Prince of Darkness, page 21
The face was Timmy’s face. But the thick fair hair, tumbled by the removal of the mask, was not Timmy’s. The easy athlete’s walk had not been Timmy’s shambling stride. The eyes, bright and intelligent…
Again the clawed hand lifted; this time, with a very human “Damn!” the man stripped off the awkward glove, and raised his hand to the livid face. The whole fiery birthmark peeled off; and Kate saw before her the face which ought to have been crumbling to dust for almost a year. Mark’s face.
Chapter
12
HE DIDN’T LOOK A DAY OLDER.
The blue eyes narrowed with amusement as they met hers; the mouth was smiling. He was as handsome as ever, almost too handsome… as ever…
Kate wasn’t aware that she was fainting until she heard Peter’s voice, repeating her name. She shook her head, blinking through the gray fog that blanketed her mind, looking, not at the beautiful smiling face in front of her, but at Peter.
Under the ruddy firelight that gave his face a false flush, he was white as paper. The shock had driven the blood from his face, but not from his brain; he knew what she must be thinking.
“He’s real, Kate. You didn’t kill him. Don’t start imagining…. Kate!”
“I’m all right,” she muttered.
“What,” Mark said, “no tender welcome for the dead come back to life?”
That voice—the one that had haunted her for months. No wonder Timmy never spoke.
“I expected more reaction,” Mark went on cheerfully. “My fond brother and my—I’ve always liked the word ‘paramour,’ haven’t you, Kate? So much more refined and Elizabethan than the other terms…. But I understand that in this, as in so many of my other specialties, my big brother has surpassed me.”
“Blanks,” Kate said. “Blanks in the gun.”
“Red paint and all the rest,” Mark agreed. “Martin was lurking, unseen, in order to bear you away if you overcame your squeamishness and started to investigate the corpse. But you fled, like a nice timid female.”
“Why? Why did you do it?”
“Money,” Mark said, with an air of pointing out the obvious. “What else? Oh, there were other reasons. Tiphaine has never liked you very much, darling. When Stephan died intestate—and I’m sure he did it deliberately, the old devil—her dislike ripened into something deeper. As for me, it hurts my feelings to be rejected. I’ve enjoyed watching you squirm.”
His gloved hand lifted; the steel claws pricked Kate’s cheek. Peter said something unintelligible, and moved his head. Mark turned toward him.
“I’ve hated you all my life,” he said calmly. “It’s quite natural; any psychologist could explain it to you. Gratitude is a fiction; the normal return for favors rendered is resentment. Only imagine, dear brother, how profound my resentment of you! All I ever needed to do was yell for help, and there you were, panting with zeal, ready to bail me out. Only—the last time I yelled for help you didn’t come.”
“You must have known why.”
“Oh, yes, I knew; I read the newspapers.” Mark chuckled. “I thought of you often. Prisons in Communist countries aren’t awfully comfortable, I’m told. But I thought you’d turn up sooner or later; that uncomfortable conscience of yours. And you were stupid enough to use your own name when you booked your room. Not that I blame you,” he added condescendingly. “You thought I was dead, and assumed no one else would recognize the name. Little did you know that we were all ready and waiting for you.”
There were beads of perspiration on Peter’s forehead; they reflected the firelight like drops of blood.
“I can’t get you out of this mess unless you release us,” he said.
“I don’t need you to get me out of it,” Mark snapped. “I didn’t really need you when I wrote that letter. This”—his misshapen hand swept out to include the circle of costumed figures—“this is stronger than you ever could be. And I’m its head, Peter. I’m the head devil. The Master.”
Tiphaine bowed her head.
Kate looked at her cousin. Tiphaine’s eyes were fixed on Mark; they were rapt with a blasphemous devotion. Her fervor was genuine. Couldn’t she see that Mark was using her, and the coven, for his own ends?
Kate missed Peter’s next comment as her eyes moved from Tiphaine to the other members of the coven. The ceremony was proceeding. Next on the agenda was the ceremonial meal, and if she had been watching the proceedings from some safe, hidden spot, the activity would have moved her to sick amusement. Most of the Sabbath meals, as described by medieval participants, consisted of ordinary food—meat and bread and wine. She herself had expressed doubt, in her book, about the legends of cannibalism and noxious beverages. And this spoiled crowd—perhaps later, when their frenzy had increased, they might be capable of consuming human flesh or urine, or bread made of flour from unspeakable sources. Now they were setting out what appeared to be a conventional picnic supper. Kate’s diaphragm contracted as she watched Miss Device fussily weighing down the corners of the white cloth with wine bottles. Red wine. Naturally…And what an elegant little supper it was—foie gras and caviar and imported cheeses, crusty French bread…. Kate suppressed a rising tide of nausea. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but she wasn’t hungry.
Most of the hampers and baskets had been emptied of their contents now; only one large basket still remained, on the ground by the stone. Some special delicacy, perhaps, for dessert. They weren’t going to unpack it now, they were waiting for their chief to join them. Mrs. Adams daintily plucked a few dried leaves from the damask picnic cloth; her streaming gray hair fell across her cheeks and chin, leaving the sharp nose in silhouette. Everything was ready. But Mark couldn’t tear himself away; he was enjoying this.
“I succeeded old Stephan,” he was saying as Kate turned her attention back to the conversation. “He and I hit it off right from the start. It was rather a slap in the face for Martin; he’d been fancying himself as heir apparent. But Stephan knew that for Martin the coven was only a means to an end. For the rest of us, it’s an end in itself.”
He turned to smile at Tiphaine, and Kate burst out, “For the rest of them, maybe, but not for you. Money, power, control, that’s what you want. You asked me to marry you because of the money. When that failed, you staged your own murder so you could blackmail me.”
“You have such a simple mind,” Mark said fondly. The steel claw touched her cheek again, and pricked a little deeper. “Do you think you were my only problem? I owed a good deal of money, dear, not only locally, but to some threatening gentlemen in New York. Not to mention the irate fathers of certain damsels…Without Peter to rescue me from myself, my peccadilloes tended to pile up. Since I could disappear, and make money on the deal, as they say here…Timmy was no loss. And he was so splendidly easy to imitate.”
“And we thought someone was using Timmy,” Kate muttered.
“But you were perfectly correct.”
The fire soared and crackled, sending red flames licking at the lower branches. Kate wondered how they kept the dry leaves from catching. The whole clearing would go up like a torch if the fire got out of hand.
“Being Timmy did limit me, though,” Mark went on blithely. “I couldn’t get in and out of costume quickly, so I had to rely on my voice to remind you of past events. Peter was more effective; I got a lot of innocent amusement out of watching his performances and recalling our boyhood days, when we sent off for occult literature and tried to conjure up demons in the schoolroom. Yes, he was very useful—until the night when he interfered with me at the séance.” Mark lifted a casual hand toward his brother’s face, and Peter jerked back, too late. Blood began streaming down his face, and Mark giggled.
“Reflexes a little slow,” he said in a voice which was higher than his normal tones. “I don’t imagine you’re feeling too well, are you? Had a bad day altogether. Well, it won’t be long now. I promised the general a few minutes of fun, but don’t worry, there isn’t too much he can do. We don’t want any odd marks which would be hard to explain in a postmortem.”
“What are you going to do with us?” Kate hated to give him the satisfaction of asking, but she couldn’t help it.
“It ought to interest you. These people have kept the ritual amazingly pure—in the scholarly sense, that is. No Black Mass. So you don’t need to worry about being stretched out naked on the altar, or anything crude of that sort.”
“Thanks,” Kate said.
“Sarcastic as ever.” Mark threw his head back, laughing, and caught at the mask as it slipped backward. He readjusted it on top of his head, where it formed a fantastic frame for his young face. “We have to consider the practical problem, you see. When the two of you are found tomorrow, it must appear to be an ordinary murder and suicide. Martin has considerable influence in these matters, but we don’t want to take any chances, in case your lawyer gets sticky about the will.”
“I see.”
“But we can still kill two birds with one stone. Tonight is the night of the Passion—a far older ceremony than the Christian imitation, only two thousand years ago. The god must die, as nature dies, so that life can be reborn in the spring.”
“Every seven years,” Kate said.
“That’s right; you’re the authority on fertility cults, aren’t you?” His smile was broad and carefree. “But they do it every year, here. A local refinement.”
“But you’re the—god,” Peter said. He was only an amateur at this, Kate remembered; his early religious training had left its imprint, under the layers of adult skepticism, and his disgust showed in face and voice. It annoyed Mark; he made another lunge with his clawed hand, and Peter flinched.
“I’m the god,” Mark said.
Then Kate saw what really drove him, under the superficial vices of avarice and cruelty. She looked away, unable to endure the sight of either brother; Peter’s sick helplessness was as painful as Mark’s madness.
“But naturally,” Mark went on in his normal voice, “I don’t die. Impractical. And so permanent…No, we have the substitute procedure, and a very nice one it is, too. Can you imagine a more appropriate substitute? Tiphaine tried earlier today, but she’s not much good with the bow, poor dear. It was a bit premature, actually. All your fault,” he added, turning to Kate. “That idiotic song, and your suggestion, gave her the idea.”
“But you can’t,” Kate gasped. “No one will believe …Why should I kill Peter? Or is it the other way around?”
“No, no, you had it right the first time. I think, you know, that they will believe it—once Peter’s real identity gets out, which it will. People are already talking about my ‘accidental death,’ you know…. I needn’t spell it out, not for a woman of your intellectual attainments.”
“And Martin will reluctantly testify that I’ve been going slowly insane for months,” Kate said slowly.
“With Tiphaine and the Schmidts to back him up, I don’t see how it can fail,” Mark said cheerfully. His eyes moved from Kate’s face down to her feet and back again. “There are, of course, certain preliminary ceremonies,” he said.
Tiphaine glided forward. Kate thought spitefully that her face had lost some of its unearthly concentration. She was human enough to be jealous.
“They are waiting,” she said, touching Mark on the shoulder.
“I’ll bet they are,” Peter said. “Expecially the old spinsters like Miss Device, and that bored, overweight wench, whatever her name is…. How far do your duties extend, Mark? I never did believe those stories of yours.”
“Peter,” Kate said warningly; but Mark wasn’t annoyed.
“I delegate some duties,” he said, grinning; and the leering goat’s head perched on his brow echoed the expression. “The ritual marriage is consummated with the Queen of the Sabbath.” He held out his hand to Tiphaine, and she took it, with a grave inclination of her head. “And,” Mark added negligently, “with an occasional carefully selected and honored visitor.”
This time Tiphaine’s annoyance was plainer, and Mark saw it. Still holding her hand, he pulled the mask down into position.
“A bientôt!” he said, and, leading his lady by the hand, started back toward the rock pedestal.
With the incarnate god presiding, the ritual supper got underway. It included a few refinements not ordinarily seen at picnics. The climax of the rite was yet to come, but the participants had already shed several layers of civilized behavior. Volz wallowed like the pig he resembled, cramming food into his mouth and drinking his wine directly from the bottle. As the meal proceeded and the bottles were emptied, Kate was reminded, not so much of the witchcraft reports, as of lurid tales of Roman banquets. Sprawled on the ground, the members were paired, two by two. Perhaps the activities wouldn’t have been so obscene if she hadn’t known these people so well, especially the older, more respected citizens…. Ironic, how she could read and write about practices like these with a cool scholarly detachment, and yet turn sick at the actual sight. The wine was flowing freely, not only into individual mouths, but from mouth to mouth and onto the already stained costumes. But Kate knew it was not the wine which brought the red flush to Miss Device’s sallow cheeks, nor the wild glitter into the Senator’s eyes. Volz poured the dregs of his fourth bottle down the front of Joan’s inadequate bodice, and bent forward. Kate closed her eyes.
She heard Peter swear, fluently, and without lowering his voice; she heard the leaves in the dark wood rustle as some four-footed creature crept through the night. Remembering her earlier fear of nocturnal animals, she could have smiled. Then lesser sounds were drowned as the music began again.
It was faster and louder now. The dance was different too, though it was just as ancient; the dancers paired off, locking elbows, back to back.
The crackle of dried leaves came again, so close now that it was audible even over the music—if the cacophonous din could be called music. Kate forgot her major preoccupation in momentary wonder. They were at the very edge of the clearing; only darkness lay behind them, darkness and the tangled brush. But surely no forest animal would approach so close.
Then came a sound that almost took her breath away by its very normalcy, in the midst of nightmare. The sounds of a soft, human voice.
“Don’t turn, don’t talk. Don’t look surprised.”
For the life of her—and it might have been just that—Kate couldn’t repress a start and a gasp. Luckily the others were too concerned with their own activities to notice. Peter was more controlled. His profile, outlined against the dark foliage, remained immobile.
“Jackson,” he said, on a long, sighing breath.
“Yes, it’s me. Don’t let your arms fall when I cut these ropes. Move ’em a little, get circulation back.”
Kate kept her eyes fixed on Peter’s face, fighting the urge to crane her neck and look back. She knew, by the twist of his mouth, when his arms were freed. Then she felt Hilary’s big, warm hands on hers, and the ropes fell away. He held her wrists, taking some of the strain off her numbed arms, rubbing them to get the blood flowing freely. After a few minutes his hands moved to her ankles.
“Kate?” Peter spoke without turning his head.
“Yes, all right. I’m free now.”
“Good. Jackson, get the hell out of here.”
“I’m staying.”
“For God’s sake—as soon as we make our break, they’ll be buzzing like flies, all over the woods. I’ll give you five minutes’ start.”
Five minutes? Kate wondered whether they had five more minutes—or whether five minutes would be long enough to restore limbs numbed by cold and confinement. Flexing her fingers, trying to stamp her feet without letting the dried leaves rustle, she was still caught by the ghastly fascination of the rite of the Sabbath. Her scholar’s instinct, so long dormant, was not dead; if she survived—what a book she could make out of this!
Peter and Hilary were arguing in whispers which were becoming dangerously shrill. She turned her head to expostulate. Then she heard what Hilary was saying.
“I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”
Staring straight ahead, hands still behind him, Peter said softly. “We’re going, all right. Through you, if we must.”
“Why the hell do you think I came? To save you?” Hilary’s emotion was so intense that words failed him; he stuttered wildly for a second before he could go on. “Look over there, look—to the right of the stone, on the ground. That’s what I came for. And you’ll help me, or I’ll kill you myself.”
It took Kate’s incredulous eyes some time to locate the object he indicated. Her mind fought the dawning knowledge as her eyes denied the proof of it. By the stone…the basket she had noticed at the beginning of the meal. Only it wasn’t a basket. It was made of some plastic material, with metal supports to hold it upright, and attachments by which it could be fastened to the seat of a car. She had bought one like it to take…to take the baby…
Her stomach rebelled in a surge of nausea so violent it almost bent her over. It was only her imagination, she couldn’t have heard it over the screams of the dancers: the high, thin wail that seemed to come from the carrier by the stone.
“Impossible,” Peter whispered. “Not even these—how could they? Where did they get it?”
Kate didn’t have to wait for Hilary’s explanation.
“The Foundling Home. Some of them are on the board. Miss Device does volunteer work in the office. Falsifying records…Most of the babies are illegitimate, unwanted…. Peter!”
He didn’t hear her. He didn’t have to; there was no need for discussion of ends, only of means.
“Is it yours?” he asked, and Hilary answered simply,
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“No.” Peter began to shiver, violently and uncontrollably. “Get over there, through the trees, to the nearest cover. When you see me step out and raise my arms, grab the basket and run.”
