Soultaker (16 page)

Raymond laid there panting for several moments.

“Oh…oh…Jesus…”

Then he met his wife’s steady gaze, saw her smirk. “What was that all about?”

“It’s a reminder.” Patricia’s eyes went flat. Her voice was icy when she said, “And a going-away present.”

Raymond felt a flicker of alarm. This was so unlike Patricia. Even when she was treating him like an idiot stepchild, she never sounded like this. Never this cold. “Patricia, what’s wrong? Have I done something? Please tell me.” A welling of tears surprised him. “I promise I’ll fix whatever’s wrong.”

“We’re past that, Raymond. I wanted you to remember that I know what makes you tick. I had to remind you that your wife is still the best fuck you’ve ever had—or ever will have.” Her lips twisted into a sneer. “Tell me, Raymond, be honest, has that little slut English teacher you’ve been screwing ever made you come that hard?”

Raymond’s eyes widened. He spluttered. “Wh-wh…what?”

Patricia laughed again. “That’s right. I know all about it.
And I have pictures. Graciously provided to me by a concerned, albeit anonymous, friend.”

Raymond felt a pain in his chest. Panic ripped through him like a virulent virus. His world was falling apart. Suddenly. Without warning. And he felt powerless to halt its disintegration. “Patricia, you’ve got to listen to me.”

Patricia’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Me? Listen to you?”

She threw her head back and laughed heartily.

Raymond strove to keep his voice calm. He had to make her see reason. Only by keeping a level head might he see his way through this storm. “I’ve been blackmailed. It’s been horrible. A nightmare. I’ve had no choice.”

Patricia glared at him. “And I don’t care. I’m through with you, Raymond. I’m getting a divorce. I’m getting this house and all your fucking money. And then I’m getting the hell out of this podunk town you’ve trapped me in all these years. There’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll agree to whatever I want.” She grinned. “Unless you want everyone you know to see the pictures.”

The thought of it made Raymond pray for a heart attack. He imagined his daughter, a college freshman, seeing those pictures and wanted to scream.

Raymond’s chest hitched.

He sniffled and his vision blurred.

“Awww.” Patricia mocked him again. “Poor little baby. Is my soon-to-be ex-husband about to cry?”

Raymond wiped moisture from his eyes. He met his wife’s fiery, horribly satisfied gaze and felt a long-dormant piece of himself flare briefly to life and then die. It all hit him at once. The tragedy of his broken life. He’d had it all. A wife, a beautiful child, money, and a rewarding career. Not anymore. Piece by piece, bit by bitter bit, he’d dismantled his slice of the American Dream through his own arrogance and stupidity. Looking into Patricia’s eyes, he knew it was all over.

He sniffed again. “I’m sorry. I really am.” The sentiment was sincere. Now that the big secret, the thing he’d worked so
hard to conceal, was a secret no more, he was seized by a need to come clean on everything before it was too late. Tragedy could still be averted. The desire frightened him because he knew the risk involved was probably life threatening, but he plunged ahead anyway. “There’s something I have to tell you. Your first instinct will be to scoff, but I beg you, Patricia, I
beseech
you, please listen with an open mind. So many innocent lives are at stake. We have to warn people. A student at Rockville High is a…” He hesitated. Here it was, the big moment. But now he felt ridiculous. She would never believe this. He sighed. “She’s a demon.”

Patricia laughed again louder than ever. “You grandiose, delusional fool!” Hilarity rendered her voice shrill. “You ridiculous man. Egads, how lucky I’ll be to be shed of you!” She rolled her eyes. “A
demon!
”

Raymond’s shame and self-pity intensified. He felt small. Impotent. Then he heard something incongruous, barely audible through his wife’s laughter. A creak. And another. A sound like someone moving with deliberate stealth. When Raymond saw what was looming over Patricia’s shoulder, he opened his mouth to scream.

It was too late.

Patricia’s laugh became a squeal as her head was jerked roughly back. A long, curved blade was then pressed against her throat. The gloved hand holding the blade’s handle gave it a savage jerk and Patricia’s throat opened like a zipper. Blood geysered from the massive wound, splashing Raymond’s face and getting inside his mouth and nose. He felt another pain in his chest, this time so intense he thought he really might have a heart attack. Then the big blade, similar to a machete, returned and ripped at Patricia’s neck again.

The strength of her attacker was phenomenal, almost inhuman.

Her head came free of her body.

Penelope Simmons jumped onto the bed and kicked the lifeless body aside. Clad entirely in black and wearing a dark wig and sunglasses, she looked like something out of a piece
of spy fiction, a sexy paid assassin. She stood over Raymond, the top of her head nearly grazing the bed’s canopy; then she grinned at her lover.

“I heard you, Raymond. You big tattletale, you.” Her blue eyes burned with excitement. “You’ve been naughty. You better hope you-know-who doesn’t cut your tongue out. That would be a shame. I’m rather fond of your tongue.” She gave Patricia’s severed head a hard shake, pumping it like an especially enthusiastic cheerleader waving a pom-pom. “Aren’t you glad this stupid cow is dead? We’re free at last, Raymond, free at last. Praise Lamia.”

Raymond just blubbered, incapable now of speech or screams.

Penelope cackled. “Catch, baby.”

She tossed Patricia’s head to Raymond.

This time he did manage to scream.

And he screamed for a while, straining his vocal cords.

Until Penelope made him shut up.

The beer was good. Better than good, like liquid nirvana. Kelsey and Will stood in the kitchen, calming their nerves with some of Blake Mackeson’s German beer. Save for a single flickering candle on the counter, the room was dark. All the lights were off. The intent was to convey the impression of an empty house. After what had transpired over the last several hours, they imagined themselves surrounded by enemies, lurking assassins just waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.

Kelsey polished off his third Warsteiner and set it on the counter. “That beer is the shit, man. I don’t know if I can ever drink Bud again.”

Will nodded. He didn’t bother with a verbal reply. He’d barely said anything since knocking his mother unconscious. The violence disturbed him. Though his mom had meant to kill them both, he felt guilt. She was his mother. She wasn’t much of a mother, true, but there was still an emotional attachment. He could no more excise the part of himself that still cared for her than he could cut off his own hand. Hell, cutting off his own hand might be easier.

He flashed on an image:
…that gash in her forehead, the shocking flow of blood, staining the carpet red…

Will’s mom had tackled Kelsey after his shot went astray. She’d pinned him to the floor and wrapped her hands around his throat. She would have killed him had Will not intervened. Now, bound with duct tape and gagged with a sock,
she was stuffed in the closet in Will’s bedroom. Blake Mackeson was bound to the leather chair in his office, where he’d been since Kelsey knocked him unconscious with a fireplace poker. According to Kelsey, Will’s dad had been in the process of loading his gun. Kelsey, who had quietly entered the house moments after Mr. Mackeson’s arrival, had eavesdropped on enough of the conversation in Will’s bedroom to know it didn’t bode well for Will.

Will recalled the sight of the ruined radio on his nightstand, which had been struck by the misdirected bullet. “Kelsey…”

Kelsey popped the top off another Warsteiner. “Yeah?”

Will swallowed a lump in his throat. This wouldn’t be easy to say. “I think we should call 911.”

Kelsey gaped at him. “Are you kidding? Why, for fuck’s sake?”

Will swallowed some Warsteiner. He didn’t like beer as much as Kelsey or Trey, but liquid courage seemed absolutely necessary right now. “Because I hit her with a fucking baseball bat, man. She could have a concussion. Hell, maybe even brain damage. She could be dying right now.”

Kelsey shook his head, made an exasperated sound. “I don’t think so. You didn’t hit her that hard. That wasn’t any Babe Ruth swing, bro. And we got the bleeding to stop, right? She’s fine. And I hate to say it, man, but her health is the least of our concerns right now.”

Will glared at his friend. “Easy for you to say. She’s not your mother.”

Kelsey held the gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment, then sighed. “All right. Fair enough. But you know something, Will? I’m the guy who was attacked by his own sister. I may have killed a man to make it out of my own house alive. You’re not the only one who’s had a rough time today.”

Will’s anger evaporated. His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.”

Kelsey shrugged. “It’s okay. Look, we need to be thinking about our next step, figure out a plan of action before this special assembly you say your mom told you about.”

“I think she was serious about that. You should have seen
her when she was talking about it.” Will shuddered at the memory of his mom’s rapt, almost aroused expression. “My God, Kelsey. They’re really gonna do it. Kill hundreds of teenagers. Our friends.”

“Oh, I believe you. I’d believe damn near anything at this point. But we’re gonna stop them. Somehow.”

“Right.” Will swallowed. “Somehow.”

Somehow
.

The word sounded empty to his ears. Hollow and unconvincing.

Kelsey scratched his chin and looked thoughtful. “Look. We can’t stay here all night. Whatever’s going on, your parents are involved. Myra’s people knew enough to get after us in the first place, so I kinda have to believe somebody will come here sooner or later to check shit out. It’d be a good idea to be gone by then.”

Will made a vague sound of assent. He knew Kelsey was right, but he was still having a hard time getting his head around the notion that they had unwittingly uncovered a vast occult conspiracy. It seemed too fantastic, too much like the plot of one of Jake McAllister’s lurid novels, to believe. Yet, the proof was all around him. And it was intimidating. How could two high school kids hope to combat forces so powerful?

Will looked Kelsey in the eye. “We are fucked, you know that? We are fucking fucked.”

Kelsey chuckled. “I believe that’s what Mr. Brennaman would call a ‘defeatist attitude.’ Hey, we’re the good guys. We
can’t
lose. It’s like we’re in a horror movie, right? And in horror movies good always triumphs over evil some kinda way or other.” His expression turned uncertain. “Right?”

“No.”

Kelsey frowned. “Anyway, that’s sort of beside the point. What we’ve—”

“
The Blair Witch Project
?”

“Huh? What about the fucking
Blair Witch Project
?”

“Evil triumphed, dude.”

“Okay, but—”

“
Night of the Living Dead
.”

“That’s zombies, man. This is not a living-dead situation.”

“But that black dude, the hero, that redneck fuck shot him in the head in the end.”

“Again, that’s—”

Will had turned pale by now. His hands shook slightly. “
Halloween
. Michael Myers gets shot six fucking times with a .357 Magnum and falls off a balcony. Motherfucker gets up and walks away. The End, fade to black.”

Kelsey put a hand to his left temple. He was starting to get a headache. “Right, but—”

“And Jason Voorhees, you can’t kill that guy at all. Not permanently. He always comes back. Evil always comes—”

“STOP!”

Will blinked. “Okay.”

Kelsey picked up his beer again. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I think I may be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

“You and me both, man. Listen, I’ve got no idea how to solve this clusterfuck we’re in, but I may know something. I’ve detected a pattern.”

Will cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yep. It’s the women.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it.” Kelsey swigged beer. He started to pace, moving from one end of the kitchen to the other and back again. The beer bottle moved in his hands, punctuating his thoughts. “Imagine a chain. Myra’s the lead link, she’s the focal point. She’s made our boy Trey her slave. Mrs. Cheever is another link in the chain, a conduit of information. What do they both have in common? You guessed it, they’re women. Then there’s my sister, Melissa. She tried to kill me. Again, she’s a woman. To state the fucking obvious. That guy in the hood, I’m not sure what the deal with him is, but he looked like a subordinate. It’s the
women
. They’re the leaders of this thing, this whatever-it-is, this black magic coven, this satanic club for girls, what-the-fuck-ever. Need more evidence? Look at your
mother. After Mrs. Cheever blabbed to her, she set out to kill you. And it’s real obvious your dad is just another slave. Maybe if you dig around in his office, you’ll find a black hood.”

Kelsey ceased pacing. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, facing Will. He needed a moment to catch his breath. Then he said, “So…what do you think?”

Will swallowed some beer. “I don’t know. This is all so…weird.”

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the understatement of the motherfuckin’ century.”

Will eyed the half-empty bottle of Warsteiner in his hand. He considered taking another sip, but he set it down without drinking. He was calmer now, thanks in part to the alcohol, but he wanted to keep a clear head.

He looked at Kelsey. “You should slow down on the beer. If more men in black hoods show up, or more demon women, whatever, you don’t want to be fucked up.”

Kelsey glanced at the almost empty bottled in his hand. “Good point.”

He dumped out the rest in the kitchen sink. “Wish I’d thought of that a beer or two back. I’m feeling a little light-headed. Got any soda?”

Will opened the refrigerator, took out two cans of Dr Pepper, and passed one to Kelsey. He popped the tab on his and took a swig. He chugged down half the can.