Sam: A Novel Of Suspense (19 page)

“Are
you okay to take yourself back to bed, Sammie?  We’ll find out where everyone
is and then get someone to stop by with some dinner.”  Angela checked her
watch.  It was almost midnight.  Dinner was a long time ago.  “Well, perhaps it
would be more of a supper.”

“I’ll
go watch
South Park
,” said Sammie.  “Feel free to join me.”

Sammie
started to head towards the stairs, but Tim asked a question first.  “Why do
you like that program so much, Sammie?”

Sammie
turned back around and smiled pleasantly as if the question was a delight to
him.  “I suppose I like the irony,” he explained.  Then he left.

“Wonder
what he meant by that?” Tim asked.

Angela
shrugged.  “Who knows?  We need to find out where Graham got to.  I’m not
comfortable with Sammie wandering around un-chaperoned.”

“Think
he’ll end up getting hurt?”

“No,”
Angela said.  “I’m more worried about him hurting someone else.”

“So
where should we start looking?  This place is huge.”

“Well,
if I know Graham, there’s probably one place he’d be.”

Tim
nodded.  “Drinking in the lounge.”

They
headed behind the stairs and could hear the piano immediately.  Someone was
playing Mozart’s arrangement for “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”
(or “Ah!
Vous Dirai-je, Maman” if her Music Theory lessons served her correctly).

“Who’s
playing that?” Tim asked.  “They’re even better than you.”

“Only
one way to find out,” said Angela as she pushed open the door.

The
music stopped.

It
looked as though no one was in the lounge.  It was hard to see for certain, but
Angela would have sensed the presence of somebody else.  In fact, her senses
were so alert after the last few hours that she’d have sensed a spider on the
ceiling.

“Hello?”
Tim shouted.

“Save
it,” Angela said.  “There’s no one here.”

“Then
who was Bach-ing it up on the piano?”

“Mozart.”

Tim
frowned at her.  “What?”

“It
was Mozart, not Bach.”

“Oh. 
Well, whoever it was, they’re either invisible or fast as fucking lightning.”

Angela
shook her head.  “No.  There was no one here. I’m sure of it.”

She
crossed the room, slinking between the tables and chairs that filled the large
room.  Her destination was the piano and as she got near it the hairs on the
back of her neck stood up.

Angela
spoke a single word: “Blood.”

Tim
was still standing on the other side of the room. “What?”

“It’s
blood.  The piano keys are covered in it.”

Where
there would usually have been several dozen fingers of ivory, there was now
only a congealed mess of thick blood covering everything.  The plasma filled
the gaps between the keys and splashed the wooden frame of the piano.  It
looked like a pig had been butchered.

Tim
came up beside her.  “Oh, hell-diggity.  What on Earth happened here?”

“I
don’t know,” said Angela, “but I think now would be a good time to do a head
count.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mike
heard a commotion downstairs.  Someone must really have been hollering for him
to hear it all the way from Jessica’s penthouse.

What
is it now?

Mike
got up from his chair at Jessica’s bedside and headed out into the hallway.  He
looked left and right into darkness.

The
sound of people screaming and shouting did not scare Mike; he’d been taught to
expect it.  He knew it would only be the first of many occasions before the
evening was through, and that eventually, when the screaming was finally over,
things would once and for all be set in motion.

He
headed to the top of the staircase and descended to the floors below.  On the
second floor, he met Angela and Tim.  They were hurtling through the hallways
and shouting out at the top of their lungs.

“Hey,
hey, hey,” Mike said, holding up a hand to stop them.  “What are you bellowing
about?”

Angela
seemed relieved at the sight of him.  “Mike!  Thank God, you’re okay.”

“I’m
fine.  Why wouldn’t I be?”

Tim
told him why: “There’s a heck-load of blood in the piano lounge.  Someone must
be injured.”

Mike
frowned.  “What?  Are you sure?”

“I
know blood when I see it,” Angela said in a voice which suggested intolerance
for being doubted.  “Have you seen Graham?  He was supposed to be looking after
things, but we found Sammie wandering around in the pouring rain.”

Mike
was surprised to hear that.  “Sammie left the house?  That’s unlike him.”

“Well,
never mind that now.  We need to find out whose blood is downstairs.  Do you
know where Graham is?  What about Jessica, too?  Is she okay?”

“Jessica
is fine,” Mike told her.  “She’s still sleeping.”

“Then
it must be Graham’s blood,” Tim said.

“You
don’t know that,” Mike argued.  “Nothing is certain right now.”

“Nothing
is certain until we find Graham,” said Angela.  “So let’s find him.”

“I’ll
check the ground floor,” Tim said.

Angela
nodded.  “I’ll check the first floor.”

“Well,
I’ve just come from the penthouse,” Mike explained.  “So I’ll check the second
and third floors.”

The
three of them set off to their separate floors, agreeing to meet back later at
the piano lounge.  Mike was only going to search half-heartedly.  He knew with
total confidence that Graham would turn up somewhere, but in how many pieces would
remain to be seen.

***

Angela
had taken the first floor for a reason.  Sammie’s room was located there and
she wanted to keep a close eye on him.  The only way she could be sure of him not
wandering around the house again was if she remained nearby herself.  If Sammie
wanted to leave his room, he would have to get by her first.

The
first floor also contained a modern-style living room, inconsistent with the
antique furnishings of the rest of the house.  There was a large LCD television
mounted on one wall and a plush, green sofa sitting opposite it.  Other than
the furniture the room was empty, so Angela moved onto the next. 

The
door she opened led to a low-beamed ceiling with a full-sized snooker table
filling almost all of the carpet.  Decorated with horse brasses and a dado
railing, the billiard room was like something from a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
novel.  It was a fitting place for an atmospheric murder mystery but, right now,
it too was empty.

The
next half-dozen rooms Angela checked were just vacant bedrooms and a family
bathroom.  There was also a small office which seemed no more than a cubby hole
with a computer.  Every room she checked was empty.

The
only room left was Sammie’s.

Earlier,
Sammie had said he’d been abandoned, so Angela was confident she wouldn’t find
Graham there, but she wasn’t positive.  Nor was she positive that she would
even find Sammie there.  She and Tim had watched the boy climb the stairs from
the foyer, but they had not physically seen him return to his room.  She wanted
to be sure.

She
placed a hand on Sammie’s doorknob and wondered if she was imagining the subtle
vibrations coming from it.  The door creaked as she opened it and she was
certain it hadn’t done so on previous occasions.

Sammie
was in his bed, staring at the blank television screen, mesmerised.  A stack of
South Park
DVDS peeked out from the open drawer of a candle-lit dresser,
but without power they were useless.

“Sammie,”
she said.  “Sammie, will you talk with me for a moment?”

The
boy ignored her.

“Sammie,
have you seen Graham?”

No
answer.

Angela
had a sudden thought.  “Sammie, is your friend’s name Chamuel?”

Sammie
continued to ignore her, but this time there was a brief flicker of his eyes.  It
was a physical response to her question.  Whether or not Sammie was ignoring
her, he could definitely hear her.

But
maybe he isn’t the one in control.  Maybe he wants to answer me but can’t.

“Chamuel.”
Angela said.   “Are you here with us now?  Can you speak to me?”

“I
don’t know what you’re on about,” said Sammie, suddenly free from his trance. 
“I’m trying to watch my program and you’re interrupting me.  Please leave.”

Angela
didn’t let her surprise stop her and carried on.  “I will, Sammie, but first I
want to know who Chamuel is?  What does he want?”

Sammie
looked at Angela and shook his head.  He looked angry – angrier than a ten-year
old boy ever should.  “He wants to kill me,” Sammie spat irritably.  “Happy
now?”

“No,”
Angela said.  “I’m not happy at all.  Why does Chamuel want to kill you?”

“Because
I wouldn’t be what he wanted me to be.  He’s a nasty bully.”

Angela
took a step towards Sammie’s bed and was almost close enough to touch him. 
“What did Chamuel want you to be, Sammie?”

Sammie
cleared his throat and it sounded full of thick phlegm.  Then he looked worried
for a moment, just an innocent child again; not the detached, questioning adult
he had been behaving as.  “He…he…wants me to become something I’m not.  He
wants to change me.  He never stops trying to get his own way, and I’m getting
so tired of fighting him.”

Angela
felt her heart beating.  “I want to help you, Sammie.  I want to make him go
away.”

Sammie
stared at her, his dark eyes swirling with emotions she couldn’t work out.   “Please,
help me,” the boy pleaded.  “Please make him stop.”

Angela
placed a hand on Sammie’s naked shoulder and knew she had just met the boy for
the first time.

“It’s
good to finally meet you, Sammie,” she said.  “My name is Angela, and I’m going
to help you. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

I
just hope that it isn’t.

The
door swung open behind Angela and she turned around.  Tim was standing there,
panting and sweating.  “It’s Graham,” he said.  “We found him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Angela
hurried after Tim, struggling to keep up with his rocket-like pace.  He’d not
told her what had happened, just said to follow him and follow him fast.  They
headed up one flight of stairs and were now on the second floor.  Tim took a
door on the right about midway down the corridor.  It was already partially
open and Mike was in there waiting for them.

Angela
was almost sick when she saw what was inside.

The
room was some kind of spa room.  A sauna cubicle sat back against the far wall
and there was a small steam room beside that.  At the adjacent wall was a
partitioned changing area and in the centre of the room was a hot tub.  Hanging
out of the hot tub, upside down, was Graham. 

Graham’s
head and shoulders lay crumpled against the carpet while his legs were still
inside the bubbling tub, with his knees hooking over the lip.  His arms were
outstretched from his sides at strict right-angles.  From where Angela was
standing, Graham’s body looked as though it had been positioned into a cross.

Or,
more correctly, an inverted cross.  The calling card of the Devil and his
minions.

Angela
repeated a prayer quickly in her head.  It made the scene in front of her a
little more bearable.

Saint
Michael the Archangel,

defend
us in battle;

be
our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

May
God rebuke him, we humbly pray:

and
do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,

by
the power of God,

thrust
into hell Satan and all the evil spirits

who
prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.

Amen.

Angela’s
eyes began to pick up more details, but she had to turn away and leave the
room.  The sight and smell of fresh blood was just too much for her to handle –
it brought back too many nightmares.  Graham’s naked body was plastered with gore,
but Angela had not looked long enough to figure out where it had come from.

Mike
had followed her outside, which was surprising as she would have expected Tim
to be the one to check on her.  “You okay?” he asked her.

Angela
walked a few steps further down the corridor, wanting to put more space between
her and the room.  Finally she slumped against the wall and rubbed at her eyes;
suddenly they felt like lead ball bearings in her skull.  “I-I…”  She cleared
her throat, took a second.  “I’ll be fine.  I just don’t like the sight of
fresh blood.”