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“Ah, hell! We couldn’t just be pleased—we couldn’t just be certain that we’d gotten the attacker—and that the newest craze in Boston beatings was over. No...you think it’s something deeper, and that we’re about to find out.”
Griffin glanced at Rocky and shrugged.
Devin Lyle tapped at the door and then walked in, carrying a foam tray with four large coffee cups.
“One is for me?” Barnes asked.
“Of course,” Devin assured him. She was about five-nine with a headful of long black hair. Devin had great stature, though; in her “real” life, she wrote children’s books. She still had the ability to appeal regal—and very authoritative.
“Thank you, thank you!” Barnes said.
Then he rose. “I suppose I’m glad I have a few specialists from your division of the bureau here. But I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to run the attacker’s fingerprints, see if he’s in the system.” He started out, then turned back. “Oh! I’ve got a report written up for Alex Maple. I’ve pushed accepted protocol around on this, you know. But we’re looking for his phone, and we’re checking out his apartment. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“Thank you, Barnes,” Griffin told him.
“Yep. All right, I’m getting out of here.”
“Actually, this is your office,” Griffin reminded him.
“I do know that. You all take your time. If I don’t find you here, I’ll call when I’ve got something.”
“Thanks.”
He left them.
Devin silently handed out coffee.
“So, nothing yet?”
“Nothing but musings,” Griffin told her.
“And they don’t bode well,” Rocky added softly.
* * *
“Wow,” Vickie murmured to herself. She realized she’d been on the computer for hours.
She looked at her watch; she knew it was late, of course. Paperwork did take a long time. She had to give up working for the night, though.
Her shoulders were beginning to hurt!
She winced, rubbing the back of her neck, wishing Griffin was there to do it.
Then she remembered that she had promised she’d make it worth his while to hurry home.
A wicked little smile crossed her face. She leaped up, heading to shower and shave her legs, now hoping that he wouldn’t arrive until she was ready. After toweling dry, she touched up with some makeup.
Since he was the only other human being in the world to have her key, she figured she was safe with whatever she did. And so, wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of spiked heels, she set up a perch on the sofa with throw pillows. She brought out an ice bucket and, since she didn’t have any champagne, opted for two bottles of Sam Adams beer. All the while keeping an ear out for the entry door to her complex—an old brownstone converted into four apartments.
Lastly, she arranged a plate of strawberries and chocolates and set them at the end of her little throne, right by the ice bucket. She turned most of the lights off and set just a couple lamps down low.
She took off the towel, curled her legs beneath her and posed and waited.
“Ho-hum, eh? Call this ho-hum!” she said aloud.
Then, of course, she felt a little ridiculous, naked on her sofa with high heels on. But their lives seemed to be twisted all the time by life-or-death situations, and—with Griffin’s work—it always would be that way. He’d told her that agents learned to seize their personal time, love it and embrace it. It was how they all managed in their world day after day, to appreciate every life they saved—and accept when there was damage they could not stop.
She decided to turn on the television—if she just held the remote control, she could keep it low and ditch it the minute he came in.
The news was filled with the evening’s reports. A recording of Detective Barnes was shown, giving out what information he could. The assailant was as yet unidentified. Yes, he had committed suicide with a pill; exactly what it contained, forensic experts would soon inform them. Did he believe there would now be a stop to the assaults? The police would be investigating all avenues, along with agents from the FBI.
He promised that new information would be forthcoming as they had it. He reminded the citizens of Boston and environs that they were a large and important city and never immune to harm; whether they had stopped the assaults or not, residents should always be vigilant.
As the news rolled to the next story, Vickie was certain that she heard someone at the building’s front door.
She quickly switched off the television—Griffin didn’t need to hear about the night he had experienced.
She switched into what she hoped was a truly sexy pose.
She heard the key in the lock. And the door opened.
For a split second, she froze.
And then she let out a scream.
* * *
At first, Alex Maple stared in disbelief at the man—the creature?—who came toward him. His mind was not working at all well, he determined.
Why would it be working well? He’d been kidnapped; he was a prisoner in a defunct loony bin!
Get it together, Alex. Survive! he told himself.
So. Figure, yes, figure—that was safe to say. The figure coming toward him was wearing something like a KKK outfit—only it was bloodred and trimmed with strange black markings.
“Ah, Professor! You are awake—ready to join us!” the figure said.
It spoke; it moved. It appeared to be human.
Man.
Alex fought for reason and reaction—for the ability to move his mouth and form words.
“Join what? Who are you? Why am I here?” he managed to ask.
The man came closer.
“I am the high priest,” the man told him. His face was more or less covered by a mask that appeared to be loosely connected to his conical red hood. Alex could see the man’s eyes, though. They weren’t burning red or anything—they were just dark brown.
“I am the high priest, Professor, and you will join with us.”
Alex blinked. It would be laughable if it weren’t for...
For the chains that held him.
For the headless body that lay crumpled in the corner, with rats destroying it.
“I’m sorry, join with you for...what?”
“The resurrection.”
“The resurrection of what?”
“You, sir, are not just going to join us, you see. You are going to help us!” the high priest said.
“Help you...?”
“Well, we’re going to bring Satan to earth, sir! More specifically, we’re going to bring Satan to Boston. And you, Professor, are the man with the knowledge to help us do it.”
He couldn’t see the man’s mouth, but he was sure that he smiled.
Did this dude know how ridiculous his words were?
“Yes, you are the man!”
What if I refuse?
Alex wasn’t exactly an atheist. He considered himself a deist, believing in a higher power, but not in all the myth that went along with it—through any religion.
Satan wasn’t real to Alex, and, therefore, he couldn’t be summoned.
But...
He didn’t bother to ask what happened to him if he refused. He knew.
He could see the instruments of medicine, surgery—and torture.
He could see the rat-riddled body in the corner.
“How intriguing,” he said. “I assume you believe that I will somehow be able to find the proper rites and means by which to do this through historical research?”
“Oh, yes. You see, Satan has come to Massachusetts before,” the high priest said. “You will bring him again.”
“Great challenge!” Alex said, trying to put some enthusiasm into his words.
Find me, Vickie, find me, for the love of God. Yes, there is some kind of a God, I do believe that, Vickie, find me, find me...
The high priest spoke, apparently accepting Alex’s words.
“Indeed! Yes, hail Satan! He has lived among us before. Through you, he will return. All hail! Satan shall return!” The high priest stepped forward, a key in his hand. He was going to free Alex.
Free, if he was free...
He was skinny, but he was no weakling. He could try to overpower this man...
“Hail Satan! Hail Satan!”
It was a chant. Alex looked up; there were several people there now, in the doorway to the old operating room. They were all in the red capes and masked hoods.
He could not fight...
“Come, brother!” the high priest said. “We will initiate you by letting you witness our sacrifice!”
He was going to see a sacrifice. Please, let it be a chicken! he thought.
It wasn’t going to be a chicken.
He suddenly found prayer, prayers he had known as a kid.
Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let the sacrifice be me.
* * *
“Vickie!”
Griffin suddenly came bursting into the room, pushing past the unknown man who had stood in the doorway when it had opened.
“Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Vickie cried.
She felt like an absolute idiot—no idea what to do, how to react. She was sitting on the sofa, naked and in heels, and Griffin was with Craig Rockwell, one of Griffin’s closest friends—and coworker!
A man she had met just once!
Pillow! She grabbed a pillow and pressed it before her.
Griffin was doing his best to block her, and Rocky and Devin Lyle were backing away, excusing themselves awkwardly—and laughing, certainly.
She wanted to disappear. To sink beneath the floorboards.
Vickie could hear herself talking, garbling out something. Griffin was talking...his friends were apologizing as they moved back into the hall...and she was backing her way into the bedroom.
In the bedroom she grabbed a robe from the closet and slipped into it as fast as humanly possible. By then, Griffin had reached the room. She started in on him furiously. “Why didn’t you call me, why didn’t you let me know, why...”
She couldn’t help it; she let him have it with a pillow.
“Hey!” he protested, catching the pillow. And she saw that he was almost smiling. His dark eyes shining in his rugged face, drawing her in and almost making her forget her embarassment.
Almost.
