Rage, page 7
And he knew exactly where to find her. All he had to do was close his eyes and she’d be there waiting for him. Warm and willing, she haunted his dreams—silken whispers tickling his ear, ghost lips trailing down his neck, the warm hint of her perfume teasing his nostrils.
He crawled into bed and focused on a sharp sliver-moon that seemed to smirk at him from beyond the open window. “Relax,” he whispered into the darkness. “Relax and sleep.” He took deep, even breaths, willing himself to sleep, knowing she’d come to him in his dreams.
Algernon ignored the ringing telephone. He didn’t care who it was. Nothing mattered anymore. He had his proof. With a fierce growl, he twisted the telephone cord around his fingers and ripped it from the wall. The ringing stopped, and silence closed around the darkened room. Only the silvery moonlight guided his frantic pacing.
He’d been suspicious that it might be happening all over again. Now he was sure. That reporter’s name was the key that had unlocked the floodgates of memory, confirming his belief that history was repeating itself. Gate Wayne. He snorted his disgust. Did they think he was an idiot? Did they think he wouldn’t recognize his own creations?
Frantic, he ran his fingers through his hair. Think, think. How far had it gone? How much time did he have? He didn’t want to believe it was happening all over again. But then he’d seen her at the cemetery, gloating over her lover’s death…just the way he’d written that very scene. Oh, she’d tried to deny it was her, but he knew. He knew. You can’t hide from your creator. He paced, pounding his fist against his thigh. They were ganging up on him now. They were coming after him. He had to stop them before it was too late.
With a furious stride, he crossed the room to the bookshelf. Books flew in every direction until he found the one he wanted—The Gateway. This had been the book that had started it all.
He flipped through the pages, remembering the events that led to his downfall. No one had made the connection at first. Not right away. While the book climbed the bestseller lists, the country sat stunned in front of their television screens watching federal agents surround a barricaded camp of armed survivalists. When the standoff ended in an explosion of gas and gunshots, there were no survivors. Men, women and children alike were reduced to ashes.
He remembered it all, and the memory was a clutched fist in his heart. In the days following the wholesale destruction, someone noticed the strange coincidence between the actual event and a fictional scene in The Gateway. The name of the survivalist leader in his book was Preston Gate, the real-life leader was named Wayne Preston. And now another—Gate Wayne—twisting the names once again into a tight knot of coincidence. How much more proof did he need?
Oh, but there were other odd similarities, too. More than even he had realized at first. Still, the whole furor might have died a natural death if not for a segment in the television program Unexplainable Phenomenon. The host, his voice serious and sincere, pointed out even more parallels. Some were a stretch, others just plain spooky. Like the Lincoln-Kennedy similarities, they piled one atop the other, giving the staggering illusion of empirical proof.
He might have sued the producers of that program, except the publicity wasn’t hurting his book sales. If only he’d known. He should have stopped then. His next book, Blood Rage, had competed with The Gateway for spots one and two on the bestseller lists. Neither was in any danger of being dethroned. It seemed whatever he touched turned to gold. Until it all began to run with blood.
Algernon flipped through yellowed newspaper clippings spread across his desk. The similarities didn’t stop with the new novel. If anything they increased as each horrific scene in Blood Rage sprang to life. This time Algernon kept score, watching the first murder, the second, each progressively worse, culminating in a scene he vividly remembered writing—a brutal, bloody mass murder.
It had been a key scene and had come to him like a vision. So real. So violent. Putting it to paper had felt like committing a sin somehow. He’d watched it unfold from the killer’s vantage point, felt the splatter of warm blood, the weight of the knife, heard the victims begging and pleading to no avail.
And then he read it again, word for word. Only this time it was a newspaper account rather than a piece of fiction. That final scene realized in life was the copycat murder that had made a believer out of him. When he’d looked into the killer’s eyes on the news, he’d seen himself, the same haunted look he’d worn after writing that scene, as if he’d lived it and wore the blood on his hands.
He shook himself. That’s why he’d ultimately stopped writing. He was as guilty as the actual murderer, although he could never be brought to trial. A jury may not believe it, but he knew. He knew that the force of his imagination had somehow triggered each and every gruesome murder, ending in the final slaughter that followed nearly word for word the bloody climax of his novel. In the end, hundreds lay dead and the reporters had had a field day.
Maybe a judge wouldn’t convict him, but he’d been tried and hung by the press. Algernon skimmed through the articles with headlines shocking even by yellow journalism standards. “The Poison Pen of Algernon Pierce Strikes Again,” “Master of the Macabre Leaves Trail of Death,” “Life Imitates Art in Bloody Massacre.” There were more, each one more damning than the last.
He let the yellowed clippings slip from his fingers and flutter to the floor. Coincidence couldn’t explain it all. Copycat murders couldn’t explain it all. Algernon knew the critics were right. He’d done it. He’d written the future and transformed it into bloody history.
And with that belief, the most crippling case of writer’s block had hit him. Despite the encouragement of his editor and agent, he couldn’t write another word after that. He didn’t dare. With the blood of hundreds on his hands, he’d vowed never to write again.
Until now.
It had been his dirty little secret at first, like a reformed smoker hiding in the bathroom to sneak a drag. He’d had no intention of telling his agent he was writing again after all these years. But the story had gripped him and wouldn’t let go. He’d known immediately that the idea was too big for one book. It would be a series of three, possibly four books. Since he’d had no intention of publishing it, the logistics hadn’t mattered at the time. He just wrote, losing himself in the fictional world of his own creation. Losing himself in The Play.
Algernon swept the remaining articles into a pile and pushed himself away from his desk. He truly hadn’t planned for The Play to see the light of day. He couldn’t put himself or the world through that again. Never, never, never again.
But then his sister had found the manuscript. He’d come home and found her turning the last few pages, her golden hair shimmering around her face. When she’d looked up at him her eyes were bright with wonder.
Celeste. Sweet, soft little Celeste. Hair as pale as moonbeams and eyes of shadowed twilight. Just the thought of her brought a smile to his face. His precious little sister. Only she wasn’t little anymore. She was a full-grown woman with her own mission in life. But that day she’d looked up at him with adoring eyes once again.
“This is incredible!” Celeste had said. “You didn’t tell me you were writing again.”
“I’m not,” he’d growled, trying to snatch the pages out of her hands. “Give them to me, Celeste.”
But she’d clung tight. “No. This is what you were born to do. Don’t throw your gift away.”
Pretty little Celeste, his baby sister, his golden angel. He could never deny her anything. Not as a little girl and not as a woman. He broke down and told her his fears. He’d argued, swore he’d never send another killer out into the world. “You don’t understand. They take my work and twist it, they use it for destruction.”
But she’d soothed him with gentle words and soft, fluttery caresses. “It’s not your fault,” she’d whispered. “You can’t be blamed for what others do.” She’d rocked him then, the way he’d rocked and held her so many times as she was growing up. “You’re too talented to let a few vicious rumors destroy your career,” she’d said. “You have to get this published.”
Sweet Celeste. How could he get angry with her? Even when she’d gone behind his back and passed the manuscript to his editor. Before he knew it, the wheels were turning and everything was out of his control. He’d had no choice but to continue.
Suddenly the first book of The Play was on the stands and once again he was combing the newspapers and surfing the Internet and watching television news broadcasts for any eerie parallels. He’d just begun to relax and convince himself it had all been a fluke when the similarities started again. Right here in his own hometown. First the tractor trailer accident that claimed one life, then the fire, and today that girl in the cemetery. Generic proof, but with echoes only its creator would recognize. No one else had caught on yet, but he knew. He knew the cycle had begun. And this time the ending was too horrible to imagine.
This time he’d penned the Apocalypse.
Too late. Too late. Now that the signs were showing up, it was too late for him to take it back. The second book would be on the stands in April, The third was already in galleys, and the final book was due to the publisher by the end of the month. He was locked into this. No way out.
Not unless…
He shook his head. When was the last time he’d slept? He felt dizzy, disoriented. He could feel the slumbering headache lying in wait. With a deep sigh he packed up the rest of the articles and grabbed the relaxation tapes Celeste had made to ease the relentless migraines that plagued him. He needed to calm down. He was making mountains out of molehills. Just calm down, relax, get a grip. Stretching out on the couch, he put the headphones on and closed his eyes.
“Relax,” he chanted in a gravel whisper as the black velvet night closed around him. “Just relax.”
Blaize jerked awake, struggling through layers of nightmares. Her heart pounded and her skin felt clammy. It took a few moments to orient herself. She’d fallen asleep on the couch. Beside her was the open book she’d been reading—Algernon Pierce’s book. She shivered, afraid to touch it, as if it were alive.
There were no clues to her current problems in this book, only nightmares on top of nightmares. She wondered how any sane person could come up with such brutal, depraved scenarios. She felt dirty just reading it, as if the pages had absorbed traces of splattered blood and gore.
She picked the book up with two fingers and carried it to the trash, holding it away from her body like a dead mouse. There was no need to read any further. She knew there weren’t any answers in this book. Unfortunately she’d still have to read The Play when it came in. She hoped she wouldn’t have to read very far to see whether or not there was any connection between her life spiraling out of control and Algernon Pierce’s newest novel.
She stared into the night. The moon was a sickle-slash in the velvet sky. She shivered and turned away from the window. Even after burying the book in the trash, she still couldn’t shake the flashes of nightmare visions that had awakened her. She’d inherited Pierce’s nightmares, only she had no outlet to exorcise them.
She needed to talk to someone and dialed Joyce’s number automatically. A voice, husky with sleep, answered on the first ring.
“Joyce, this is Blaize. Did I wake you up?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, you woke me up. Happy?” Then the gruffness softened. “Are you okay?”
Blaize’s voice cracked. “Nightmares.”
“I told you not to go to Richard’s funeral.”
Pacing, twisting the phone cord around her finger, Paige said, “You were right. Happy?”
“Infinitely.” Joyce chuckled. “You can wake me up anytime to tell me I’m right.”
“I just needed to hear your voice.” Blaize tried to sound brave, but the quiver in her words gave her away.
“Want me to come over and keep you company?” Joyce asked.
Blaize wanted to say yes, but couldn’t. “No, just talk to me for a little while. Then I’ll go to sleep,” she said, although she was pretty sure she wouldn’t sleep again tonight.
It didn’t take long before Joyce’s bad jokes and rambling discourse on life and politics and the state of the economy had Blaize yawning. She settled on the couch and turned off the lamp, her eyes adjusting to the soft glow of moonlight. Her eyelids drooped and she leaned back against the cushions, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder.
Joyce’s voice softened to hushed tones, soothing, comforting, reassuring. Soon Blaize’s breathing deepened and her eyes stayed closed as Joyce whispered, “Shhh…just relax. Relax and sleep now.”
Chapter Seven
Blaize checked the clock, hurrying to get ready. Joyce would be here any minute, and Lord help anyone who made Joyce Klavan late for anything. There were people to this day who claimed to have actually seen flames shooting from Joyce’s nostrils when she was angry.
Blaize thought she might just be the only person in the world who saw through that tough exterior. When she woke this morning the phone line had still been open. She’d smiled hearing Joyce’s soft snoring on the other end. Then a snort and a cough and Joyce’s sleepy voice, as if sensing that her charge had made it safely through the night.
“Morning.” The word was wrapped around a cigarette as Joyce lit, inhaled, coughed and exhaled with a long sigh.
“Do you know you snore?” Blaize had asked, not wanting to let go of the connection yet. She’d needed the comfort of another person and as usual, Joyce had been there for her.
“You are such a liar. I don’t snore. I just breathe loud.”
“Do you always light your first cigarette before you get out of bed?” Blaize sank deeper beneath the blanket, luxuriating in the warmth. Last night’s anxiety had eased somewhat, and Joyce’s sleepy conversation scattered what was left.
“Honey, sometimes I light my first cigarette before I open my eyes. And you might want to be nicer to me or I won’t hold your hand next time you have nightmares from reading too many scary stories.”
Blaize chuckled. “Thanks.” That didn’t come close to what she wanted to say. She wanted to tell Joyce that she was the best friend anyone had every had, that she loved her as much as it was possible to love another person. But she knew Joyce would never let her finish such sappy sentimentalities. At least that’s what she’d call it. It didn’t matter. They both knew what they felt and words would only fall short.
“So,” Joyce had growled. “You gonna get that lazy butt of yours out of bed or what? You only have all day to get ready.”
“Get ready?”
“For tonight. The concert.”
“Oh,” Blaize began. “I’m not sure I’m feeling up to—”
Joyce cut her off. “Don’t even start making excuses. I’ve been telling you about this concert all week and you’re going if I have to come over and dress you and drag you there myself.”
Blaize knew when arguing was useless. “Who are we seeing again?”
“Spyder Raines.”
“Spyder Raines? I thought he was dead.”
“No he’s not dead, but you will be if you’re not ready when I get there.” Joyce grumbled. “You know how much I hate to be late.”
Blaize knew all right. But there was still plenty of time to get used to the idea. She’d hung up the phone, promising Joyce she’d be ready by seven o’clock. Then she’d spent the day doing routine chores that kept her from thinking about the improbable events of the last few days.
Now, with Joyce’s warning still echoing in her ears, Blaize hustled to get ready for their night out. By the time she put the finishing touches on her makeup, outlining her eyes with kohl and sweeping blush across her high cheekbones, she’d even begun to look forward to the concert. She inspected her reflection in the mirror. She was still too thin, but she looked better than she had a few weeks ago.
“Near-death becomes you,” she told her reflection.
Just then the doorbell rang. Blaize grabbed her purse and met Joyce at the door, rolling her eyes with exaggerated exasperation. “God, I thought you’d never get here. Come on, we’re gonna be late.”
“Cute,” Joyce grinned, following her to the car.
Their lighthearted bantering continued all the way to the concert. Blaize started to feel like her old self again. She was even looking forward to the show. She made a pact with herself to forget everything else tonight and simply concentrate on having a great time.
As they made their way through the jostling crowd at the outdoor amphitheater, Blaize felt young and carefree again. Joyce elbowed her. “Remember when we got caught sneaking in here?”
“Which time?” Blaize asked. As teenagers, Joyce had gotten her into more trouble than she cared to remember, but they were priceless memories.
“I believe it was the Grateful Dead concert,” Joyce said, stepping around blankets and coolers that staked out lawn space. “You were so cool. Stared the guard straight in the eye and told him that no, you weren’t sneaking in, you were trying to find the way out.”
“Like he hadn’t heard that one before,” Blaize snickered. Then with a pointed look, she said, “We would have gotten away with it, too, if you hadn’t punched the guy.”
“He was pulling on me! Besides he wasn’t even a real cop.”
“Yeah, but unfortunately those were real cans of beer stuffed into your backpack.” She shook her head. “I was grounded for a whole month.”
Joyce took a deep breath. “Smells just like old times,” she said with a mischievous grin.
Blaize agreed. The air was thick with anticipation, hormones and excitement, laced with an underlying wisp of marijuana.
“Guess what I’ve got in here?” Joyce asked, patting her purse.
“Oh shit, don’t even tell me—”
