Dust to Dust (4 page)

The mysterious man who'd brushed past her in the dark was nowhere to be seen.

The mausoleum door was open to the night, and a match flickered within, casting enough light for her to briefly glimpse the three men and the lone woman inside.

Nicky, bleeding, his eyes blackened, was arguing with Bo.

Who still held Viv.

“Let the girl go, Bo. You've got the diamonds, so let's get out of here before that killing machine comes after us!”

“Asswipe!” Bo raged. “The girl is mine, and there's plenty of time now for a little fun. You want to run like a dog with your tail between your legs, fine, get the hell out of here. How the hell you were beaten by that scrawny fucker, I'll never know. Now quit whining like a two-year-old. We've got the goods
and
the girl, and this is a fucking
empty
tomb in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night after an earthquake. Who the hell is going to find us here? What the hell, you chicken-liver. Fuck you, run!”

Nicky never had a chance to reply.

Something dark loomed out of nowhere, blocking Melanie's view into the mausoleum.

Then Nicky came flying out, as if he were a sack of dry leaves tossed into the wind, and crashed to the ground in a motionless heap.

Melanie burst into a run when she heard another terrified shriek tear from Viv's throat.

But as she neared the mausoleum, Bo and the stranger who had appeared at the shop suddenly came bursting out of it together, locked in a deadly tangle of arms and legs, nearly knocking Melanie over.

She ignored them, aware that there was still another man in the tomb with Viv.

“I'm sorry,” he was saying to the terrified woman. “I'm sorry, but I have to…I mean, you're a witness,” he told her.

He truly sounded miserable.

Too bad.

Melanie attacked.

He had a knife out, intending to stab Viv, who had been pressed back against the empty sarcophagus displayed in the would-be tomb. She was desperately clutching the marble.

Melanie threw herself straight at the attacker's back. He howled, grabbing at her and taking his attention off Viv.

“Run!” Melanie commanded the other woman, who wasted no time before obeying.

The thug was huge. Heavily muscled. He dislodged Melanie's hold, and she leapt away from him as he swiped at her with the knife. She needed more room to maneuver, she realized.

The second Viv was out the door, Mel backed out of the mausoleum herself, the thug following her.

She could hear thrashing around her, and realized Bo and the stranger were still locked in deadly combat.

This time, when the man with the knife made a leap for her, she caught his arm and nearly broke it. The
knife flew from his grasp, and he shrieked in fury, lunging toward her again.

She sidestepped, but he rallied, charging her like a bull.

Again, she used evasive tactics, and he went crashing into the arms of a winged cherub.

She turned around, ready to finish him while he was still staggering from the impact, but as she started to move, Bo's massive body suddenly came flying through the dark night air, landing before her in a heap.

A broken heap.

He groaned, barely alive.

His friend ran at Melanie. This time, she stood her ground, feeling the night, feeling the rush of wind as her attacker ran at her.

She started to spin, raising an arm, and as he neared her, she struck.

He went flying back, stunned and shaking his head, like a boxer who had been at the wrong end of a strong right hook.

He started toward her again, but this time he never reached her.

The stranger stepped in front of her, reached out and grabbed the man, and spun him around. He hardly seemed to be expending any effort, but as she watched, her attacker was lifted, tossed high into the air and left to fall.

He crashed down on top of Bo, who cried out in agony.

Melanie found herself staring at the stranger and
realized she had been right all along. He
was
good to have around in a fight.

His midnight-dark hair was tousled, and beneath the strands that lay over his forehead, she saw that his eyes were dark as coal. His face was so chiseled that it belonged on a bust of a Grecian war hero.

And he was barely breathing hard. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Are you?” she demanded in return.

He grinned crookedly and nodded.

“The shop owner?” she asked. “Mr. Delancy.”

“He's fine,” he told her. “And the girl?”

“She ran.”

“The streets are still chaos.”

“She'll be fine. There really aren't that many Bos out tonight.”

“Don't kid yourself. There will be,” he said.

She nodded, becoming aware of sirens in the distance again.

In the distance…and coming closer.

She stared, assessing him. “Who
are
you?” she demanded.

He inhaled, arched a brow slowly. And his wary grin deepened.

“I have a better question,” he said softly to her. “
What
are you?”

The sirens were almost deafening now. They took another heartbeat to stare at each other, then turned and ran in opposite directions.

H
e was there again.

Among the dead.

The maze of paths through the catacombs was becoming familiar, though he remained at a loss as to why he found himself walking those paths again and again.

He did not fear the dead. He pitied them and, in a melancholy way, in these dark regions of his mind, he envied them. He knew there was more to what the subconscious mind saw than the world accepted. And it wasn't the dead who frightened him but the living. The living had free will, and free will allowed for choices, for good and evil. The good offered no harm to others, indeed, would reach out to help another. The evil flourished on the pain of others; they were selfish, seeking their own pleasure above all else. Evil could be minor, manifested in such things as shoplifting and petty theft. That demonstrated the evil of selfishness, but no one was physically harmed. True evil found expression in so many ways in so many societies. He was certain that throughout history, certain inquisitors, witch-finder
generals and their ilk, sanctioned by cross and king, had been genuinely evil. They had enjoyed their tasks.

Evil shouldn't be lurking here, in this strange dream world where the long-dead lay in peace.

And…it wasn't exactly evil that he sensed. It was more a warning against evil, as if the dead in this dank place in the earth had somehow escaped the bounds of their shrouds to sense a growing disturbance in the earth.

As he walked, smelling the earth and mold, the musk of time and bodies long forgotten, he mocked himself. For one thing, he was dreaming, and in dreams, the message might be real but the evil was imaginary. For another, he did not believe that the earth itself could be evil. Evil lived in the heart or the soul. It was made manifest by those who reveled in its cruelty.

But as he walked, he felt the dead, felt their pain, and he imagined that there was a wind here, and that the wind was the whisperings of the dead. He knew that he was once again walking toward the light ahead, that the light was drawing him. When he reached it, he would once again see that strange stone tomb, and the light would surround him. In the maze of tunnels that stretched out in every direction, candles would glow from sconces set in the walls. Legions of the dead rested there.

He knew he would come upon the mysterious woman, and he would try to go closer, closer…and see what lurked beneath the hood, what visage lay hidden there.

Only once had he shared his dream, and seeing the face
of another, he had been stunned. The other man had been so real, as if they had both stumbled upon the path like wandering tourists, only to startle one another. He had awakened from the dream that night startled and disturbed.

Tonight he looked down the corridor, but he was alone.

And he was approaching the center.

The wind that was not wind rustled, carrying the voices of the dead. He heard the strange clicking sound as the skeletons began to rebuild themselves.

One, bearing an ancient shield beneath the tattered remnants of his shroud, struggled to rise. The bony face stared at him sightlessly. The brittle finger bones clicked as the corpse attempted to point at him. The skeletal jaw moved, and the wind seemed to form words. Shakespearean words.

“‘Thou shalt beget kings, tho' be none.'”

So far, he had done no “begetting” of any kind, he thought. He stared at the skeleton, and he did not fear it.

The wind seemed to guide him again, and he moved toward the light. But this time, before he could reach it, the earth beneath him rumbled and rose. He nearly fell. Around him, a shelf in the rock crashed down, corpses shattering to dust. The rumbling was growing worse, and the ground began to undulate wildly…

He awoke, sitting straight up in bed. At his side, his wife, who knew him so well, jerked up, as well. “Lucien?” she said quietly.

“There's been an earthquake. Somewhere.”

“There are often earthquakes somewhere, my love,” she said, yawning. But then she bolted straight up, as well. “Maggie!…Maggie is out in L.A. visiting Melanie, and they have earthquakes there all the time.”

He turned on the television, clicking the remote until he found one of the 24/7 news networks.

In moments he realized that his dream had been true…

 

The quake registered 4.0 on the Richter scale. Definitely not the big one, but strong enough to cause some serious scattered damage. Centered south of L.A., it did more damage in the Anaheim area than anywhere else. Certain sections of Los Angeles and Orange counties never even lost power, while some areas would be looking at two to three weeks before all public utilities were restored. Thanks to satellite communication, Melanie was able to draw up that much information on her cell phone immediately, even as she made her way back home.

She was deeply relieved to reach Maggie by phone with equal ease and hear that her friend had taken her car and headed for her apartment to wait for her. Melanie lived in Los Feliz, bordering Hollywood, in an apartment she could reach either from the street or from her small storefront, where she sold high-end pet supplies.

Since she had been through a few minor quakes before, she had decorated accordingly. She didn't have glass knickknacks on her shelves, nor had she hung many things on the walls, in either her apartment or her
shop. When she reached her apartment—where, she had to admit, she'd gotten a bit carried away with an astrological theme—she found that her books were strewn across the floor but she'd suffered no other damage. Maggie wasn't in the apartment, so Melanie ignored the books for the moment and walked through to the shop.

The lights were on; she hadn't lost electricity. When she'd first moved to L.A. she'd rued the fact that she didn't have plate-glass windows looking out on the street; now she was glad. Amazingly, she hadn't lost a single windowpane. Peering through her chintz curtains, she could see that other buildings around her hadn't fared so well; many of her neighbors were out sweeping up broken glass.

The corkboard she kept on one wall for posting notices and pictures had fallen, and Maggie was busy collecting the collars and leashes—plain and designer, big and small—that lay scattered around the room.

“Earthquakes!” Maggie said with a shudder.

Melanie grimaced. “At least so far I haven't heard that any deaths have been reported.”

“So far,” Maggie said quietly.

“Hey, you live with hurricanes. That's the way it is. There is no actual paradise on earth, you know.”

Maggie set a rhinestone collar on the counter and stared at Melanie. “Okay, so—what happened after you ran out like a crazy woman?”

Melanie righted the bar stool she kept behind the counter and sat down. “I don't know, exactly,” she admitted.

“The way to tell a story is from the beginning to the end, you know,” Maggie commented dryly.

Maggie took a deep breath. “Okay. We were out for the evening when the earthquake hit. I went outside to—”

“You're already neglecting something,” Maggie pointed out.

“What?”

“You suddenly becoming Rembrandt.”

Melanie shook her head and waved a hand in the air, dismissing her artwork. “I heard someone screaming from Mr. Delancy's jewelry shop, and there were six guys there attacking Mr. D and Viv Larson, the salesgirl, and then…” She paused and shook her head, as if trying to make sense of everything that had happened. “Then this guy showed up, and he…well, he must have had some kind of martial-arts training or something, because I've never seen anyone move that fast. Anyway, he went after the guys beating up Mr. D, and I chased the guy who took Viv. I followed them to the cemetery farther down Santa Monica, and when I got there, the guy showed up again. I mean, it was weird. He was tall enough, and well built, but I have no idea how he took on all six of those creeps.”

“You know what they say. Disaster brings out the best and worst in people.”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

“He survived. And I still don't know what he was doing there,” Melanie said.

Maggie picked up a broom and started sweeping.
“Melanie, don't you think he was pretty surprised to see you there, as well? I mean, how many women who look like you turn out to be good in a fight?”

“Lots,” Melanie said with a laugh. “This is Hollywood, remember?”

Maggie didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. She just stopped sweeping and stared at Melanie. “Well, was he…?”

“Like me?” Melanie asked softly.

“Yes,” Maggie said flatly.

“No, I don't think so. I mean, I know he wasn't.”

“You're certain?”

“I think so.”

“‘I'm certain' and ‘I think so' are not the same thing,” Maggie said. “It's very strange,” she continued gravely.

“Maybe he just studied kung fu or something. It's not so strange—maybe.”

Maggie stopped sweeping to wave a hand in the air. “I don't mean just your stranger helping out. I mean the whole evening.”

“Honestly, an earthquake in California isn't strange,” Melanie said.

Maggie let out a sigh of exasperation. “Not the earthquake. The drawings.”

“They were doodles,” Melanie said uneasily.

“Museum-quality doodles.”

“Well, they're gone now,” Melanie said.

Maggie placed a hand on her hip. “No, they're not. I took them with me. And I'm going to show them to Lucien. If anyone can figure out what's going on with you, it will be Lucien.”

“Lucien is in New Orleans,” Melanie pointed out.

“No, Lucien is on his way here. I just talked to him.”

“Is he—flying in?” Melanie asked.

“Of course he's flying in.”

“But the airport—”

“Suffered no major damage. Limited flights will begin arriving tomorrow around noon.”

“You're kidding. After all this?” Melanie asked.

Maggie nodded. “As you said, an earthquake in California is nothing out of the ordinary. Your TV is working just fine, and a few local stations never even went off the air. Of course, one of them has been airing some kind of psychic who claims that this was just a warning. That the real quake is coming and it will be Armageddon.” Maggie rolled her eyes, then managed a smile at last. “The end of the world as we know it. He says this was a prelude to the cataclysm of 2012, as foretold by the Mayans.”

“What?”

“Are you telling me you've never heard of the Mayan prophecy?” Maggie asked.

Melanie felt edgy and impatient, but mostly because Maggie seemed to be taking everything so seriously. “Sure, I've heard of it. For some reason they decided the world will end in 2012.”

“It's not that simple. They based their calculations on a bunch of factors—the ancient Mayans were brilliant astronomers and mathematicians. They said we're going through a cycle, a twenty-six thousand year evolution, and that culminates on the winter solstice, December twenty-first, 2012. It wasn't just the Mayans
who thought so, either. Other societies had similar prophecies, including the Egyptians, the Etruscans, the Navajo and the Apache—and if you look at them closely, you can see hints of the same thing in Druid, ancient Semitic, Celtic, Norse, Greek and Roman beliefs.”

“The Egyptians worshipped cats, you know,” Melanie reminded her.

“You know, lots of people think cats rule,” Maggie said lightly. “But getting back to my point, the Hindus also speak of the stages of life, and the end of one of the stages coincides almost exactly with the Mayan beliefs.”

“I would think, when you're dealing with hundreds of thousands of years, someone might have mis-counted somewhere along the line,” Melanie said, her tone dry. “Seriously, Maggie, do you actually believe all this?”

Maggie shook her head. “I was speaking with Jade—she called me before I had a chance to get hold of anyone, including Sean, back home. Lucien dreamed there was a quake right as it happened. He and Sean are going to fly out here, and Jade's already working the Internet for everything it's worth. But I didn't get all my information from her. I've read a lot about this over the years. I find it fascinating. I was reading an article on the different roads men take to arrive at the same place. In every religion there's a supreme deity, though often there are other gods and magical, even divine, beings. In Christianity you have angels, including one very bad angel—the devil, who has his own demons to control—and other beliefs have demonic beings, too.”

Melanie stared at her blankly.

“It's fascinating, really,” Maggie told her. “You, of all people, should see that.”

Melanie flushed. “There's good and evil in life, we all know that. There's a spark, or a soul, in all people, and some of those people are good and some are evil, and it doesn't matter if they come from the U.S., Canada, Europe or Timbuktu, any more than it matters if they're male or female, black, white, yellow, red or polka-dotted. I know there are things in this world that can't be explained, but…”