feet. At the top, his stomach tightened when he saw the loft door gaping open. He paused outside it to listen. All was silent, and with a deep breath, he crept around the threshold wishing he'd thought to bring his weapon. He'd gotten out of the habit of carrying it since he spent the majority of his time behind a desk.

Jim felt around for a light switch and swore when he found it and illuminated the room. His jaw clenched in reaction to the scene before him. It was obvious from the disarray, that something had happened here. The bedding hung off the mattress, the bedside table was completely overturned, and loose change dotted the floor. Stepping quickly over to the bathroom, he hoped maybe Taylor had felt ill and in a mad dash to the bathroom, had created the mess. It was a stretch, but he wanted to be sure. It was empty.
Damn it.

 Careful not to disturb anything, Jim pulled out his cell phone and called Jessica Bishop.

"Hello?" She sounded sleepy and confused.

"Jessica, this is Jim Sheridan. I had a dream about--."

"Jim? What in the world? It's almost four in the morning."

"I know what time it is. Could you let me finish?" Jim continued surveying the loft, his gaze landing on Taylor's black leather jacket in a heap on the floor near the end of the sofa.

"Okay, so what's the problem?  I would kind of like to go back to sleep, if you don't mind."

"Do you know where Mark is?"

"Didn't we already cover this earlier today?"

"Listen to me, it's important. I need to know where Mark is, and if you know, could you please enlighten me?"

"And I told you before, he doesn't fax me his plans. Did you  try calling him?"

"I tried, but it went to voice mail. His loft isn't too far from my place, so I decided to drive over." He took a deep breath, and let it out before continuing, "Somethings happened here."

"What do you mean?"

"I was greeted by the back door flapping in the wind. Then I found Taylor's apartment all torn up. He's nowhere around." He could hear a soft sigh and creaking through the phone.

"Sometimes he had trouble sleeping at night. He'd have flashbacks, and to forget about them, he'd go out for a run. That's probably what happened tonight."

Mark had never told him about the flashbacks, and he felt a twinge of guilt, but nudged it aside for the moment. "Look, I suppose that might be possible, but I think I'm smart enough to recognize a crime scene when I see one."

He paced from the side that contained the sleeping area to the kitchen at the far end.  On his second pass, he halted suddenly, his attention zeroing in on several red smears on the sheets and more drops leading towards the living area. "There's blood on the sheets and floor."

She swore, and even through the phone, he heard the worry in her voice. "Yeah, that doesn't sound good. I'll be right there."

* * *

Jim tried not to disturb anything while awaiting Jessica's arrival. A quick scan of the kitchen area didn't turn up anything out of the ordinary. A couple of dirty dishes in the sink and a nearly empty refrigerator all indicated nothing other than a typical single guy's apartment. He followed the blood trail to a pillar and circled the brick support looking for any abnormal findings. About four feet up, he spotted a small piece of white fabric caught on the edge of a brick. Peering more closely, he guessed that it was part of a t-shirt. Higher up, Jim saw several strands of dark hair and a small red stain. A feeling of dread washed over him with the realization that something violent had happened here.

Unwilling to risk contaminating the scene, he stepped back and glanced at his watch. Mentally, he calculated how long it would take Jessica to jump into some clothes and drive here. At this time of night, the roads were practically empty, but it wouldn't be long before the morning rush began. He crossed to the window and watched, trying to piece together a scenario. Best case, Taylor had tripped into the pillar, cut himself and fell against the bed. The cut had needed stitches, and so he'd gone to the ER. Plausible, but improbable. Besides, Taylor's van was still out front.

"Jim?" Jessica burst into the room a few minutes later, her long coat billowing out behind her. She came to an abrupt stop when she saw the mess and turned to Jim. "Is this how you found it?

"Yes.  And look here." He pointed to the evidence on the pillar. "There's more blood over there on the floor." He tried to ignore the way her face blanched and her eyes welled. Jim bent and pretended to examine the dry drops of blood dotting the hardwood; allowing her a moment to regain control of her emotions.