The Demonists (13 page)

John took the business card with only a phone number printed on it.

“Call us,” Elijah said. “Perhaps there is something that might still be done.”

Elijah sat in his office reading through an extensive file on an ongoing FBI missing children investigation. There were some aspects in the report that made his facial injuries start to itch.

Always a bad sign.

A familiar knock landed upon the door.

“Come in, Griffin,” he said.

The Coalition agent stepped into the office, and Elijah noticed that he’d changed his clothes, and smelled freshly showered. “I thought you were going to sleep,” Elijah said, closing the file and setting it down upon an ever-growing stack of files that would eventually need his attention.

“I’ll grab a nap later,” the man said, stepping forward to lean upon the front of the desk. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What did he say? What was his answer?”

“It was what I expected at this time in John Fogg’s life,” Elijah said. “He needs to take care of his wife.”

“I think it’s too late for that,” Griffin said grimly.

“But I’m not going to be the one to tell him,” Elijah responded.

“He’ll have to determine that on his own.”

“No loss, really,” Griffin said, dropping down into one of the chairs.

“Guy seemed like a jerk.”

“Yes,” Elijah said. “Not everybody can be as pleasant as yourself.”

“What? I was good.”

Elijah scowled, used to Griffin’s somewhat abrasive style. “We’ll just need to be patient is all.”

“Do we have time for patience?” Griffin asked. “Looking at the number of reports coming in . . . it’s getting bad out there.”

“What choice do we have? We will keep doing what we’re doing, fighting this war, and hope that John Fogg contacts us.”

“I still don’t understand your fascination with the guy,” Griffin said. “Sure, he’s smart, well versed in the paranormal, but I’m sure there are plenty of guys out there with the same amount of experience. What makes Fogg so special?”

Elijah reclined in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach as he fixed Griffin in his stare.

“The fact that someone tried to murder him, killing his team, tells me that he is important,” Elijah said. “And I believe that importance will be quite beneficial to us in the dark days ahead.”

“You think it’ll be bad?” Griffin asked.

“I don’t think,” Elijah said. “I know.”

I
t was Brenna Isabel’s first night home in . . .

How long was it? Two days? Or three?

It really didn’t matter a helluva lot to her; this was as much home as the staff lounge, or her desk at the bureau.

Just a place to slow down for a bit and collect her thoughts, before starting all over again. She hadn’t had a real place to call home since . . .

Her thoughts began to drift back to a time that seemed so very long ago, but in reality hadn’t been that long at all.

She slammed the door as she entered the furnished rental, the noise loud enough to pull her from the painful recollections. It was so easy to get sucked into the past, to see over and over what had been lost—what had been taken from her.

Placing the plastic bag of Chinese takeout on the island countertop, she moved around into the small living area and placed her satchel of files and laptop on the couch, where she would work until she eventually passed out, waking up at the crack of dawn to start the process all over again.

This was her life, she thought, going back to the kitchen to eat. This was what was left after . . .

There it was again, that painful reminder of what had been.

Her eyes drifted to the bookcase in the living room. She knew it was there—she knew exactly where it was.

She always did, both hating the idea that something so horribly painful was in her living space (it would never be a home) and overjoyed that a frozen piece of that wonderful past—no matter how painful it was—still survived.

Brenna felt herself pulled to it, but denied her desire. It wasn’t time for that now; she needed to eat and then review her case files, and if she managed to get everything done, maybe . . .

Maybe.

She tried to forget it was there, distracting herself with General Gau’s chicken, house-fried rice, and a side order of fried wontons. Sitting on a stool at the island, she started off slowly, taking only a little bit from the various take-out containers, but quickly found that she was ravenous, finishing the chicken and eating nearly all the rice. She ate the wontons for dessert and then allowed herself two fortune cookies from the bottom of the bag.

Putting what was left of the rice in the refrigerator, she was reminded of how little was there, a bottle of spring water and a box of baking soda the only other things inside the fridge.

Maybe she should go shopping.

Maybe she shouldn’t open the refrigerator. . . . The latter sounded the most appealing to her at the moment.

She left the kitchen, heading into the tiny bedroom, where she stripped off her work clothes and donned a pair of sweatpants and a Quantico T-shirt. Her every intention was to sit down on the couch and get to work, but her eyes wandered immediately to the bookcase as she stepped from the bedroom.

Not now,
she scolded herself, grabbing the laptop from her bag and turning it on. She took the files from the bag and set them on the couch beside her. There was a part of her that knew that the likelihood of finding anything new in the files was a long shot. She’d nearly memorized every detail already, but no matter how minute the opportunity, she still felt compelled to try.

She opened the secure file on her computer, eye drifting over the familiar words—the familiar faces. Eight children missing from different parts of the country, no one even recognizing that they were connected until the symbols were discovered: drawings of the same strange symbol found at all the scenes. On the inside wall of a closet in colored chalk, on a crumpled piece of construction paper on the floor of a room, on the sidewalk in front of a home: wherever the abductions took place, the symbol—whatever it was—was there.

And there wasn’t a single clue as to who had left it or what it meant.

They’d brought it to anyone who might have had even a remote chance of knowing what it was: scientists, anthropologists, priests, and even experts in the supernatural.

She thought of the guy from that TV show, John Fogg, and how he’d never returned her call. He had said that he would be in touch once he got back from a business trip. Right. She made a mental note to call him again.

Her eyes eventually began to burn, signifying too much time on the laptop, so she switched the hard-copy files. She flipped through the pages, spending a little bit of extra time on the pictures of the kids, silently promising them that she would do everything in her power to bring them home safely, and if that wasn’t possible, to see whoever was responsible punished.

The last photo was of the only parent murdered—from the scene of the last abduction in Chicago.

Joseph Waugh, father of Christopher Waugh—now missing.

She stared at the photo, internalizing the violence depicted there. The ME had said that the father had been crushed by someone with incredible strength, that his bones were not only broken but pulverized. There had been blood at this scene—a lot of blood—believed to be from the perpetrator, but there hadn’t been any match in their database.

Her mind started racing again. Was the one they were looking for badly hurt now? She had no idea. There hadn’t been any further abductions, but there had been that delivery to the family of one of the little girls taken.

The teeth.

There were pictures of the teeth, and she stared at them again, feeling herself begin to sink into despair, into that dark place where she had been before and thought that she would never break free of.

But she’d surprised herself.

Brenna realized that she was no longer looking at work, but was back to gazing at the bookcase, eyes finding the item that still had such a hold on her.

Maybe this was what she needed now, to remind herself of the beautiful things in the world, even though the beauty had been stolen from her. Maybe it would lift her up, or maybe it wouldn’t. She never knew how it would affect her.

She hesitated, continuing to stare at the spot on the shelf. Maybe if she went to bed . . .

It wouldn’t work; she was sure of it. Every time she had denied herself, it came back to bite her on the ass. Brenna tried to recall the last time she’d looked, and suddenly remembered how hard she had cried.

She hadn’t thought she would ever be able to stop.

The time before that, though, she hadn’t cried at all, feeling only an anger so intense that she was afraid she might hurt someone, or herself. She had locked her gun up that evening, just to be on the safe side.

And how about now? she wondered fretfully. What kind of night would this be? With what she had immersed herself in tonight, she feared the sadness but wasn’t quite sure how she was feeling.

All she knew right then was that she had to look.

Brenna moved the hard files aside and slowly stood, all the while staring at the contents of the bookcase, eyes riveted to one particular area. She could just about make out the binding.

The book was calling to her.

Managing to tear her eyes from it momentarily, she went out to the kitchen again. In one of the nearly empty cabinets, she found what she was looking for in the form of a bottle of Irish whisky. Perhaps a few sips to take the edge off, she thought, pulling down the half-empty bottle—or was it half-full? Depended on the kind of night it was, she thought, finding an appropriate glass and rinsing it of dust in the sink. Unscrewing the top, she poured herself four fingers of the golden liquid, her keen sense of smell picking up on the strong aroma as soon as it started to flow into the glass.

She thought of whisky as the great equalizer, putting her brain in such a place as to make it easier to accept the emotions that the book would conjure. Bringing the glass up to her mouth, she took a good swallow, letting the burning fluid flow down her throat to her stomach, feeling the warmth already starting to spread.

Her husband had been right, she was such a lightweight.

Taking her glass, she left the kitchen again and went to the living room. There was no hesitation now. She went right to it—to the bookcase— eyes scanning the multiple titles. She had everything in there: how-to books, self-help, home improvement, biographies, embarrassing fiction, an encyclopedia of dogs when they were considering getting a puppy before . . .

She took another long swig from her drink, letting the whisky do its thing.

Her hand went right to that particular book, the tips of her fingers running along the thin binding, as her eyes read the title as if it were something new, as if she’d never read it before.

Freddie Fox Plants a Garden.
She’d bought the book at a grocery store when she was only three months along.

It was to be the baby’s first.

Brenna slowly—carefully—extracted the book from the shelf, afraid that if she was too rough it would somehow be irreparably damaged. The cover of the book always made her smile, the cute Freddie Fox in his blue overalls, tending his garden.

Clutching her prize to her chest, she returned to the couch and sat down, placing her half-full—or was it now half-empty?—glass down on the floor at her feet. Laying the book flat upon her lap, she continued to stare at the cheerful cover art, remembering the story inside with distinct clarity.

But it wasn’t Freddie’s story she was interested in. There was another story inside, a true story filled with so much love, and eventual sadness. A story that belonged to her.

She was amazed that no matter how many times she’d done this, her hands still trembled. It was almost as if she was afraid that somehow they wouldn’t be there anymore when she opened the cover.

Brenna pulled back the cover and opened Freddie’s adventure with gardening and found her own sad story in the shape of photographs.

There weren’t all that many, just enough to paint a beautiful picture. The other pictures, the ones inside her head—and they were many—were for her, and her alone.

Opening the book, listening to the familiar cracking sound of the binding, she was careful not to let the pictures fall out. They were in a specific order; a special order.

The first picture always made her smile. She hadn’t known it then, but it was the most perfect of times. She carefully lifted the photo from its corner, staring at the moment frozen in time. In the photo she saw a much younger, and prettier, version of herself, her husband, Craig, and their newborn son, Ronan. Her mind drifted back to the moment, remembering the sounds and the smells. It really was remarkable what the photograph could do; it was just like being back there again.

When things were good.

Perfect.

Before it all went wrong.

She didn’t want to think of that yet, moving on to the next photo of her beautiful baby boy. He’d been less than a month when the picture was taken, so small and helpless, but so full of life. He was a loud one, that was for sure.

Brenna held back the sudden emotion, the urge to cry, as she heard the ghostly echoes of the past—her baby’s cooing, and tiny cries of hunger—from inside her head.

She paused for a moment, reaching down to the floor for her glass. She needed more equalizer. The whisky went down without the burn now.

Feeling more in control, she went back to pictures. The next was of Ronan’s room. They were so proud of the job they’d done decorating it. The crib was front and center, and seeing it she could not help skipping ahead— No. Not yet. There was still so much good to remember. So much happiness.

She could feel the love coming from the photos. It was always there, the love that they had had for each other as husband and wife, the love that they had had for their baby boy. She could see it on their faces in each and every picture. So much love.

One of the next pictures always triggered a reaction. The pumpkin. It was to be Ronan’s first fall, his first Halloween, the first official holiday after his birth in August.

Happy Halloween, Ronan, the pictures said. Pumpkins and cartoon ghosts and witches. They’d decorated the house substantially. They’d said it was for the baby, but they knew better. The baby was just an excuse for Craig to embrace what he called his favorite holiday. Brenna had some more of the whisky, not wanting to go to the next photos. There weren’t all that many left and she knew that once she went beyond them, the other pictures, the ones inside her head . . . it would be their turn. She thought about stopping here, closing the book, and putting it back on the shelf until next time.

But she couldn’t do it. If she’d come this far, she had no choice but to go forward. The whole story needed to be told, not just the good stuff. It was just how she was. She needed to go through to the end, from the past to the now. That was the story.

The next picture she loved, but hated. It filled her with happiness, and bone-crushing despair. She let the happiness come to her first as she looked at the image of her baby boy, propped up on the sofa, still too young to sit up on his own, dressed like a pumpkin. She remembered how Craig and she had laughed hysterically over the outfit, making up a story about how Ronan had been found in a pumpkin patch, retrieved from inside a broken gourd.

It had been a good story. Would have been a nice companion piece to Freddy planting his garden if somebody could have written it. Her whisky was gone and she considered getting up and going for more, but she was almost done here.

The next pictures were of the inside of the house decorated for the holiday. Lots of orange lights and fake spiderwebs.

Brenna spent a little too much time on the photos of the house, not wanting to go to the last picture.

But she had to.

It was of Ronan’s room, also done up for Halloween. It was a picture of him, still dressed in his orange pumpkin pajamas, sound asleep in his crib.

Staring at the picture, feeling the familiar sense of absolute dread return, she wondered again if there was something she could have done.

Something she should have noticed, and reacted to, to save her baby’s life.

The picture that followed—the first of the ones that were inside her head—was very similar to the last one.

Trick-or-treating was over, the lights outside had all been turned off, and she’d gone into Ronan’s room to check on him before going to bed herself.