Diabolical (Shaye Archer Series Book 3) (22 page)

When he was right in front of her, she opened her eyes a tiny bit—just enough to ascertain his body positioning—then as he reached for his pocket to pull out the needle he would use to knock her completely out, she gathered all of her strength, anger, and will to live and sprang.

She swung the dagger directly at his crotch but he managed to partially block her and she hit him in the thigh instead. He screamed in pain and she kicked him as hard as possible. The kick threw him off balance and he fell backward, dropping the needle and the key. She jumped over him, but he managed to grab her foot as she went.

She hit the ground, hands first, then her knees crashed into the stone and pain shot through her entire body. She kicked at his head, but he held fast to her foot with one hand while he reached for the needle with the other. She flipped her entire body over and got a good shot directly into his face, but as she connected, he shoved the needle into her calf.

She yanked back before he could finish plunging the needle into her, but any amount of the poison in her bloodstream was a problem. She grabbed the key from the floor and bolted for the steps, pulling the needle out as she ran. When she reached the top of the stairs, she heard what sounded like a small explosion behind her. Bits of the door splintered and the pieces hit her face, cutting her skin.

He was shooting at her!

She jammed the key in the lock and turned it, then shoved the door open and ran out, stopping when she realized she was in the middle of a forest and not the city. She glanced back and her stomach rolled when she realized she’d been held in a crypt. She had no way to know which direction would get her to safety, or even how far it was from here, but she couldn’t afford to stick around.

With the dense brush and trees and only a little bit of moonlight, it didn’t leave her much to work with. She looked down at the ground surrounding her and saw a section of the brush that was flatter than the rest. That must be the path out of here.

She set off at a slow jog, unable to move any faster without risking going off the path. The stones and briars tore at her bare feet, but she clenched her jaw and kept moving, trying to ignore the pain. As soon as the masked man got that dagger out of his leg, she had no doubt he’d be right behind her. Staying on this trail wasn’t an option, but maybe she could make it far enough to find a road with passing cars. If not, she’d find a place to hide until morning.

When she reached a fork in the trail she ripped off a piece of her ragged T-shirt and pulled the worn fabric onto a branch on the right trail, hoping to misdirect him, then she spun around and set out again on the left trail. She made it two steps, then stumbled. She grabbed a tree trunk to keep herself from falling and realized that she was starting to get dizzy.

The needle!

Enough of the drug must have made it into her system for it to affect her. She pushed herself off from the tree and started a slow jog down the trail, but as her vision blurred, she had to slow to a walk. She had to hide before she passed out. It was her only chance. She dropped onto her hands and knees and crawled into a set of thick brush and behind a huge cypress tree.

She leaned against the cypress tree and fought to stay conscious, but all of the energy was quickly draining from her body. This couldn’t be how it ended. Not here.

Not with him.

S
haye turned
off her flashlight and motioned to Jackson and Harold to do the same. Without the lights, they had only the tiny slivers of moonlight to see by, but it was enough to get them to the edge of the tree line where they peered around. The house was set back in a clearing, about twenty yards from where they stood, a single light shining inside. An old truck was parked on the side of the house. There were no exterior lights at all.

Jackson scanned the area and looked over at Harold. “I think the best approach is to skirt the tree line to the side of the house.”

Harold nodded. “I agree. Too much open area between the front and back of the house and the woods. The side offers cover for longer.”

They set out along the tree line. Without the flashlights, it was slow going. Every step was deliberate, and even then, it was difficult to move forward without encountering obstacles. Thorns grabbed at Shaye’s pants leg, tearing at the denim. She clutched her pistol in her right hand and used her left to shield her face from the leaves and branches that slapped her body as she moved through them. There was no protection from the spiderwebs, and their silky strands on her bare arms combined with the muggy weather made her itch all over.

Moonlight flickered in and out of the dark clouds, occasionally giving them a patch of light to work with. They moved faster then, anxious to get to the house and confront the evil inside. When they finally reached the side of the home, they stopped and scanned the area. Light streaming from a side window at the back of the house provided a bit of illumination but it also provided a clear way for anyone looking out that window to see them approach.

Harold motioned for them to huddle up. “Here’s the thing,” he said, “regardless of what we all think or feel, we can’t just go busting down the door, because we don’t know for certain that the person inside is Emile. I don’t want to go giving some eighty-year-old grandpa a heart attack because he had the misfortune to move into this house. Or give him an opportunity to fill us full of buckshot.”

“Agreed,” Jackson said. “But we don’t know what Emile looks like, so even if we got a look at him, it wouldn’t help.”

“We need to get inside,” Shaye said. “If Emile is living there, we’ll know. He’ll have things—the candles, the mask—that’s enough to verify.”

“Okay,” Jackson said. “I’ll move to the side of the house and try to get a look through that window. If the house looks clear, I’ll move to the back and see if I can get inside. I’ll signal to you if it’s okay.”

“And if it’s not clear?” Shaye asked.

“I think this is where the ‘busting down the door’ part comes in,” Harold said.

“I should be the one going in,” Shaye said.

“Why?” Jackson asked. “Harold and I were trained for this and have done it hundreds of times between the two of us. And while Harold probably could have taken me twenty years ago, he’s not in the shape I am now. I’m the best option.”

Harold nodded. “He’s right. We have to give ourselves the best opportunity of success and that’s Jackson.”

“Be careful,” Shaye said.

Jackson clutched her shoulders with both hands. “If this guy is here, we’re going to get him. We’re not leaving until we do.”

“Damn straight,” Harold said.

Jackson stepped to the edge of the brush and looked both directions before dashing across the open patch to the side of the house. Shaye watched as he moved to the window and rose up to peer inside. He gave them a thumbs-up and headed for the rear of the house. Shaye and Harold moved down the tree line so that they had a clear shot to the back steps and stood in ready position as Jackson crept up the steps.

Jackson opened the back door and disappeared inside. Shaye mentally counted the seconds, each one seeming longer than the one before, until he finally leaned out the back door and motioned to them. Shaye hurried from the brush for the back of the house, Harold right behind her.

“There’s no one inside?” Harold asked.

“No, but he’s been here. There was a vial of something on the kitchen counter next to a package of needles. And there’s a room with an altar and black candles.”

Shaye’s breath caught in her throat. “We found him.”

“Then where is he?” Harold asked. “I don’t like this. We’re sitting ducks.”

“He must have the girl somewhere else,” Shaye said. “Somewhere nearby.”

A pop sounded from the forest behind the house and they all froze.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

Jackson nodded. “Gunfire.”

Harold pointed to the woods behind the house. “It came from that direction.”

“You’re sure?” Jackson said. “Things tend to echo in the woods.”

“Been hunting all my life,” Harold said. “I’m sure.”

Jackson took off across the lawn and Shaye sprinted after him, Harold following close behind. When they reached the tree line, they could make out a path that led into the forest, but as soon as they took a single step into the brush, the thick trees blocked the moonlight and pitched them into darkness.

They stopped and listened, but only the sounds of the night creatures filled the air. Jackson pulled out a penlight and located the path. “We have to risk it,” he said. “Stay low and keep moving.”

He set off down the trail, hunched over a bit and moving quickly. Shaye fell in step behind him, staying close enough to use his body to guide her down the trail. She could hear Harold right behind her. When they reached a fork in the trail, Jackson stopped and they checked both directions.

“Both have been traveled,” Harold whispered. “The ground cover is too thick to tell if one is more recent than the other. The depressions in the taller grass are the same.”

Jackson nodded. “You take the right. Shaye and I will take left.”

Harold pulled out a penlight and headed to the right. Jackson set off down the left path and Shaye hurried behind him. The forest seemed to close in around her, and she held one hand in front of her face to try to keep the thick brush from scratching her. They were moving at a pretty good clip when suddenly Jackson stopped so quickly that Shaye almost ran into him.

He turned around and tapped her, then pointed in front of him. Shaye peered around him and saw a clearing with odd, square shadows that she couldn’t make out in the dim light. She stepped closer and squinted and at that exact moment, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the area.

She sucked in a breath. It was a cemetery. She scanned the crumbling headstones and broken crosses, then tapped Jackson’s arm. “There.”

The crypt stood in the back of the cemetery, its stone sides covered with vines and moss, but the vines had been removed around the doorway and she could see it clearly, even from the distance and in dim light.

Jackson nodded. “Let’s circle around.”

They skirted the edge of the cemetery until they reached the crypt. Jackson dropped down and looked at the dirt. “Footprints.”

“She’s inside,” Shaye said.

“There’s only one way in. If he’s in there, he’ll pick us off when we walk inside.”

“We can’t leave her there.”

“Of course not. Follow me.”

Shaye followed him around the side of the crypt. He stopped in front of the door and put his ear to it, then shook his head. He motioned for her to stand on the side of the door and she stood right at the edge of the opening, her back pressed against the stone wall. Jackson pulled the latch back and grabbed the handle. He pulled the door open, moving to the side as he went. Shaye waited for the sound of gunfire, but nothing was forthcoming.

Shaye pulled out her flashlight and Jackson nodded. She clicked it on and was just about to peer into the opening when a shot rang out behind her. The bullet hit the stone wall right beside her head and she automatically ducked and darted into the opening. Jackson jumped back and around the side of the crypt.

“Are you hit?” Jackson called out.

“No. Go after him. I’m going to get the girl.”

She heard Jackson’s footsteps as he ran away from the crypt. She turned to face the inside of the crypt and shone her light ahead. One glance and she was glad she hadn’t stepped two inches farther inside without looking. Otherwise, she would have fallen down the stone steps located right inside the opening.

Clutching the flashlight in her left hand and nine-millimeter in her right, she crept down the stairs, drawing in and expelling a breath with each step. Sweat formed on her brow and ran in rivulets, the salt stinging her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she counted each beat as she went.

What if the girl was already dead? What if the shot they heard earlier had killed her?

She shook her head and pushed forward. Until she knew for certain, she was moving forward with the assumption that the girl was alive. The walls on the side of the stairs ended and she ducked under a ceiling and looked into the room.

Her vision blurred and she clutched the overhang as a wave of nausea and dizziness raced through her. This was it. The room where he’d held her. Her prison for seven years.

And like a tidal wave, her entire life rushed back in.

H
arold shone
his penlight on the path and stayed low, hoping the brush hid any sign of the tiny light he was using. This path wasn’t as heavily traveled as the one they’d been on before, but he could see signs of passage in the taller grass, which had been bent down and was just starting to lift back up. He clutched his pistol in his right hand as he went, praying that he got a clear shot at Emile Samba.

In his years on the force, he’d shot criminals on several occasions, and he didn’t feel one ounce of guilt for the action he’d taken because they’d left him no other option, but this was the first time he’d actually hoped he’d get to shoot someone. The first time he’d wanted someone dead rather than standing in front of a jury. A jury would have no trouble convicting Emile Samba, but that meant Shaye and this other girl, if she were still alive, would have to go through the rigors and emotional heartbreak of a trial. The law might call that justice, but as a human being, Harold just considered it wrong.

If anyone deserved to die, it was Emile Samba.

He stepped in between two cypress trees and shone the light ahead, but a tall bank of weeds covered the trail. He bent over and studied the ground, but it was clear that no one had passed this way in some time. He scanned the sides of the trail and noticed several depressions leading away from where he stood. He stepped into the brush and slowly moved forward, using the light to scan the ground as he went, then following the barely perceptible signs of passage.

When he reached a huge cypress tree, the ground cover cleared into solid packed dirt and he lost the trail. Cursing silently, he stepped up next to the tree and scanned the area, trying to figure out which direction to go next.

That’s when he heard someone exhale.

He froze. The sound had come from the other side of the tree.

He moved his finger to the trigger, then whirled around the side of the tree, gun leveled and ready to fire. When he saw no one standing there, he was momentarily confused. Then he realized his foot had connected with something less solid than the tree. He looked down and saw the girl.

She was slumped down, her back against the tree, her head hanging forward and to the side. He squatted and put his fingers to her neck, letting out a breath of relief when he felt a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. He shone his light on her, looking for a gunshot wound, and saw the scars on her arms, but no sign of a bullet entering her body.

He lifted her head so that he could see her face and gasped. It was like looking at Shaye all over again. The gauntness of her face, the cuts, and bruises and scars. Anger coursed through him as every detail of the night flooded back through his mind as if it were yesterday.

He had to assume she’d been drugged. Maybe she’d gotten away, but when she could no longer continue, she’d left the path and hidden, hoping Emile wouldn’t find her before the drug wore off. She needed medical attention.

Harold gathered her up and placed her over his shoulder. It wasn’t the most comfortable position for her but she was unconscious, and this position allowed him to move quickly and still hold his gun. He headed back to the path, moving as fast as her weight and stealth allowed, pausing periodically to listen. He had to get the girl to safety. No way did he get this close and fail.

He’d helped save the one before and by God, he wasn’t going to let this one die.

* * *

J
ackson ran
through the cemetery in the direction of the shot, leaping over the remnants of a picket fence when he reached the edge and skidding to a stop in the forest. He listened and heard movement off to his left, then another shot rang out. He dropped to the ground as the bullet ripped by his head, splintering wood off the tree behind him. He crawled deeper into the forest until no moonlight crept through the trees, then began to move toward the location of the second shot.

He knew he was at a severe disadvantage. Emile had lived here for a long time and probably knew the forest as well as Jackson knew the layout of the French Quarter. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to hide and wait for Jackson to approach or to lead him into a trap. But those were risks he had to take. No way was he letting this monster get away. No way in hell.

He stopped behind a tree and listened, trying to pick up a sound, but all he heard was the rustling of the trees. He crouched and slipped around the tree, and when no shot was forthcoming, he hurried through the brush, farther away from the cemetery and the bit of moonlight that provided him illumination. Now he was operating in pure darkness. With every step forward, his mind filled with one question after another.

Had Emile returned to his house?

Was Reagan still alive?

Was Shaye all right?

What had happened to Harold?

He couldn’t fool himself about the severity of the situation, even if he’d wanted to. They’d needed backup. The three of them weren’t properly equipped to take a man on his own territory, especially this man. He’d avoided detection for a long time, something stupid people couldn’t manage. But if Jackson had asked for backup, he would have asked Grayson, and that would have been a fatal error because then Emile would have been tipped off that they were coming. He could have waited for them in the forest and picked them off, one by one, as they approached his house.

A stick snapped somewhere off to his right and he turned that direction. When he reached a small clearing, he studied the loose dirt and saw footprints leading right. He set off in that direction and then realized he had made a big loop and was headed back to the cemetery.

Emile had circled around.

He was going after Shaye.

* * *

S
haye’s legs
collapsed beneath her and she slumped down onto the stairs, unable to draw in a breath. Her chest ached, and her head felt as if it were being split in two. Every second of her life rolled through her mind like a horror movie on high speed. Every atrocity, every minute of abuse, every tear, every cry for help, every plea for her freedom, her attempt to take her own life, and finally ending on that street in the French Quarter, when she awakened on the sidewalk and stumbled into the street before collapsing in Harold Beaumont’s arms.

She hung her head down between her legs, desperately trying to draw in a breath. It felt as if a giant iron band had been placed around her chest and was preventing any air from entering her body. Every inch of her skin itched and burned, and with even the slightest of movement, her head throbbed harder until she wanted to scream with the pain.

Reagan!

The girl’s name ripped through her mind, breaking up the running film of terror. She had to save her. Had to get her out of this pit of hell and back to New Orleans where there were people who could help her have a normal life again.

The breath she’d been trying to draw finally filled her lungs, and her chest ached and burned from the effort. Her eyes watered and she slowly blew the breath out, trying to calm her racing heart, then drew in another breath. This time it was easier.

After a third intake of air, she pushed herself up from the stairs, wobbling as she rose. She leaned against the stone wall that was on one side of the stairs to help stabilize herself, then shone her flashlight into the crypt. Slowly, she scanned every inch of the space as she crept down the stairs, praying that she’d find Reagan alive.

Panic coursed through her when she realized the room was empty. Had Emile shot her and removed her from the room? She stepped off the stairs and shone her light on the floor, looking for any clue as to what had happened here. In the far corner, she caught sight of a dark spot on the ground. She hurried over and crouched down, panicking all over again when she realized the spot was blood.

A couple feet away was an odd-shaped piece of stone that also had bloodstains on it. She picked up the stone and studied it, then realized it had been sharpened into a knife. This didn’t belong to Emile. He had a ceremonial knife. The crude structure of this one suggested it had been homemade, and the stone matched those that made up the floors and walls of the crypt. Reagan must have made this. She’d stabbed Emile to escape and he’d shot at her. The question was had he hit her? And more importantly, if she wasn’t dead, where was she now?

She had to find Reagan. There was still a chance the girl was alive and if she was, then she desperately needed their help, especially if she’d been drugged. She rose from the squatting position but as she turned around, a gunshot roared through the tiny room.

The bullet hit her right biceps, ripping into the flesh and causing her to drop her gun. Clutching the biceps with her left hand, she scrambled to grab the pistol when a second shot zipped right by her head.

“Don’t move again.”

The blood rushed from her face at the sound of his voice. She’d didn’t have to look up. She knew it was him. Wave after wave of panic coursed through her and she concentrated on keeping her legs from buckling. Her vision blurred and she looked at the stairs where she could barely make out the figure standing halfway down.

She blinked and her vision began to clear. Then she saw him, standing there wearing the robe and the goat mask. She cried out involuntarily, trying to control the feelings of dread, revulsion, and despair that threatened to take over her mind and deliver the final crushing blow that would break her forever.

“I told him to bring you to me,” Emile said. “I knew he wouldn’t, but you’re here anyway.”

“Were you and your sick buddies planning to kill me this time?”

“My followers weren’t as committed as I was. They had to be sacrificed to protect his work. But now I can write the final chapter—just like I saw in the vision the One sent me. Killing you will allow me to ascend to my rightful place. I’ll have power over mankind forever. I’ll never die and for all of eternity, everyone will worship me or suffer the consequences.”

“No one will ever worship you,” Shaye said. “They’ll strap you onto a bed and put a needle of death into your arm. You’ll be forever known as the delusional monster that you are.”

“I won’t be caught. I can’t be. Don’t you understand? I am the messenger of death. I am the harbinger of all that is dark. I am the end.”

Shaye scrambled to find something to keep him talking. Surely Jackson was tracking Emile and would come back here. “Then why are you using a gun? I thought you used a knife to serve the One.”

“The One will understand, especially if I give him you. You’re going to be his bride, you know? That was always your place…next to him in hell.”

He leveled the gun at her, and what little strength she had left disappeared. She leaned back against the wall, trying to remain standing, but her body began a slow slide down the wall. Emile pulled the mask off with his left hand, the gun still clenched in his right, and smiled at her. His smile was even worse than the mask.

The words Shaye wanted to share with Corrine, Jackson, Eleonore, and all the other people who loved her and whom she loved rolled through her mind. All the things she would never have a chance to say to them, but most importantly, to thank them all for making her life the incredible experience it had been for the past nine years.

She closed her eyes and waited for the darkness that was coming.

When the sound of gunfire engulfed the tiny room, she cried out, knowing that pain was certain to follow long before she faded into black and no pain at all. But as the moments ticked by and only the pain in her arm remained, she opened her eyes and looked up.

Emile was collapsed facedown at the bottom of the stairs, blood seeping from under his head. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and she looked up as a set of black slacks began to come into view.

A wave of nausea passed through her. “No!”

She knew those pants and suddenly, she knew why the plantation name sounded familiar. She watched in horror as Pierce Archer descended into the crypt.

“You were the plantation owner’s grandson,” she said. “Jonal Derameau framed your father for murder and extorted millions from him. Then he drugged you and staged you performing an occult ritual with a girl on an altar so that he could take pictures and video, guaranteeing that if he needed more money, you would have to comply like your father did.”