The Keys of Solomon (8 page)

A stiff wind whipped Sam's shoulder-length hair about his face, and fat droplets of rain spattered against his neck and arms. To the west, jagged spears of lightning lanced across an ebony sky, and the throaty rumble of distant thunder lent a surreal quality to the scene before him.

The roof was a maze of massive heating and air units, large wooden spools of heavy gauge wire, and pallets of plastic-covered construction materials. Above the wind, he could hear broken spates of harsh, guttural laughter coming from behind the utility building.

“Oh man, I hate this. I mean, I really, really hate this.” This time, Joriel didn't offer a reply. Resigned, Sam crept along the side of the utility room on the balls of his feet. As he turned the corner, all hell broke loose.

To Sam's left, a man lay unmoving in a crumpled heap beside a rusted air-conditioning unit. To his right, a hideous mountain on legs held another man by the throat and appeared ready to deliver the coup de grâce. Helplessly, Sam looked on, certain the first man was dead, with the second soon to follow. That would leave him alone with the mountain on legs, the source of his internal radar blip.

Sam flinched as an explosion, the unmistakable roar of a handgun, ripped apart the night. The Mountain dropped his victim and staggered backward, clutching his heavily muscled chest with both hands. Blood spilled from between bent and twisted fingers, yet the Mountain's face showed no indication of pain or shock. Instead, his puffy lips spread into a broad grin and his eyes were alight with … amusement!

Only a few feet from the Mountain, the shooter struggled to one knee, leveled the barrel of the handgun, and fired a second and third round. Orange and white flames jetted from the muzzle, the Mountain's body shook from the impact of the two-hundred-grain semi-jacketed slugs. Sam's eyes widened as the bullets seemed to have no discernable effect. If anything, the Mountain's grin grew wider as he advanced again.

Before the shooter could empty the magazine at point-blank range, the Mountain was on him, pinning him to the roof with a knee to the chest and digging talonlike fingers into the man's exposed throat. The shooter, no small man himself, used the gun as a makeshift hammer and beat at the Mountain's face, wrists, and forearms, struggling in vain to break the chokehold. The Mountain seemed impervious to pain, his only reaction an ever-widening rictus grin. He stood, and held the man by the throat at arms' length.

Smiling, always smiling, the Mountain tightened his grip on the man's throat and shook him as a terrier would a rat. The shooter's head snapped violently back and forth until Sam was certain his neck would break. Within seconds, the blows fell with less authority, and then stopped altogether. Sam knew the fight was all but over, and if the man wasn't already dead, he couldn't be far from it. In the distance, Sam heard the wail of sirens.
Always too little, too late!

The Mountain dropped the now limp body to the roof. He stood over the fallen man, a booted foot poised to stomp down on his victim's unprotected head. Then, for whatever reason, he hesitated and lowered his foot. He turned and brushed limp strands of dirty ash-colored hair from his eyes. A long string of drool hung from one corner of his mouth, and Sam was sure if any man ever truly resembled a rabid dog, it was the creature before him.

The Mountain looked directly at Sam and his expression turned from puzzlement to one of dawning recognition.

“You!”

Sam knew what it meant to stand frozen by abject terror. He had been there before. The white Lincoln that tailed him to Abbotsville, the rabbit hole, Drammach and his soldiers, Axthiel … each had at one time paralyzed Sam with fear. But when he looked into the Mountain's eyes, he experienced perhaps the greatest terror of all. Within those shallow pools of raw sewage, he saw nothing but cold insanity. Unbridled madness driven by a single purpose: to destroy. Through the sheets of driving rain, Sam watched as the Mountain advanced, clenching and unclenching his massive fists. A web of lightning illuminated the sky, framing the monstrous form of the Mountain against roiling blue-black clouds.

Oh, God. Joriel? Joriel!

Her gentle singsong reply cascaded through Sam's terrified mind.
Sayeth the Father, “Touch not my prophets, nor do my anointed ones harm.”

It wasn't exactly what Sam wanted or needed to hear. He screamed, “Just help me, damn it!”

There wasn't time for another exchange as the Mountain now towered over him.

“My friends didn't say nothing about you showing up, so this is a real bonus!”

Stevie took a step forward. “Oh, I've waited a long time for this, little boy-bitch. My master's gonna be pleased. Maybe … maybe he'll let me keep your little sister as a pet. Katherine. Ain't that her name, Sammie?” The Mountain massaged his crotch. “Oh, yeah, after I finish with you, me and little sister gonna have us some fun.”

The words jolted Sam. “Kat…” Her nickname tumbled from his lips, as her image appeared, unbidden, in his mind. Fear surrendered without a whimper to fury. “Stay away from Kat, you son of a bitch!”

The Mountain laughed, then said, “Or what, Sammie? What you gonna do, huh? What you gonna do when I'm putting the god-meat to little sister? Huh?” Stevie broke into a rough rendition of an old Elvis tune, as he suggestively gyrated his hips. “Little sista, don't you cry! Oh, little sista don't you—”

Sam extended his hand toward the Mountain, palm turned outward, and shouted, “NO!”

The air between Sam and Little Stevie rippled, then sizzled as tendrils of brilliant white light shot out from Sam's palm, streaking across the rooftop toward its intended target. The odor of ozone filled Sam's nostrils, and droplets of rain were vaporized by the stream of supernatural energy.

The light struck Little Stevie in the center of his massive chest, lifted him from his feet, and propelled him through the air. He landed on his back with a dull thud several feet away, acrid smoke rising from smoldering fabric and seared flesh. When he struggled to his feet, Sam saw that the monster's chest was a ruined mess of charred cloth, hair, and skin. Even the remaining metal buttons on the lower portion of his denim jacket were reduced to molten lumps of slag metal. Despite the wounds, Little Stevie glared at Sam, undisguised loathing and hatred emanating from twin orbs the color of burned motor oil.

Holding his wounded chest, Little Stevie said, “You shouldn't have done that, Sammie. You really shouldn't have. I was gonna kill you, quick and clean. Well, maybe not so clean. But now, I'm going to hurt you real … fucking … bad!”

Sam rose to his feet, and nearly fell again when the bones in his legs turned to quivering jelly. He steadied himself against the wall of the utility shed and stared at the Mountain's damaged face and chest. The display of power had taken him by surprise as much as it had the Mountain, and Sam knew he didn't have the necessary energy for a repeat performance. He was defenseless now, and if the Mountain sensed that … It was time to bluff. He raised his hand again and extended it toward the monster. His bluff was rewarded as the Mountain flinched and took a single step back.

“You won't go near my sister. Not now, not ever. Now get the fuck outta here before I torch your ugly ass!”

“Boy, you don't know what you've done. Oh, I
will
go near your sister, just as soon as I find that little whore. And when I do, I'll eat her brains, then take a good long piss in her empty skull. Then I'll be back for you. You're gonna beg me for death!”

Sam had heard more than enough. Renewed anger surged through his body like an electrical current. He walked toward Little Stevie, too angry to acknowledge his own fear any longer. Wild energy coursed through his body, threatening to burst through his flesh at any moment.

Recognizing the dangerous change in demeanor and having already tasted the boy's incredible power, Little Stevie's courage faltered, then shriveled completely. His eyes darted left and right like some caged animal looking for an avenue of escape. As Sam advanced, Little Stevie backed away until the heels of his boots hung over the roof's precipice. In a sudden and unexpected act, Stevie spat at Sam. Instinctively, Sam raised his arms to protect his face, and the acidic phlegm popped and sizzled against the bare skin of his hands and arms.

“I'll be back, Sammie, and next time I won't come alone! I got friends in low places, boy-bitch!” With that, Little Stevie took a final backward step and disappeared over the edge of the four-story building.

Sam rushed to the edge of the building and looked down at the lawn below. Much as he expected, there was no sign of the Mountain. The sirens were still some distance away, though Sam was no longer sure they were headed in his direction. Sudden heavy downpours in central Arizona often resulted in severe flash flooding and rashes of auto accidents and drownings. Still, he didn't want to be within ten miles of this place when the police finally arrived.

The last of Sam's adrenaline rush faded, and every muscle in his body seemed made of Jell-O. He knelt on the roof and gave his thin legs time to recuperate before tackling the stairs again. Then he would have to call … damn, who
would
he call?

The monster had threatened Kat, so he would need to call home first. Maybe he should call Mark, too. Kat and his mom could stay with Mark and Janet for a while, at least until … Until what? What could he do to stop that … that thing? Dear God! Who or what
was
that thing, anyway? It didn't have the same smell as the demons, but it sure as hell wasn't human. Nor was it quite like Axthiel, but … Maybe Mark would have some ideas.

Or Joriel. “Are you still there?” he asked aloud.

Yes, I'm still here, Sam
.

“You sound so far away, Joriel. Are you okay? I—I've been worried about you.”

Sam heard the familiar gentle ringing of wind chimes, a sign that Joriel was happy, or possibly laughing. God, how he had missed that sound.

I'm fine now, Sam. I'm sorry I was away so long. I … I may have to leave again.

“No!” Sam shouted. “You can't do this to me, again.”

“Who—who are you talking to?”

Sam whirled about to find the Mountain's last victim struggling to a sitting position. Sam stood and walked cautiously to the man's side.

“Damn, man!” said Sam. “You just scared the shit out of me. I thought both you guys were dead!”

The man turned to look at his partner, wincing in the proc-ess and gingerly holding his head between his hands. “Dead? Yeah, my partner is. I only feel like it.”

Sam followed his gaze, looking at the man who lay beside the heating and air unit. Lying in a bloody heap, the man's head lay at an odd angle to his shoulders, and Sam realized the man's neck was broken. Sam also realized that both men wore identical coveralls, the kind frequently worn around campus by janitors and maintenance men. Looking around the rooftop at the assorted high-tech equipment, including the guns,
especially the guns,
Sam was certain neither man made a living sweeping floors or turning wrenches.

“Where—where did he go? That Little Stevie character?”

What kind of accent is that? Boston? New York? He sure as hell ain't from around here. He doesn't smell like the Enemy. In fact, he carries the same scent as Mark and Michael Collier … and the rest of us.

Sam kicked the handgun to the side just to be safe, and helped the man stand. When the man swayed left to right, Sam lent him a shoulder for support. When the man gratefully shifted his weight, Sam's knees nearly buckled.
Damn, this dude is solid!

When the man started for the edge of the rooftop, Sam steered him away.

“Don't bother looking over the edge. I already did, and he ain't there. I don't think he's coming back.” Sam held his injured arm tight against his side and thought,
At least we can hope that walking acid vat doesn't show back up.

The man nodded and then bent at the waist, his body quaking with a series of loud retches. With each heave, his face screwed into a mask of agony, and at one point his eyes began to roll back into his head. Sam guided him to a large wooden spool of cable and helped him sit. By the yellowish light of the security lamps, Sam could see the man's eyes were glassy and unfocused. One pupil was definitely dilated. Factoring in the projectile vomiting, Sam was sure the guy had a serious head injury.

“You don't look too good. We need to get you to a hospital. I left my cell phone in the car, but if you can hang on, I'll go call an ambulance.”

“No.”

“Look, dude. I'm not a doctor, but I have carved up my share of frogs and starfish in biology class. I'm telling you, you need medical help.”

“NO! No ambulance and no police. Got that?”

The man's vehemence startled Sam, but he thought perhaps he could understand. Only a couple of years earlier, he had a similar conversation with Charlene Hastings.

“Okay, okay! Take it easy. Look, if you want to avoid the cops, we gotta get you off the roof. Someone besides me heard those gunshots, and the police will show up sooner or later. If it wasn't for the flash flooding, they'd already be here. You have a car nearby?”

The man started to shake his head and nearly fell off of the cable spool. “N-no. My car is parked several blocks away. Can—can you help me?” The man held out his hand and said, “My name is—Falco.”

Sam shook the man's hand and silently noted the weak grip. “Sure, dude. I'm Sam. I'll help you get out of here.”

Déjà vu all over again said the wise man.
“But what about your friend? What do we do about him?”

Thomas turned his head slowly, as if careful not to disturb his fractured equilibrium again, and looked at his fallen partner.