Night of Demons - 02 (7 page)

I tipped my chin.

“Your property, your rules. Okay. But knowing you, Woods, if you’re taking charge of matters, things are going to get out of hand pretty fast from this point on. When that happens, you know where I am and how to contact me. You understand?”

He made a faint hissing noise. And I have to admit, I tensed up slightly when he did that. But it turned out to be his only response. His eyelids slid back down, so that to all intents and purposes he disappeared again. And then, the heavy doors swung shut, apparently under their own steam.

I got one final glimpse of Hampton’s face, still looking decidedly unhappy. And then, I was staring at blank panels of wood, and nothing more than that.

A rattling noise from high on the roof told me one of the gargoyles had woken, and was scuttling about on the tiles up there. I’d never seen any of them climb down, but there was a first time for everything. So I went back to my car, still wondering what the big secret was.

I was sure that I would find out soon enough, though. And a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, especially in a place like Raine’s Landing.

My mind was buzzing by the time that I got home. But then, it often is. Living where I did, and doing what I do, tends you keep you more mentally active than is sometimes comfortable.

The street was silent around me when I pulled up on my drive. A black diorama of surrounding houses, with no lights on in any of the windows. And once inside, it was even worse. Without my family there, the place had the echo of a crypt.

The silence wormed into me, stopping me from pondering the whole thing for a moment. But then it came rushing back insistently. Exactly what was going on? I’d become so used to that question the past couple of years, though, that it didn’t have the power over me it used to. I managed to ignore it, threw myself out onto my bed, still fully clothed, and tried to grab a few more hours’ sleep.

I sank into oblivion rapidly enough. But the darkness quickly faded to a blurry gray. And then new features started making themselves obvious. A matter of sound and scent, at first. I could hear a murmuring somewhere in the distance. And I thought I could smell woodsmoke.

Everything came sharply into focus. I was on open ground, a huge plain of some kind. A vast outcrop of jagged rocks could be made out near the horizon. The sun was low and red above them. And there were deeper shadows across their surface, which I thought might be the openings to caves.

I jerked slightly. But I wasn’t totally surprised. This wasn’t any dream either…it was a vision. My mind had traveled to this place, briefly, once before. I wasn’t quite sure where it was. But I knew it was connected to the spirit-woman in the gemstone I’d once owned.

She was called Amashta. When her voice—flat in tone and creaky with age—came drifting to me, I was already expecting it. She was some kind of very ancient shaman. And she’d helped me before, back when I’d been fighting Saruak. Although to what ultimate end, I still had no idea.

What I had real trouble grasping was the title she’d bestowed on me. She used the word in her very first breath.

“So, Defender? You find yourself at the start of yet another battle.”

I had no idea why she called me that. It felt like something that I didn’t even want, a heavy burden pressing down on me like a ten-ton weight.

I cleared my throat, which felt very dry.

“Are you here to help again?”

Her power had flowed through me the first time I’d encountered her. It hadn’t been enjoyable, and I wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of it happening again. But here we were once more, so it seemed reasonable to ask.

“It is better not to, on the whole. You are the Defender, and your purity must be intact.”

My what?

“As I told you earlier, it’s a matter of free will. Massive strength derives from that. One of your modern mystics said it well. ‘That which does not kill you makes you stronger.’”

I was familiar with the quote. But personally, it had never been my experience. That which didn’t kill me generally left me bruised, exhausted, and wishing I lived somewhere else. Besides which, she was avoiding the main point.

When we’d first run across each other, she had implied certain things, and pretty startling ones at that. A whole bigger picture to our lives here in Raine’s Landing. A struggle underway here that went well beyond the everyday perils that we faced. I seemed to play some kind of vital role in it. I had some kind of destiny. And I still wasn’t overly delighted about the prospect of that.

If I could only get a clearer picture. What was this whole thing about?

Amashta seemed to sense what I was thinking. And her voice became far milder, filling up with empathy.

“Yes, I see your point, Defender. Blind faith does nothing to enhance free will. And so of course you need to know a little.”

She paused, then told me, “Go to the shaman you call Willets.”

How much did she know about this town of ours? Everything?

“Say one word to him, and he’ll explain.”

“That word being?” I heard myself ask.

“T’choulon.”

There was suddenly a shrieking noise, like a massive blast of cold wind rushing through my head. It swept away everything. Her voice. The smell of smoke. The scene around me.

And it woke me up, very sharply.

Dawn was brightening my drapes. A car went by outside, and then a baby started wailing in a nearby house. I took in my surroundings, and then clutched my forehead, groaned.

I felt even more tired than when I’d fallen onto the bed. And little wonder. First it had been the Little Girl. And then the spirit-woman. And since when had denizens of the supernatural world begun using my head like a bus station waiting room, ducking in and out of it whenever the fancy took them?

I tried to stay down for a short while longer, clutching at my pillow. But the intensity of the late-summer daylight forced me to let go of that. There were plenty of sounds outside my house. Mine is a modest but respectable neighborhood, one that has no truck in the slightest with late risers.

The house seemed fairly cool around me. And the chill clung to me like a clammy second skin, in spite of the fact I was still dressed. I wasn’t in the mood for a proper breakfast. There was a leftover slice of pizza in the fridge, and I decided to settle for that. I went through into the kitchen, fished out a small saucepan, and then heated up some coffee that I’d brewed the day before.

The living room had become a little more untidy since I’d last looked at it properly. I hadn’t thrown out any copies of our newspaper, the
Landing Ledger,
in the last two weeks. And there were certain things I never touched. The checkerboard off in the corner of the room, for instance. There was still a game on it, half played. There were half a dozen shelves of books—Alicia and I had always been big readers. A large stack of records, which included classical and jazz. The paintings on the walls were all by local artists and, obviously, were of places inside town, or else the edges of the forest.

Mounted over the mantelpiece was the first fish Pete had ever caught, a little bass.

He had been five years old when he had disappeared. I felt angry and lost as usual, thinking about that. I cleared myself a space on the couch, and switched on the TV to our local station. Marlon Fisk was on a sidewalk in front of somebody’s front yard. A microphone was clutched in his grasp, and he was halfway through his report.

“…still reeling with shock at the murder of the town’s oldest and most respected adept.”

But it wasn’t the Tollburn house that he was standing in front of. And that took me by surprise. Behind him was an ordinary residence with white walls and a green-tiled roof. So apparently, something else had happened.

A small crowd of people had gathered around the man. Each of them looked anxious and disturbed. His face dropped for a second, then he peered at the camera again.

“A night of tragedy grew even worse when, here on Hutton Avenue in the East Crealley district, insurance adjuster Stephen Anderson butchered his wife and both of his children before taking his own life.”

Some coffee slopped from my mug and scalded my fingers, but I kept on watching, listening.

“People who knew the family are describing them this morning as ‘happy and normal.’ So whatever caused Mr. Anderson to behave the way he did remains a total mystery.”

I recalled my feelings last night, when Saul had suggested a serial killer. The plain fact is, the Landing is no stranger to tragedy. It happens all the time, in various ways. But most of it is down to witchcraft, either gone wrong or plain misused. No one around here committed murders out of spite, or for the hell of it.

It was like the whole dynamic of the place had altered overnight. And that made me as edgy as the people on my TV screen were looking.

I got Saul on his cell phone. As you’d expect, he sounded quite harassed.

“There’s stuff even the press doesn’t know,” he told me. “The whole thing’s worse than it already sounds.”

I sat up a little straighter. “How so?”

“This is strictly between us, Ross. The Andersons? They had that same symbol carved into them.”

“The theta?”

“Yup. I don’t understand how, but this one and the Tollburn case are linked.”

The Little Girl had told me something new was here in town. But I didn’t mention it to Saul right away, since the danger was too indefinite as yet.

“We should talk this over in more detail,” I suggested.

“Absolutely. There’s this place—it opens early. Harriet’s Pantry, on Maynard. Know it?”

Yes, I did. It was barely three minutes’ walk from the office I have on Union Square.

“Meet you there in half an hour’s time?” he suggested.

And I could see nothing wrong with that.

I called Cass and told her where we’d be, because I wanted her along. She needed to be in on this. And it turned out that she’d already heard about the Andersons. The fact that there were children involved had shaken her up. We both have that particular Achilles heel. But I tried to remain as calm about it as I could. I showered and shaved, dragged some clothes on, then went out again.

The town sped by as I headed for its center. Its sidewalks were only very lightly populated by this hour. Most people would be indoors having breakfast, getting ready for work or school. And catching up with the morning’s news, which wasn’t going to be an awful lot of fun. Except it would look, to them, like nothing more than an unpleasant coincidence. Nobody would have a clue, as yet, that something really bad might be descending on us once again.

The place looked as fresh as a daisy in the early morning light. At first glance, you’d think that nothing ever happened here. I went past an empty schoolyard, then a small pond with some ducks. The shoe store on Kent still had its sale in progress. And just beyond the stoplights there, a fellow in coveralls was hauling a wheeled tin-can kind of device along the pavement, refreshing the white line down the middle of the road.

I parked in the alley behind my office building, and went the rest of the way on foot.

Rounding the corner of Maynard, I practically bumped into Hoyt Dinsmore. He owned a store nearby, and was on his way to open it. We nodded, acknowledging each other, but he looked surprised to see me. And a little nervous too, his eyes widening behind their glasses. Like a lot of folk in town, he knew the kind of stuff I got involved in. And it makes them jumpy when I look like I’ve got something up. He seemed faintly relieved, to be quite honest, when we went our separate ways.

The drizzle of last night was gone. Most of the puddles had dried up. It was growing brighter, sunlight flashing on the windows around me. The air was a touch crisper, but by no means properly cool. Summer was still hanging on by the ragged edges of its fingernails.

I reached the eatery and sat down at an outside table. I didn’t come here much, favoring a different diner. Either Harriet’s Pantry had never changed its décor since it had been opened, or was going for a retro look. The awning above me was a candy-colored, stripy one. The tablecloth in front of me was checkered, red and white. There was a candle in a holder made out of a pinecone, unlit at this time of day. And posters for old musicals on the walls inside.

A waitress—too young to be Harriet herself—took my order, bringing me another mug of coffee. Then I leant back and watched the world go by for several minutes.

There were a few more cars than there had been before, and more pedestrians in evidence. Folk were starting to head into work. Everything looked the way it should. A fire truck went by, although slowly and without its siren on. And then a small blue-green car drew up to the far curb. Something about it captured my attention.

I’d seen its kind on TV ads. It was called a Focus, and apparently it was a popular model in the outside world. Except that I had never seen one in this town before. Most people here drive large vehicles like my own, or station wagons, pickups. There was not much call for compacts.

A woman got out whom I didn’t recognize. But the sight of her set off an immediate, gentle twanging in my nerves.

The first thing I noticed was she looked exhausted. Why was that? Her bright blue eyes were red rimmed. There were squinty creases under them.

The second thing was, however haggard she might be, it didn’t conceal her essential attractiveness. She looked to be in her early thirties, a couple of years younger than me. Stood five seven or maybe eight. Her hair, cut to shoulder length, was slightly curly in a tousled-looking way. And it was pale blond, shining in the sunlight. Her figure was slim and shapely, with plenty of emphasis on leg.

Her face was a narrow heart shape, her features on it delicate, and she didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup in the slightest. Her lips were a natural pale rose color, like my wife’s had been. Her small nose even had a slightly upturned tilt to it.

Just like…

Watching her, my heart began to ache. She looked so similar to Alicia that it hurt.

She didn’t dress as casually as my wife used to, and had less of her calm manner. She was dressed in a charcoal-colored pants suit, which was rather badly creased. A crisp white shirt was buttoned to her throat. She had on sensible black shoes. There was no jewelry in evidence, but a large patent leather purse was slung across one shoulder.

The third thing I noticed? She looked rather lost. A touch off balance, dazed. Her head kept wandering around as though a blow had mildly stunned her. And I couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with her. People in the Landing get a variety of strange expressions on their faces from time to time. But this wasn’t one of them.

I was starting to think she had actually been hurt. And was about to go across and help, when two things stopped me.

Saul’s Pontiac came around one corner of the street. And, as if on cue, Cassie’s Harley appeared at the other end, cruising along noisily.

The blond woman’s eyes went to the motorcycle, drawn there by its twin-cam rumble. But then she reacted in the last way I’d expect. Her shoulders drew up, and her eyes came open wide. The weary glaze I’d seen there earlier dropped away completely.

Cassie hadn’t even noticed. She was drawing up to the café, nodding to me.

As she came to a halt, the blond woman stepped off the curb. And—reaching underneath her jacket—pulled a handgun out.

The only thing that I could do was stare at her amazedly.

And Cassie did the same.

“Step off the bike! Do it now! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

The woman took a couple of steps in closer without her eyes leaving Cassie for a second. She had her piece aimed with a double-handed grip. Looked like she knew exactly what she was doing, and I wondered how that was.

My own hand started going for my Smith & Wesson, but didn’t make it the whole way. Cass was directly in between us. Unless she moved, there was no clear shot. And besides, it didn’t look like anyone was going to open fire immediately. I wanted to find out what was really happening before I acted.

Cassie seemed confused more than alarmed. Never good at taking orders, she kept her hands in view, but remained firmly where she was, still straddling her Harley.

And everything got even crazier after that. There was the clack of a hammer being pulled back. My gaze leapt a little further. Saul had got out of his car and crept up behind the blond woman, pointing his gun at her back.

This, I believed, was called a Mexican standoff. I’d never seen one in real life before, and it made my stomach tighten. I eased myself carefully out of my chair and started edging around, my mind working quickly. But the blond woman noticed that and swung her aim in my direction. If I put her under too much pressure she might fire out of panic, so I stopped moving.

“Put the gun down, lady!” Saul barked.

The blonde stiffened and her face tensed up.

“Put it down by your feet and then kick it away from you!”

She looked slightly frightened, but she didn’t move. Then a thought seemed to occur to her, and her head tilted slightly back.

“You a cop?” she asked in a tight voice.

“Damn right I am.”

“Then what the hell d’you think you’re doing? Look at me, then look at her.”

Her eyes went to Cassie’s weapons. And I thought I saw what she was getting at. In addition to the twin Glocks on her belt, Cass had the usual Mossberg 590 pump-action shotgun strapped to one side of her bike, and her Heckler & Koch assault carbine on the other. But the fact was, they were always there. We needed them a lot of times that trouble came knocking. The sight of Cassie kitted out this way was such a regular sight around the Landing that it barely drew the slightest comment. So which neighborhood exactly was this woman from?

Something else struck me, and I glanced over at her little car. There was a sticker in the back window. I’d noticed it when she had first turned up.

And now I stared at it more closely. It read “New England Aquarium.” Which I’d never heard of. There was no such establishment around here.

The standoff, though, was still in progress, with the Focus’s owner at the center of it. And I couldn’t tell how it was going to end.

“Stand down!” Saul was shouting at the woman. “Lower your weapon!”

But instead of doing as she was told, she came back with another question.

“And you are?”

“Detective Lieutenant Saul Hobart.”

The woman’s expression slackened slightly and she changed her grip on her gun, a Walther. She freed her left hand, and then held it up with the index and middle fingers raised.

“I’m going to reach inside my coat, okay? With just two fingers.”

We watched her closely. When her left hand reemerged, there was a plastic wallet in it.

And when she flipped it open, I could see the flash of a bright golden badge, although it wasn’t in any shape I recognized.

“Lieutenant Detective Lauren Brennan,” she announced loudly. “Boston Homicide.”