The Demonists (5 page)

The stream of vomit was scalding hot, and alive with writhing maggots. John quickly turned his face away as the stinking stream covered him, but still he held on.

“Take your fucking hands off her! She’s ours now!” the voices screamed.

“Theo, it’s me,” John said, ignoring the voices as he turned his gaze back to his wife’s eyes. “Listen to the sound of my voice . . . take strength from me and come forward.”

“Are you fucking deaf, Johnny boy?” the dominant voice demanded to know. “She isn’t going anywhere but down. Do you understand, John Fogg? Your wife is gone now.”

But John wasn’t giving up. He willed his strength through his hands and into her body, hoping to give his love the help she needed to come forward.

Her body squirmed in his grasp, and he readied himself for whatever new and grotesque defense might be hurled at him.

“Let me go,” the dominant voice ordered, the smell of its breath like the stink of a thousand corpses.

The maggots in the foul puddles at his feet began to change, shucking their sickly white skin to reveal fat-bodied flies beneath. The insects swarmed about John’s face, nearly choking him, and still he held fast to Theo’s shoulders, his eyes on her eyes, filling her with his strength, with his love.

“Take your hands from us!” the voices screamed.

There was a pounding on the room’s door, and from the corner of his eye John watched as Stephan, stepping over the unconscious staff, grabbed for the doorknob, yanking on it fitfully . . . futilely.

“Theo, come to me,” John ordered. He knew she was in there somewhere; she just had to be shown the way.

The flesh beneath his hands began to writhe, as if something alive crawled beneath. He was disgusted by the feeling, but he would not let her go.

“Theo, I’m here. Follow the sound of my voice.”

“Oh Johnny boy, we are going to hurt your ladylove so bad,” the voice said. Large, bleeding gashes began to appear upon her face, as if the skin was being sliced with an invisible knife.

“No,” John said, with a desperate shake of his head. “I won’t let you . . . she won’t let you.”

She was screaming now, fighting to be free of his grasp, but he held on tightly. She was close; he could feel it.
Just have to hold on for a bit longer,
he told himself, fighting through the pain that racked his body.

The curtains covering the windows suddenly burst into flames, blackening the walls before the sprinkler system activated, filling the room with a cleansing, artificial rain.

The power that set the curtains on fire was directed at John. He felt it first at the base of his neck, a tingling sensation as if thousands of fire ants were biting at him. The pain quickly intensified as the flesh on his neck and back began to blister.

But still he held on to her, still he gave her his strength and love.

“You’re gonna burn, Johnny,” the demon said with a smile that was supposed to steal away his hope.

His wife’s eyes began to leak tears of blood.

“Theo,” John urged, the smell of his own hair burning filling his nostrils.

The demonic expression on his wife’s face suddenly changed from perverse pleasure, to something different.

Surprise.
“You’re actually going to try this, bitch?” the demon asked. It glanced quickly to the side, then back at John. “I guess we’re done for now, Johnny boy,” the voice growled. It leaned in and planted a kiss on John’s cheek with his wife’s lips, lips that were as hot as lava, branding his skin with their impression.

But he didn’t cry out; he would not give the loathsome entities that satisfaction.

“But we’ll be seeing you again real soon,” the demon added with a chuckle that quickly multiplied into the mocking laughter of hundreds of demonic entities.

It was then that John almost lost it . . . the hope that he had desperately held on to.

How many are inside? How many demons now call my wife home?
But he was saved by her expression, Theo’s twisted face softening.

“John?” she said, the sound of her voice so weak . . . so frightened.

“I’m here,” he said, taking her into his arms as her body went limp, succumbing to the degradation and exhaustion. “I’ll never let you go.”

The alarms continued their clamor as they both slumped to the floor. The door at last surrendered to Stephan, and security and medical personnel flooded into the room.

“Please,” John begged as they tore her from his arms and returned her to the bed, where they began to work on her.

He sat there, the pain in his body attempting to capture his attention, but nothing could distract him from the moment. The realization was worse than anything he could ever have imagined, and it pummeled him again and again as the words of the demonic entity echoed inside his brain.

“I guess we’re done for now.”

The realization that he might not be able to do it.
“But we’ll be seeing you again sometime real soon.”
The realization that he might not be able to save her.

Brenna Isabel returned to the child’s room one last time.

Maybe there was something she had missed, a piece of evidence staring her right in the eye, daring her to find it—to expose it to the light—providing her with what she needed to find this missing child.

As well as the others.

Her eyes moved over the bedroom again, trying to look at each thing as if it was new, trying to keep it all from being so familiar.

This case was the same as the other two—a young child missing from his home. The first was a seven-year-old boy, the second, a girl of six, and now this young boy, six as well.

Brenna slowly turned in the center of the room, her eyes absorbing every detail, wanting to see it all, hoping there might be something . . .

The children had nothing in common other than being school-age children from middle-class families who went to sleep in their beds and disappeared without a trace during the night— And a strange symbol that resembled a badly rendered number 8 drawn on a discarded piece of cardboard . . . on the back of a closet door . . . and now on the roof of the missing child’s favorite racing car. Marks hidden, but all in plain sight—visible if you looked for it. Her team was already working on the possible meaning. Was it a number 8? And if so what did that mean? Were there five more children who would go missing? Or maybe it wasn’t an 8 at all. It was something, she was sure of it—but what?

There were no signs of struggle, no signs of forced entry. Nothing was seen, nothing was heard.

The children were just gone.

Forensics had gone through the room with a fine-tooth comb, gathering what they hoped would be evidence in tiny plastic bags. But Brenna knew it was useless. Whoever had done this was far too careful.

For now.

The only consolation she had was knowing they always got sloppy. Their confidence never failed to get the best of them, and they invariably let something drop. And that was when she would be there, to snatch it up, use it to bring whoever was responsible to justice.

But how many more children would be taken before that happened?

She couldn’t think of that. Instead she forced herself to scan the toys and stacks of video games and books.

“Agent Isabel?” someone called from the doorway to the child’s room. She turned to see Agent Niles standing there.

“I think we’re done here,” he said.

She nodded but turned back to the room.

One more time,
she told herself.
One more time just to be sure.

S
tephan Vasjak leaned back in his chair, telephone clasped to his ear. “He’s not available, Ken,” Stephan said for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I’m not going to tell you if he’s physically here or not. It just doesn’t matter. John is not available.”

Stephan felt his frustration growing with each new phone call, e-mail, and text. They all wanted—needed—to speak with John Fogg. But John Fogg wasn’t—
here
.

“I know he told you to find him a new home, and he’ll be ecstatic to learn that you think you’ve found the perfect property, but right now he is not available.”

Stephan stood and began to pace, feeling as though the phone were grafted to his ear. “Well, if it’s gone, it’s gone and I’m sure your amazing talents will find him something else in no time.” He could hear the annoyance creeping into his tone. Ken could be quite insistent. “Fine,” Stephan finally agreed. “E-mail the listing and I’ll make sure he sees it.” He breathed a sigh of relief as he finally ended the call—only to hear his cell begin to ring.

He set the office phone back in its cradle and reached for the cell attached to his belt. It was playing Queen’s “Flash Gordon,” and Stephan immediately knew he was in trouble.

“Hey, hon,” he answered, trying to sound casual.

But Raphael wasn’t buying it.

“Yes, I know what time it is . . . it’s just been supercrazy around here. . . .”

Raphael promptly reminded Stephan that he hadn’t been home at a decent hour in weeks.

“I know, Raph, and I’m working on it.”

And Raphael wasn’t buying that, either.

“Look, I don’t want to do this over the phone.” Stephan was trying to keep his cool, but Raphael’s answer was quick, and cutting, asking him where else would they do it, seeing that he was never home.
Ouch!
“I know, and I’m really sorry. Truly I am.” Stephan tried but knew his husband wouldn’t believe him. When Raphael got like this, there was no reasoning with him. And, after all, he did have a point, but since that Halloween broadcast, John and Theo needed Stephan more than ever.

“We’ll talk about this when I get home. I’m leaving right now, I promise.”

Of course, Raphael had to remind him that he’d promised other things of late—promises that had been broken.

“I’ll see you shortly. And I do love you.”

Raphael hung up without responding.

Stephan stood there for a moment, staring at his phone before striding to his desk. Pulling the drawer open, he retrieved his satchel and slipped his phone into the side pocket. He threw the bag over his shoulder as he took one more look about the office, then quickly made his escape. His office was on the first floor of the three-story town house that served as the main offices of t Rising Fogg Productions, as well as home to John and Theodora. He stopped at the staircase across from the front foyer and propped his bag on the first step as he retrieved his car keys from another of its side pockets. He glanced up the stairs as he turned back toward the front door and stopped.

Keep going, and head right out that door,
a voice inside his head ordered, and he almost listened.

Almost.

“John?” he called out instead. “I’m leaving.” He waited a moment, but there was no response. “John?” he tried again.

He knew he should have taken that as a sign and just gotten the hell out of there before he ended up divorced, but he couldn’t help himself. John was going through a lot—they all were—and he couldn’t stand the thought of his employer, his friend, suffering alone. He had to be sure he was all right, and as he headed up the stairs, he tried to convince himself that he would only check in and then be on his way.

“Hey, John? You all right?” he called as he entered the openconcept kitchen and living area.

He was met with silence, and no sign of John. Although Stephan was sure he knew where he would find him.

Where he always was now.

His office.

Stephan crossed the living area and proceeded down a short corridor, stopping outside a set of double doors. He hesitated only a moment before knocking.

And still there was no response, other than faint sounds of movement from inside the room.

“Hey, John?” He knocked again. Ordinarily he would have just left at this point, but since the business with Theo, John had become quite distant, preoccupied, and a little lost. Stephan wanted to respect John’s grief, but he also needed to know that he was all right. He grabbed the doorknob and cautiously opened the door. “John, are you okay?”

John was at his desk in the far corner, and slowly lifted his gaze.

They stared at each other across a bridge of silence.

Stephan couldn’t help himself, the annoyance of the day, mixed with the moment, powering his tongue. “Well, are you?” he demanded, walking into the office. It was an absolute mess.

“Am I what?” John asked.

“All right,” Stephan said. “Are you all right . . . ? And looking around, I’m not sure you are.”

“I’m fine,” John said, going back to whatever it was he was working on. “Why are you fucking bothering me?”

Stephan felt as though he’d been slapped, and suddenly he couldn’t help himself. John’s attitude combined with the pressures of the day overwhelmed him. “Wow, you have some fucking nerve!” John looked up again, anger in his gaze this time.

“You heard me,” Stephan said. “I’m downstairs morning, noon, and night trying to hold this place together so that you can . . .” He stopped, turning his attention to John’s desk, and the catastrophe that his office had become. “So you can do whatever the fuck it is you’re doing up here.”

“I think it’s time that you went home.”

“Is that it? You’re dismissing me? I should have been home hours ago, but I was here, trying to keep things going so you don’t have to worry about anything other than Theo.”

“That’s enough,” John shouted.

“I’m worried about her, too.” Stephan ignored John’s outburst and stepped closer to the desk, seeing the open bottle of scotch and half-empty glass before John. “You’re not alone, John. A lot of people care about you and Theo.
I
care. If you need anything, all you have to do is ask.”

“I need you to leave me alone, and stop worrying about things that you’re not being paid for,” John said. He nearly jumped up from his chair and for the first time, Stephan saw how disheveled he appeared. He stared at him in disbelief, not sure whether he should respond or not.

“Have I made myself clear?” John asked.

“Perfectly,” Stephan replied, then turned and headed for the still open door. “I hope you and your misery have a nice night,” he tossed over his shoulder as he shut the door forcefully behind him.

How dare that little shit?
John fumed, slamming his hand down on the desk.

Maybe it was the sudden burst of pain that finally made him realize what an amazing ass he had just been.

“Hey, Stephan!” he called out as he rushed around his desk and to the door. “Stephan, wait up!” he repeated, heading for the stairs, hoping he wasn’t too late.

But as he descended to the silence of the floor below, he realized that Stephan was already gone.

“Shit,” he muttered, and sat down heavily on the last step.
How could I have been such a jerk?
he thought as he wrapped himself in the solitude of the first floor.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there, brooding, when he caught sight of movement in the mirror hanging in the foyer, reflecting from the office.

“Stephan?” John called out, standing up and heading for his friend’s office. “Listen, I’m sorry . . .” He stopped.

The office was empty.

He was just wrapping his brain around the fact that he was alone when music began playing from the iPod station in the corner of the room—the beginning chords of Leonard Skynard’s “Sweet Home Alabama” blaring throughout the office.

“Jesus,” John hissed, feeling his heart begin to race. He walked over and turned the music off, the silence nearly deafening as he headed back out of the office.

The music began again, this time in the middle of “Homeward Bound,” by Simon & Garfunkel.

He turned to the player again, studying it with a questioning eye. After a moment, he strode over and turned it off, watching it, as if daring it to play again.

He waited several minutes before turning away—and “Country Roads” by John Denver began to play.

“Country Roads, take me home,” the seventies superstar warbled, and being the genius that he was, John suddenly saw the common theme.

Home.
Since the incident at the hospital, he had been consumed with finding a place where he could take Theo when . . .
if
. . . she was released. Someplace where she would safe, while he searched for a way to take care of her affliction.

Evidently, something or, better yet, someone was aware of his plans.

“Is that you, Nana?” he asked aloud. This type of visit was unlike her; she usually preferred dream visitation to physical manifestation or mechanical manipulation. “Home,” he said as he walked about the room, looking for signs of her presence. “You want me to bring her home.”

John Denver continued to play.

“It would be nice,” he agreed. “But it’s impossible.” His ankle began to ache, so he stopped and sat down at Stephan’s desk.

“It wouldn’t be safe here,” he explained aloud, sadness nearly overwhelming him. The last time he had visited her, she was heavily sedated, but he knew the demons continued to plague her. And there was nothing he could do.

“In her current condition . . .” He paused, the words feeling like pieces of glass wedged in his throat. “She’s dangerous, Nana. Dr. Cho says that he isn’t sure how much longer she’ll be able to stay at the institute before . . .”

That was what he’d been looking for when Stephan interrupted, a place where she would be safe until he found a way to help her.

“Not here, Nana,” John said with a sad shake of his head. “With all my heart I wish it could be, but . . .”

He stood, his movement sending the chair rolling backward into the desk, where the bump seemed to bring Stephan’s computer monitor to life. The image of a fabulous stately home appeared there.

Finding it curious that Stephan had left a file open, John leaned over across the desk to grip the mouse beside the keyboard, and closed the file. The music—Michael Buble crooning, of course, a song called “Home:—suddenly cut off, plunging the office into silence.

John had paused a moment, finger ready to click and close the file, when the phone began to ring.

“Hello?”

There was a long pause, and he was about to hang up when he heard . . .

“Hello?”

“Hello,” John repeated.

“John?” asked a vaguely familiar voice.

“Yes. Who . . . ?”

“Ken . . . Ken Matheson, at Matheson Realty,” his real estate agent answered. “I’m so glad you called. Stephan showed you the house, then?”

John let go of the mouse. “He did,” he lied, playing it by ear as he stared at the stately old mansion on the screen.

“When I saw it come up on the listing, I thought of you immediately, and after I checked it out . . .”

“Where is it?” John asked.

“Marblehead, Mass,” Ken said. “The North Shore. It used to be a sanitarium for the very wealthy. It closed in the mid-sixties and the current owner . . .”

There was something about the place, something that spoke to him. Something that told him yes, this was the place.

Home.
“I’ll take it,” John said.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’ll take it. I want to buy it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to tour the property first?”

“I’ve seen enough,” John said. “Do up the paperwork, and I’ll have a payment to you right away.”

“Seriously?” Ken asked, obviously flustered. “Are you sure?”

Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” began to play, filling the office with its glorious sound. John’s Nana loved that song, and he did as well.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

The man was talking on his cell phone as he walked up the driveway to the Cho Institute.

“Yes, I’m here now.”

He could see movement in the guardhouse as he approached the gate, and a security guard exited.

“Let’s see if your mojo is working,” the stranger said in the cell phone as he approached the guard. “Evening.”

The guard said nothing, simply clicking on his flashlight.

This had better work,
the stranger thought as the beam of light illuminated him.

“Would you mind not shining that in my face?” he asked as he held his hand up to shield his eyes.

Without a word, the guard lowered the light.

“Thank you,” the man said. “I want you to know that I am nobody, and as nobody I am here for nothing.”

The guard stared blankly at him.

“Does that make sense to you?” the stranger asked.

The guard nodded.

“Good. Would you mind opening the gate for me?”

Silently, and without hesitation, the guard turned and disappeared into the guardhouse. A moment later, the metal gate swung open.

“It worked like a charm,” the stranger said, talking into his cell again as he walked through the gate and headed up the curving drive to the main entrance. “I’m in.”

“How long exactly will this magical wonder be potent?” he asked, approaching the stairs leading up into the building. “That long? That’s some serious stuff.” He climbed the stairs. “Listen, I’m about to go inside. I’ll call you back.”

He broke the connection and slipped the cell phone into the side pocket of his leather jacket. It was relatively late, so the building would be fairly deserted. If he played his cards right, he’d be able to avoid almost everyone.

Pulling open the door, he stepped into a small foyer and climbed three marble stairs to the front desk. A security guard at once looked up and started to stand.

“No need to get up,” the man said, and the guard immediately sat back down, returning his attention to the open book in front of him.

The stranger smiled and continued on to a back stairwell that would take him into the hospital’s security wing. He passed an orderly whose expression went from surprise to nothing in mere seconds, as the stranger acknowledged him with “Evening.” The hospital employee continued on his way as if he hadn’t encountered a soul.