Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) (21 page)

“You are misguided,” said the voice.

“I will not have this conversation with you, demon.”

“I do not believe you have a choice in the matter, oh faithful one,” the cynical voice said in reply.

“Why did you kill those men?”

“
To remind you how unimportant they are in the scheme of things.”

“They were human beings.”

“They were plotting against you. All these years you have possessed the sacred artifact; all these years you have known that it must be passed, and in the end they would have taken it from you. Their deaths have insured no obstacles.”

“I could have handled them. You did not have to butcher them!
”

“They were a danger and now they
are irrelevant.”

“
Where is the traitor? There were six men.”

“
Ah, yes,” the Collector said. “You should be very careful. He is a clever one.”

Behind
Redington the carpet was catching fire. Whorls of thick smoke billowed and he could feel heat at his back.

“You
misunderstand me, priest. My intentions have always been pure.”

“
So you say.”

“You still do not believe.”

“I don’t care. Just let me pass.”

“I am not
blocking your passage. You are free to go.”

“Kind of you,” Redington said
moving closer to the stairs.

“I am the one who
bargained for the artifact and then placed it in Jesuit hands.”

“
So I’ve heard.”

“
It is because of me that you now hold it to your heart.”

“
I only wish to see that it reaches its rightful owner,” Redington said. His back now too close to the blossoming heat, Redington took several more tentative steps along the corridor and onto the stairs, cautiously watching for any sign of the illusionist and his trickery. Up till now he had not shown himself. He might never, but Redington could not be sure of that. Now smoke was billowing around him seeking exit, and he knew that he must move quickly.

Almost at the top of the stairs now Redington saw a silvery motion flicker across the door opening in front of him. It could have been nothing, then again . . .

If he could just make it to the outside, there were men there, agents of the Order. They would protect him, help him get away. He should have gone yesterday, and not called the meeting. It would not have been a popular decision but the elders would still be alive. He clutched the artifact tightly in his fist and held it to his chest where he could feel its heat close to his beating heart. “I know you’re there, demon,” he said. “You’re trying to trick me, but it will do you no good. I’m well aware of your deceits.”

“You
are not interested in anything more I have to say?”

“All lies!”

“Are you certain of that, priest?”

“You think you know something I don’t. You think you have secrets? You’re wrong. I have spent more than thirty years studying you and your
evil ways. I saw what you did to my two young friends at Coffin Pond. What you’re about is trickery, simple trickery. That’s all. The powers you stole after the fall have made you a poor illusionist at best, and I’ll not be taken in by them.”

Redington reached the landing and passed through the doorway looking left then right. Smoke
billowed out of the opening behind him swirling around his legs. He saw nothing except the cathedral’s empty expanses as he began making his way down the aisle between the pews, his free hand working at the buttons of his robe as he did so. Beneath the robe Redington was dressed as any normal citizen. He had been expecting something to happen—not this exactly, but something—and he was prepared to make his escape, if necessary.

“
There are many who desire the artifact, monk. Guard it well.”

Redington stopped abruptly. He was standing at the church’s massive front entrance unfrocked. He turned, facing the empty room. Back toward the alt
ar, flames were blossoming up through the floorboards and smoke had begun to fill the great hall. “Don’t worry, Demon. I do not intend to relinquish it. I’m aware that the artifact has always had its suitors.”

“I’m not talking about scholars and dreamers,
monk. I’m talking about power mongers, those who wish to do this world great harm for their own gains.”

Redington laughed aloud. “Just like you, demon. Please, what do you take me for?”

“You have always misunderstood me, monk. I do not wish any harm.”

“No? What of the butchery then, the children, all the crimes you’ve committed against humanity?”

“What I’ve done has been necessary for the sake of the artifact. Nothing shall stand in its way.”

“I wish you would go now, demon.”

“I will, but not until my business here is done.”

An agitation arose, buffeting the atmosphere inside the great room as whorls of smoke curled and spiraled. Redington could feel its influence tugging at his hair and his clothing. He did not wait around to see what would happen next. He spun around and turned the doorknob
, pulling inward. The old oaken slab of a door opened without effort. Outside the sun had set and darkness was quickly claiming the land. The old priest stepped from the building. He scanned the parking lot looking for allies but saw not a single soul. He was not surprised. The Order’s agents were nothing if not discreet.

An angry wind suddenly arose, speeding past him, coming from inside the church, and along with it, heat and smoke. Redington was knocked to his hands and knees.
A noise caused him to look up. Isaac Ross stood above him holding a gun, his face distorted with greed. His black robe flapped in the hot wind.

“
Hand it over,” Isaac said. “I’ll not tell you again.”

“Why?” Redington asked.
He put his head down and gripped the artifact tightly in his fist. He would never willingly relinquish the object. Isaac would have to kill him.

“
Immortality,” Isaac replied.

“What?” Redington said confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I have a new employer,” Isaac said, “and he has made certain . . . promises.”

“Oh you are such a fool, Ross. He cannot offer immortality, and even if he could he would betray you.”

Redington chanced a quick glance out into the yard. His hope was for an eleventh hour rescue.

“
That isn’t going to happen,” Isaac said. “I have persuaded most to join me. The ones that refused, well . . . you can only imagine.” He pressed the gun’s muzzle against Redington’s temple. “You have three seconds.”

“Never!” Redington s
aid. He bowed his head waiting for the kill shot.

A strong bolt of
singeing wind roared suddenly from the open church door; it was as though the cathedral was a living thing expelling the heat of its breath. A ball of flame engulfed Isaac Ross catching his robes on fire. The gun dropped from his hand and Ross began to dance and scream, running from the porch and toward the tarmac where he disappeared in a trail of fire. Just like that Isaac was gone. The wind ended abruptly. The old priest grabbed the railing with a hooked claw of a hand and gingerly eased himself to a standing position. His legs trembled and he was having trouble steadying himself.

You
must move quickly,
a voice whispered close to his ear, eliciting gooseflesh on Redington’s nape
. I have given you a momentarily reprieve. Your enemies are out there. If you die before the artifact is passed it will mean the end of everything.

Confused,
Redington made his way down the stairs to the church’s parking lot. A series of keening wails, blood chilling in their ferocity rang out.

“Oh, God,” Redington said
. But even as he mouthed the words he understood that it was already too late. Those who had come to protect the holy body had somehow been infected with evil. Now they were being slaughtered without remorse, clearing the way for his escape. Suddenly Redington was very confused about the Collector and his intentions.

Not waiting around to see what would happen next
, the old priest ran in panic from the church yard toward the road beyond. Behind him the church’s basement fuel tank exploded, sending showers of sparks and coils of flame whipping high up into the night air. St. Ignatius had become an inferno.

The old priest stopped suddenly, trying to quell the panic in him, knowing that he must appraise his situation in a rational way if he was going to make it out alive: he had no money, no car, and no way to warn the young man and his wife of what was coming.
By some miracle he still possessed the artifact. Yes, he must go there, and take the object directly to the young man. It was madness, of course. How would he do it? Even if he found McArthur how would he make him understand? How would he make him believe that the artifact belonged to him and his unborn child? That it always had. From the beginnings of Christianity it had been written. How could he do it? How could he make him see? Then, in a moment of pure and liberating inspiration he began to understand.

He stopped, watching and listening for anything unusual. But above the
roaring of the fire he could hear nothing. There was a stirring of heated air in the tree branches above him, as currents of sparks whipped about on the night-wind. It seemed that on this night an unholy conflagration had settled over the quiet countryside of Darby, Ohio.

Think, damn it. You’ve got to think rationally. You’re only going to get one chance and you have got to make it a good one.

The answer was there in an instant.
I know how to get his attention. I know how to make him understand.
The priest doubled back around to the church’s parking lot, watchful for enemies. Other than the flaming building before him, everything seemed uncharacteristically normal. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought, at his own casual observation.
Normal? Nothing was normal. Nothing would ever be normal again.

You must move quickly. I have given you a momentarily reprieve. Your enemies are out there. If you die before the artifact has been passed it will mean the end of everything.

In the lot behind the flaming church, several limousines were parked; these were the vehicles that had delivered the dignitaries to their sure and sudden deaths. Redington cautiously approached the first limo. From a distance of six feet he could see nothing but the reflection of flames on the tinted glass of the side window. He stood for a moment staring at the car, seeing the fire’s hypnotic reflection. Finally he simply walked over and opened the door. The seat was empty and the keys were in the ignition. He did not know if he was relieved or disappointed. No matter. He got in and started the vehicle’s engine, backed up and then pulled forward out of the lot. Out on the highway he turned south and stepped on the accelerator. Up ahead in the distance a massive blossoming of light erupted. It seemed to light the entire world like some colossal nuclear explosion. From out of the whorls of fire and swirling clouds of burning gas the face of a demon materialized. It had a grinning maw of a mouth, spade-pointed ears and blazing red eyes. Redington knew what it was, a sign, an omen of a possible future hell here on earth.

From its stationary holster beneath the seat, he extracted the loaded nine-millimeter automatic he knew would be there, and laid it on the seat beside him. Soon the blazing fire in the sky faded as the demonic face melted like hot wax. But Redington knew it wasn’t over. It was only the beginning. He must reach his destination and carry out his plan if there was any hope of saving humanity.

A mile or so further along he passed several fire trucks and other emergency vehicles, lights flashing and sirens blazing, traveling in the opposite direction. Next he picked the cell phone out of its cradle on the dash and dialed a number. “They are all dead,” he told the voice on the end of the line. “You were right about the traitor.”

“I see,” the voice said. “
Is he dead also?”

“
I do not know. When I saw him last he was running from the church all afire.”

“
If he is alive we will find him.”

“Do it before it is too late. He is plotting with forces
of evil. I don’t think we have much time. I am on the move.”

“And your destination?”

“For obvious reasons I cannot say. You will more than likely read about it in the newspapers.”

“Do
n’t do this, sir.”

“
There is no other way. You know what to do next.”

“Yes,” said the voice, “I know.”

“Times have never been as dark as they are about to become,” said the priest. “We must not fail.”

“Godspeed,” the voice said.

The old priest pressed his thumb against the off button, settled back in his seat and uttered a prayer as he drove on toward his destiny.

The funeral attracted many onlookers. The service was held in a large church surrounded by a huge cemetery. Scores of people were in attendance, so many that most had to stand outside, for there wasn’t room inside the massive cathedral for everyone.

The event had an unreal air to it, as if contrived to have the entire world know that the wife of one of the richest men on the planet was dead. The church and the grounds around it were virtually overrun. External speakers relayed the service to those outside the church.

Among the mourners in attendance were some of the most famous faces in public life; politicians, Wall Street notables,
distinguished members of the scientific community, even a smattering of Hollywood’s elite. The presence of so many celebrities attracted hordes of peeping toms, and of course the press was everywhere, pointing cameras and talking into microphones. The fact that De Roché had announced his intentions of setting up an exploratory committee for a possible presidential run, compounded by the nearly simultaneous drama of his wife being murdered was the number one topic of political pundits on most of the major networks, and on the internet over the past twenty-four hours. Conspiracy theorists were having a field day. Would he still run? Had the murder been politically motivated? Would the controversy hurt his chances if he did decide to continue his bid? Of course there were no good answers to this endless procession of questions, because the season was young and so far De Roché had not officially thrown his hat into the ring.

For Doug, the morning had been strange and a little unsettling. He had ridden to the funeral in the limo with Annie and her father. Annie sat silently on the seat between Doug and De Roché. She wore a plain but elegant black dress that Greta had provided for her. Annie had accepted the offering without comment.

The suit of clothes Doug had worn the night before was totally trashed. Annie had
asked no questions about why and Doug had not spoken of it.

From a group of men’s garments Doug had chosen a simple dark sports jacket that he’d paired with clean blue jeans and dark-colored sneakers. Never being comfortable with funerals, he didn’t suppose the deceased cared one way or
another what the attendees wore. Ah, but it wasn’t the deceased one needed to impress at funerals, now was it?

Doug’s mind was still reeling from
the things he’d seen and heard in the woods behind De Roché Manor the night before. Could things get any crazier? He’d finally seen credible evidence of De Roché’s character as a human being. The bastard was a monster. He had not murdered the woman directly, but he’d let her die just as surly as if he
had
killed her. Now Doug was torn as to what he should do about it. If he called in the cops, would they even come? And if they did come, would they find the woman buried somewhere on the old man’s property? Would they even look? Doug dismissed the idea. Some inner sense told him that it would be futile. De Roché was above the law.

The most astonishing thing about last night was the
Collector’s presence at the scene. There was no doubt that he’d been there. Doug had seen him, and so had several others. And he’d been doing something to the woman when the dogs had attacked her. The thought struck Doug that perhaps the dogs had not intentionally attacked the woman. What if they’d been after the demon and the woman had simply gotten in the way?

All of this was conjecture, of course. Doug did not have a clue as to what
had actually gone down last night or what the old man’s role in it had been. And furthermore, he had no clue about what the demon he’d been seeing since childhood had been doing there at De Roché Manor. The only thing he was certain of was that De Roché and the Collector were connected in some way.  

Doug and De Roché had not spoken since the
dinner party, which was fine by him. He had nothing more to say to the man. He just wanted to put the past two days behind him and get as far away from this place as humanly possible. So Doug was surprised and a little annoyed when on the ride to the funeral De Roché began to talk.

“What do you think of the state of the world today?” he asked.

Annie turned to her father, a puzzled frown on her face. “What did you say?”

“I was talking to
Douglas.”

Doug frowned. De Roché sat looking straight ahead, a well proportioned man in a charcoal-colored Andre Cyr suit. His shoulders were broad, his abdomen still relatively flat. He was decadently handsome with a perfect head of iron-gray hair. His hands were beautifully manicured; they were the hands of a man who had never done a lick of physical work.

Here was a man who knew what Doug had seen and heard not eight hours before, yet he was brimming with confidence, calmly certain that Doug would not expose him. 

“I don’t really think about it that much,” Doug replied curtly.

“You don’t care about what happens, then? I mean all the terrorism and instability, the world markets in the tank, everything so volatile.”

“Oh, I care,” Doug said. “But I have the power of one vote, and lately I’m not even sure that counts for much. What I believe is that men like you orchestrate everything for your own ends.”

De Roché chuckled. “So that’s what you believe, is it?”

“Yup.”

“I see,” De Roché said with a slight tinge of satisfaction in his voice. “How did you feel back when the twin towers came tumbling down?”

“Sad and angry,” Doug replied. “I lost a good friend in that mess.”

“Yes, I know,” said De Roché. “Her name was Nadia Zeigler. She and you were childhood sweethearts. Following high school she attended Bowdoin College, graduated magna cum laude, then went on to Harvard where she graduated with a master’s degree in economics. From there she went to work as a financial analyst. On the morning of September 11, 2001 she was at work at her desk on the fifty-second floor of the World Trade Center’s south tower when the first jetliner struck. Her body was never recovered from the wreckage. Not even so much as a tiny strand of her DNA was found.”

Doug turned and looked past Annie, glaring savagely at De Roché. “How the hell d
o you know that?”

“I make it my business to know things,
Douglas. It is the secret of my success. There is nothing I do not know about you. Nothing! Do you understand?”

Doug was beginning to understand. The extent of De Roché’s manipulative cunning was astonishing. The old man had just
delivered a warning that said: you mention the things you saw last night and I’ll start talking about your past. Doug was suddenly certain that De Roché knew about the Collector and the experiences Doug had endured as a child. These were things he had never confided in Annie and De Roché was betting that he did not want Annie to know about them now. The old man was right, of course.
Oh yeah, Annie, I forgot to mention that I have these little trances where I see a demon that steals people’s souls and takes children. And the demon talks to me like I’m some sort of conspirator. And when I wake up from these trances I find that they’re not just dreams but something totally real. Cool, huh? Well, anyway, sorry I never mentioned that before.

“Besides,” De Roché continued with a knowing little smile, “Nadia Zeigler’s and my paths crossed on numerous occasions.
Actually she did some very fine work for me. She was a bright young woman who had a promising future cut short by religious zealots who should not be allowed to exist. A shame she had to die in such a terrible way.”

Doug was floored, speechless. He never would have guessed that Nadia and De Roché were connected. The thought struck him that too many things in his life had a connection that went back to De Roché.

“Do you know what I do for a living, Douglas?”

“Not really. It’s always been kind of vague to me. Annie says you make money with other peoples money. Great gig if you can get it.”

De Roché ignored Doug’s sarcasm. “When I was a young man I had a mentor,” he said. “He was a very wise man who took an interest in me. He saw that I had talent and he helped me to develop that talent. By the time I was twenty I was predicting financial trends with amazing accuracy. I made friends who liked what I could do for them and so they let me use their money to make more money.”

“So you’re a stock broker.”

De Roché laughed heartily. “No,” he said shaking his head. “I am a visionary. I see trends and I capitalize on them. I’ve never set foot in any of the exchanges. Mostly I just give advice. My friends either take that advice or leave it. The ones who take it have become enormously wealthy. But what is important is my vision, my ability to amass huge sums of capital has allowed me to pursue other, much more interesting and important endeavors.”

“
Really,” Doug said blandly.

“
Really, Douglas. Let me ask you a question. Why do you suppose we haven’t been to the moon in nearly forty years?”

“What?” This new question was a total shift, and Doug suspected what the old man was doing
; he was trying to steer the conversation as far away from last night’s events as possible. Doug glanced at Annie. She was looking straight ahead, showing no signs of emotion. He wasn’t sure she was even listening. Considering the circumstances he wondered if she was capable of any sort of emotional response. “I don’t know,” Doug replied. “Money seems the obvious reason?”

“There’s plenty of money,
Douglas. More than enough. We should have been to Mars and beyond by now. We should have been tapping the resources of other worlds, spreading man’s influence throughout the solar system. Instead we wallow around in political quagmire. What we lack is vision. It’s the same reason we can never win a war on terrorism, at least under the present way of thinking, we can’t. We should stomp those who would seek to destroy us, without remorse.”

“You mean the terrorists? I thought we were doing that?”

De Roché chuckled. “We’re playing games, trying not to step on toes or hurt feelings. We are far too concerned with diplomacy. Instead of winning we’re worried about political correctness.”

“
So, it’s not about oil?” Doug said.

“Oh yes,
Douglas, it is most definitely about oil.”

“That settles it, then.”

“It settles nothing,” De Roché said in irritation. “Oil is the leverage they use against us.”

“So, what do you think we should do about it?”

“We should use all the power at our disposal and take what we want, what we need. We should destroy the enemy and those who support them. And we should do it swiftly, before they obtain the power to destroy us. It is only a matter of time, you know. Just as soon as they’re capable, millions will die in a city like New York or Washington. And that will be just the beginning. And we just sit around playing political pussyfoot with them. Bunk!”

“And how would you destroy them, Ed?”

“There are ways.”

“Such as?”

De Roché emitted a short, wry laugh. “Power, Douglas, the likes of which this world has never imagined. It is a power as old as time and as fundamental as life itself. And it is right here in our midst, yet most are not even aware of it.”

Doug frowned. De Roché was sounding like a mad man. But that was
n’t really surprising. “I’m not following you,” he said. “Are you talking about nukes, or something similar?”

De Roché smiled. “No, Douglas. Nothing even close. I am talking about a simple but fundamental kind of power.”

“Yes, you said that. But what is it?”

“Of course you understand that I cannot discuss the details of such a power openly with anyone. It is the greatest secret in the history of the world and it must be protected at all costs.”

“Is this a power that you now possess?” asked Doug.

“Not at the moment,” replied De Roché, “but I will.”

“And this power will be wielded by whom?” Doug asked. He was beginning to get agitated.

“Men of vision, of course.”

“Men like you?”

“Of course. Allow me to explain.
On this planet there exists a super-power elite. It is an ultra secret cabal, an inter-dimensional society, largely invisible, yet for centuries they have controlled everything: money, governments, churches, minds, even souls.”

Annie continued to stare straight ahead as if she’d turned into a block of salt. Doug knew that she had checked out. He couldn’t blame her. This was the day of her mother’s funeral. She wanted to grieve, not discuss the hallucinations of
a sick and greedy man.

“In short you’re saying that nothing we do matters,” Doug said. “That everything was worked out eons ago. That we’re all just puppets at the mercy of some ultra secret
cabal.”

“
Essentially, yes, Douglas.”

“Okay, sure, why not,” Doug said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. De Roché was
most certainly a mad man.

“It doesn’t matter that you do not believe,
Douglas,” De Roché said. “It is good that you don’t actually. It’s supposed to be that way. Denial and non-belief ensures the cabal’s continued survival.”