Rage, page 25
They were quiet for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Gate’s arm tightened around her. “Get some sleep,” he coaxed. “You’ll need all your strength tomorrow.”
But she knew sleep wouldn’t come this night. Her mind was spinning. There was too much to comprehend and despite the relative safety of the dark cave, her entire body was still on alert.
Besides, she was still more than a little worried that a bear might lumber into the cave while she slept, and she had no intention of becoming some smelly animal’s dinner.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Supported on either side by the man and woman from the commune, Spyder had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Each step jarred the throbbing in his battered arm. They led him into a well-lit courtyard surrounding a central fountain. A statue rose from the center of the fountain, stone arms lifted toward the sky, and Spyder choked back a gasp when he saw that the statue was missing a hand. Where the left hand should have been, the sculpture was sheared off, the cut clean and sharp and new—like his own. The sight sent an icy shiver racing down his spine.
Beneath the mutilated arms of the statue, Spyder saw a dark stain on the ground. It might have been blood, but he couldn’t be sure. The sting of gunpowder hung in the air, leaving no doubt in his mind that violence had taken place here. Blaize must have been running from this very spot when he’d arrived. His instincts had been right. She was in danger. Deadly danger.
His fingers flexed in silent agreement.
But there was no time to search for further clues as he was led to one of the buildings facing the fountain. “Take me to your leader,” he mumbled, but the words were lost in a haze of pain, and he realized it wasn’t funny anyway. He should have listened to Pops. He wasn’t ready for this.
They went through a kitchen, a dining room, up a staircase and into a long hallway. Spyder leaned more heavily against the man supporting him, as his knees threatened to buckle with each step. They passed one room where a man paced and mumbled to himself, running his hands through a lion’s mane of snow-white hair. Spyder caught a few words.
“…coming to get me…have to be stopped…”
Pierce, he thought. They’re taking me right to the man I’m looking for.
But they passed that room and went on to another door where two more robed sentries stood. After a whispered exchange, one of the guards checked him for weapons, searching through his wallet and taking his flashlight and keys. Convinced he was unarmed, they opened the door and let him inside.
Spyder wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but certainly not this young boy in powder-blue pajamas staring mournfully out the window into the night. The boy turned and looked into Spyder’s eyes, then his gaze shifted down to the bandaged and bloody arm. He made a dismissive gesture and everyone else left the room, closing the door behind them. Spyder was alone with the child.
The room belonged to a boy, but the eyes were those of an old soul. Spyder looked beneath the sadness there and found intelligence and wisdom—and something else. The child seemed to exude a composed acceptance of his lot in life that reminded Spyder of a painting he’d once seen of Joan of Arc burning at the stake. As they appraised each other, Spyder was overcome with the belief that the boy could see straight into his soul.
He smiled and the boy smiled back. It was brief, flickering across his young face then disappearing, but the power in that smile made Spyder gasp. The boy walked toward him. His head barely reached the center of Spyder’s chest, but he seemed taller. He had what was known in the business as “presence”.
When he reached out, Spyder half expected a handshake, but instead the boy reached for the bandaged arm. “How did this happen?” he asked. As he spoke, his fingers brushed over the wound. Spyder flinched and prepared himself for the pain as the boy touched him. But it never came.
“Blame the Bible,” Spyder said.
“The Bible?”
“Yes. It says ‘If thy right eye offends thee, pluck it out’, doesn’t it?”
The boy nodded, his eyes focused on the gentle movements of his hands. “You missed,” he said.
Spyder chuckled. “I thought I was shorter.” He was rewarded with another smile. At that moment he knew he’d do anything to bring a smile back to that tortured face and keep it there.
He prepared himself for more questions, but the boy was focused on the wounded arm clasped between his hands. A warmth emanated from the boy’s hands, enveloping Spyder’s entire wrist. Something seemed to flow between them, a mixture of warmth and light and love.
“What’s your name?” he asked the boy.
“Joey.”
“I’m Spyder.”
Joey began unwinding the soiled bandages. Spyder looked away. He’d yet to see the ravages done to his body and wasn’t prepared for the sight of it. The cool air whispered across his skin, making him wince, but was quickly replaced by the warmth of Joey’s hands. The warmth spread upward along his arm. Spyder almost expected to see it glow, but when he turned back, it looked no different.
The pain subsided slowly, like the retreat of gentle waves along the shore. It wasn’t until the pain was gone completely that Spyder realized how accustomed he’d become to it and how glorious it felt to finally be free.
Joey removed his hands and Spyder stared in disbelief. His wounds were completely healed, leaving only a delicate filigree of scars crisscrossing the blunt end of his wrist. There was no blood. And blessedly, no more pain.
Spyder dropped to his knees. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
Joey took a deep breath and slumped into a chair, as if every ounce of energy had been drained from his body.
“Thank you,” Spyder said. He felt tears welling in his eyes, summoned not by pain, but gratitude. “Thank you.” It was all he could say, all he could think.
Joey raised his eyes, looking as surprised as Spyder felt. “I wasn’t sure I could do that. It just happened.”
Spyder rose and pulled a chair across from the boy. He felt incredibly close to this child he’d just met. The feeling surprised him. He’d never been particularly empathetic of other people, particularly children. But there was something about this boy that made him feel almost paternal, yet humbled in his presence.
“What happened here today?” Spyder asked.
The boy’s eyes focused on a distant point. His voice seemed to come from far away. “My mother was,” a shudder, followed by a quivering intake of air and a deep, mournful sigh, “murdered.”
“Oh my God,” Spyder reached out and took the boy’s hand. “Where’s your father?”
“I have no father.” The boy’s lower lip trembled. “Oswald was like a father to me, but Uncle Algernon shot him.”
The boy’s eyes flickered to the window and Spyder remembered the stain he’d seen beside the fountain. His heart went out to this pitiful, orphaned child.
Did he say Uncle Algernon? Spyder didn’t want to think that this poor boy’s only remaining relative was the man he’d come here to stop, no matter what it took. And with a flash of insight he realized that the boy’s mother must be the woman in the passage Blaize had shown him—Mother Moon.
“Your uncle is not well, Joey.”
“I know.”
“Joey, listen to me.” He didn’t know why, but he felt it was important to explain to the boy the cause of the events surrounding him. “Your uncle is writing a book.”
Joey nodded. “He’s writing four of them. The last book will be published on my thirteenth birthday. It’s my gift, he told me.”
“It’s not a gift, Joey. It’s a terrible, terrible prophecy that must be stopped. Those books are the reason I lost my hand, the reason your mother is dead. We can’t let the final book be published.”
“You can’t stop it.” There was a quiet conviction on his face.
“I have to try. There’s too much at stake and someone I love is in danger.”
There was more suffering in the boy’s sigh than any child his age should ever have to endure. His eyes were heavy, lines of exhaustion marking his face.
“So tired,” he whispered, fighting the urge to sleep.
Spyder stood and lifted the boy against his chest. He was lighter than he looked. His eyes drifted shut, making his face seem younger and more innocent than before.
Spyder carried him to his bed and pulled the covers back, smiling at the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles blanket beneath the bedspread. Despite everything, Joey was just a boy. Spyder pulled the blankets up around Joey’s chin and sat at the edge of the bed, brushing the hair back from his forehead and humming softly. Within a few moments the boy’s breathing became regular as sleep won the battle for control of his body.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Spyder watched Joey sleep. Instead of peace, nightmares furrowed the boy’s brow and tossed his head from side to side.
“Shhh…” When he brushed the hair back, Spyder was surprised to see a faint mark on Joey’s forehead. It looked like a pale pink star. Joey moaned. As he struggled in the grip of a nightmare, the mark darkened, seeming to pulse and throb.
Spyder shook the boy, calling his name. “Joey. Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”
Joey blinked, dragging himself out of the nightmare. He gripped Spyder’s hand tight, taking deep, rasping breaths. There was a trapped look in his eyes.
“It’s okay,” Spyder soothed.
“Will you stay with me,” he asked, big blue eyes pleading.
Spyder knew what it was like to sink into nightmare territory and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone, especially this magical child. “I’ll stay with you,” he said, holding the boy’s hand. “I’ll stay here and keep the nightmares away.”
And he did, watching over the boy until the early morning hours, Joey’s small hand clasped tight in his own. Eventually his head slumped onto his arm beside Joey’s pillow and he, too, slept.
Blaize couldn’t believe she’d actually slept. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. The cool wall of the cave seemed to have sucked all the warmth from her body during the night. She was chilled and stiff and scared. She remembered dreaming, a crazy patchwork of dreams, one layered atop the other. But when she tried to recall them, they slipped from her grasp. Although she couldn’t remember the specifics of the dreams, they’d left her feeling vulnerable.
Gate stirred beside her. “My arm is numb,” he said, stretching.
Blaize stood up and rubbed her bottom, but didn’t mention which part of her own anatomy prickled with returning sensation. Fingers of sunlight slanted through the cave entrance, almost but not quite reaching the nook they’d huddled in overnight. She looked around their temporary refuge, noticing features in the dim light she hadn’t seen in the darkness. She was grateful there were no signs of hibernating bears or hidden bodies or bats. God, bats…why hadn’t she thought about bats last night? She shivered.
“I can’t wait to get out of here.” She realized she was whispering. “Do you think they’ve stopped searching for us?”
“No.” Gate’s voice was lowered, too. “I doubt they’ve given up. But I think most of them will go back to their regular duties today. They won’t expect us to show up in broad daylight. We’ll have the element of surprise, plus the advantage of being able to see where we’re going.”
“A big plus.”
“The problem is we don’t know where Pierce is.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Blaize said. “I bet he’s living in the same quarters as Joey and his mother. They’re family, right?”
Gate nodded.
“Besides,” Blaize said, “that’s where we’ll find Joey.”
“And that’s where there’ll be the most guards.”
Blaize chewed her lip. “You know, we should have tackled Pierce last night and taken his gun.”
Gate stared at her, then gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah, that’s what we should have done. That’s the first thing they teach us in journalism class. Get the gun, then get the story.”
She shot an exasperated look in his direction.
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Do you know how to shoot a gun? Have you ever even held a gun?”
“Well no, but—”
“Oh, I’d feel real safe with you shooting bullets wildly all over the place. And do you really think you could shoot someone? C’mon, Blaize. This isn’t some TV show where the good guys always win so they can come back for next week’s episode. I’m a journalist and you’re a schoolteacher. We don’t have a lot of experience in shoot-outs.”
“Okay,” she admitted. “So what do you suggest?”
“I think you’re right about where we’ll find Pierce. I say we circle around to the back of the house and wait for an opening. Maybe we can create a diversion. I’ll try to get to Pierce and you separate Joey from the commune. If we can get out without alerting any of the cult members, we can make it to the highway and hitch a ride to the nearest town.”
“What kind of diversion?” Blaize asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He reached out and took her hand. “Listen. The most important thing is that we destroy any copies of the manuscript Pierce has with him. If we can’t get Joey out—”
“No,” she cried, pulling her hand away with a defiant jerk. “I’m not leaving without him.”
“We may have to. Once the book is destroyed we can always come back and rescue the boy.
“No.” She was adamant. “We can’t leave without him.” She stared directly into Gate’s eyes. There was no room for argument. “I won’t leave him here.”
For a moment the two of them faced off, both equally determined. Then Gate looked away. “All right. But it’s your job to get the boy. I’ll take care of Pierce.”
With that decided, they stepped out, blinking, into the daylight.
When Spyder woke, the boy was gone. Before he’d left, Joey had draped his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles blanket around Spyder’s shoulders. The gesture touched Spyder and brought a smile to his face. He stood and stretched, already bracing himself for the shooting pains that never came. He stared with disbelief at his arm. It hadn’t been a dream. The boy had actually healed him.
He shook his head. There wasn’t time to think of that now. He had to get to Pierce. He walked to the closed door and listened. There was no sound on the other side. He inched the door open, putting his face to the widening crack. The hallway was empty. No guards were posted outside the door. It felt like an ambush, but he had no choice other than to go out into the hallway.
Opening the door wider, he became aware of voices coming from the far end of the hallway. One young and sweet, the other gravel-rough. He inched toward Algernon’s room, making as little noise as possible. The closer he got, the clearer it became that the author was telling the boy a story.
He felt time closing in on him. Someone was sure to come upstairs soon. But he didn’t want to spook the boy. He stood just outside the doorway listening. There was a pause and the sound of paper crumpling. Then the monotone of Algernon Pierce reciting again. Every now and then Joey would ask a question.
Spyder leaned to the side and peeked into the room, jerking his head back before either of them spotted him. What he saw made his skin crawl.
Joey sat on his uncle’s lap, staring up at him with rapt attention as Pierce read. Pierce was draped in blood-stained white robes, his eyes glistening with equal parts purpose and insanity. Crumpled manuscript pages littered the floor. As Spyder watched, the author crushed another sheet in his fist and tossed it into the fireplace where it burned, sending black ashes drifting upward.
Spyder frowned, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. Pierce was destroying each page as he read it. He was doing their work for them. As if she was standing right beside him, Spyder heard Blaize’s voice. “Not turn the page, but BURN the page.” In his mind he saw those pages reduced to ashes fluttering in the fireplace. She was right. It was “burn the page”.
Pierce was burning his own book. But not before reading it to Joey. Was it an author’s vanity? Did he have to make sure that at least one other person heard the words before they were gone forever?
He heard the soft shuffling of footsteps too late to hide. Assuming an innocent expression he faced the woman walking toward him carrying a tray between her hands. She frowned, staring warily at him. Then recognition lit up her face.
“You!” she cried. “Blaize’s musician friend.”
He heard Joey call out from Algernon’s room. “Season?”
His head swiveled between the doorway and the woman blocking his path.
“You’re one of them,” she screamed.
He knew her screams would bring others and without thinking he knocked the tray from her hands, spilling tea and sending triangles of toast skittering across the floor. He pushed her aside and rushed by before she had time to recover. Racing down the stairs, he shouldered past a robed figure coming in the opposite direction. Her screams followed on his heels.
“Get him! Someone stop him!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Here,” Gate called, leading Blaize toward a darkened building large enough to be called a barn rather than a shed. A heavy-duty padlock hung open, swinging from a rusted clasp. Whoever was here last hadn’t bothered to lock up behind them.
Gate put his shoulder to the door and pushed it across the hard-packed dirt floor. They scrambled inside and pulled the door closed behind them. Inside the air was thick with the smell of gasoline and grease. Snowmobiles and sleds filled the spaces—obviously the cult’s primary means of transportation in the harsh mountain winters. There were skis and snowshoes stored in the rafters and shovels hanging from pegs on the walls.
