Piercing the Darkness Page 7

  You are dead, worthless creature! You are crazy!

  Sally leaped from the bed and grabbed a pen from the table. She found some stationery in a drawer next to a Gideon Bible. She would write things down, that was it! Perhaps her mind wouldn’t get scrambled if she put it all down on paper. She could record her thoughts before they melted away. She bent over the table, her pen poised over the paper.

  But Despair was wounded, humiliated, indignant, and determined to redeem himself. He hung on her back like a coal-black leech, sucking out her will, whispering confusion to her mind. The other three spirits were with him, circling Sally, taunting her, jabbing her with their swords.

  Insanity whipped his sword right through her brain.

  Sally stared at the paper. Somehow she’d ended up on the floor. Nothing would come. What was that thought? She just had it, she was going to write it down, and now it was gone.

  Give it up. Turn yourself in.

  No one will ever believe you. You’re crazy.

  Crazy. It was a word. She wrote it down.

  Insanity, cackling his witchy laugh, grabbed her mind between his two hairy palms and dug in his talons. Death joined in the attack.

  Sally’s mind went blank. The paper began to grow into a white screen that filled her eyes like a fog, a blizzard white-out. She was floating. She kept writing: “My name is Sally Roe . . . Sally Roe . . .”

  She could hear voices in the room, taunting her, and could feel sharp claws tugging at her. They remained invisible, hiding from her, teasing, tormenting.

  Then came Fear. Sally was overcome with a numbing, paralyzing fear. She was lost and falling, spinning, tumbling in space. She couldn’t stop.

  She willed to think, to form the word in her mind: Sally. Sally. Sally.

  Come on, write it. Take the blasted pen in your hand and write it!

  We have you now. We will never let you go.

  Sally. She could feel the pen moving.

  The pen raced over the paper in circles, squiggles, jagged lines, crisscrosses.

  It was gibberish. Nonsense.

  She kept writing. She had to capture a thought, any thought.

  Chimon and Scion had seen enough. It would have to be quick. Scion slipped outside to check the perimeter. Chimon crept like a shadow through the walls, moving in close.

  All four spirits were clustered around Sally’s head, whipping her consciousness into a myriad of senseless fragments. Chimon got a nod from Scion—he would be able to shield out the spirits outside. Now for these insects inside. It had to be just the right moment, just that one instant of opportunity.

  Now. They wouldn’t see it. Chimon whipped his sword in a quick, tight circle, a shining disk of light. WHAM! The flat of the blade smacked the demons senseless and shattered their tight little cluster. Despair went tumbling backward in a blurred spin and landed outside the motel; Fear, Death, and Insanity were interlocked and fell away together, their arms, legs, and wings a spinning, fuming, angry tangle.

  The two warriors ducked back inside the walls.

  Despair righted himself with a shriek and a huff, and only then realized where he was. With a flurry of wings, he shot back through the wall into the room. His three cohorts were just recovering. All four flung themselves at Sally’s mind again.

  But it was too late. She’d slipped from their grip like a bird out of a trap. Her thoughts, though sluggish, were moving in an orderly sequence through her brain.

  Sally was suddenly able to read the words on the page. There were only six legible words at the top, “Crazy my name is Sally Roe.” The rest of the page was filled with aimless, chaotic scribbles. She got up from the floor and sat at the table to try again. She had to keep writing, first one word, then a phrase, then another word—anything that would capture her racing, fragmented thoughts before they escaped her.

  “Death and despair and fear and madness are back,” she wrote, and then another thought: “Why kill me? I died years ago.”

  Sally kept moving that pen, whether her mind stayed on it or not. She was going to whip this madness. She had to. She was going to get her thoughts down on paper where they couldn’t get away. She was going to win.

  BEN WAS BEGINNING to wonder about his gift for timing. He’d been out on patrol and just happened to stop in at the station to pick up some more highway flares. As soon as he stepped through the back door, he could hear Mulligan in his office, talking to someone on the phone, and using a hushed tone of voice that immediately roused Ben’s suspicion. Since when did Mulligan ever get that quiet?

  Ben got his flares from the supply room. The quicker he got out of there, the better.

  Oh-oh! There went Mulligan’s chair again, rolling back and hitting the wall. Ben ducked into the supply room, expecting Mulligan to come bursting through his door.

  But Mulligan must have jumped up in anger. He stayed in his office, hollering at whoever was on the phone.

  “No, Parnell, I’m telling you, there was nothing on either hand! That’s what I said, nothing!”

  Hmm. Parnell. That was the coroner.

  Mulligan gave Parnell time to say something, and then dove into him again. “No, I didn’t find anything in her pockets either! What kind of a jerk do you take me for?” Parnell got another two bits in, and then Mulligan answered, “Well, you just go back and check around again! I’m doing my job, now you do yours!” Another pause. “Hey, you’re the one who got the body, not me. I delivered it just like I found it. Why not ask the medics, if you’ve got a problem? Yeah, Parnell, it’s your problem, and I can make it a bigger problem if you just say the word!”

  He slammed the phone down and cursed.

  Ben ducked back outside as quickly as he could. Even as he closed the door behind him, he could hear the sergeant still hissing and cursing under his breath.

  CHAPTER 7

  JAMES BARDINE WAS a young, handsome lawyer with black, wavy hair left long in the back and a voice with a lingering adolescent quack. Normally, he was tough and decisive—his associates used words like belligerent and rude behind his back—and in control of his situation. He was ambitious, a real goal-grabber, and flaunted his red Porsche at every opportunity. His suits were specially tailored to project an image of power. He’d perfected his own walk for use whenever he went to court: a quick, intimidating clip, chin high, spine straight, and lots of extra yellow legal pads under his arm. He knew he’d go far. He had the grit for this work. He was good at it.

  Right now, he was scared to death. He was sitting in an overly soft couch in the outer office of his boss, Mr. Santinelli, waiting to be called in for a conference. The room had high, twelve-foot walls, dark-stained mahogany trim around, over, and under everything, and a thick carpet your feet sank into. It was deathly quiet except for the secretary’s steady tapping on the typewriter and an occasional electronic warbling of a telephone. Bardine needed a cigarette, but Mr. Santinelli forbade smoking in his office. The magazines on the coffee table were either old or boring, but it didn’t matter. There was no way he’d be able to read right now.

  He was trying to compose a defense in his mind, something persuasive. Surely Mr. Santinelli knew when he had a good man; surely he wouldn’t make a big thing out of such a little incident. Surely he would consider the fine record Bardine had accumulated in the past five years.

  The big mahogany door opened like the seal of a crypt, and Mr. Anthony stepped out. Anthony was Mr. Santinelli’s aide and right-hand man, a tall, thin, ghosty character, something like a cross between a butler and a hangman. Bardine rose quickly.

  “We’re ready,” said Anthony. “Won’t you come in?”

  Such a nice invitation to an inquisition, Bardine thought. He stepped forward.

  “Are those yours?” Anthony asked, pointing to some yellow legal pads on the coffee table.

  “Oh, yes, thank you.”

  Bardine grabbed them up and followed Anthony through the big door. It closed after them with a thud of finality.

&nbs
p; This was the inner conference room adjacent to Mr. Santinelli’s office. The ornate light fixtures were at full brightness, but the room still seemed gloomy. The dark woodwork and furniture seemed to absorb the light; the heavy, floor-to-ceiling, velvet curtains were drawn over the windows.

  Mr. Santinelli sat at the other end of the oval conference table, looking over some papers before him and seeming not to notice when Bardine came in. He was an impressive figure, intimidating by his very presence. He was expensively dressed, gray, grouchy, and in charge. He was flanked by two of his closest and most powerful associates, Mr. Evans, a tight-faced, iron-fisted attorney who hadn’t smiled in years, and Mr. McCutcheon, a man who had so much money the subject bored him. Near this end of the table sat Mr. Mahoney, Bardine’s immediate superior, and not an impressive figure at all. One other man was present at the table, but unknown.

  “Be seated, Mr. Bardine,” said Santinelli, still not looking up.

  Anthony showed Bardine to the chair at the nearest end of the table, the one directly opposite from Mr. Santinelli. This was going to be a real eye-to-eye meeting.

  Bardine took his seat and arranged his legal pads neatly in front of him. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  Some of them muttered good day back. Some only nodded. None of them smiled.

  Mr. Santinelli finally finished perusing his papers and looked up. “Mr. Bardine, let me introduce you to the gentlemen seated with us. Mr. Evans and Mr. McCutcheon I’m sure you know already.”

  Bardine nodded at the two men, and they nodded back.

  “Mr. Mahoney is here as well, and we acknowledge his attendance. The other gentleman is Mr. Goring, from Summit, here to lend his assistance and expertise.”

  Bardine nodded at them, and they didn’t nod back.

  Mr. Santinelli leafed through the papers in front of him. “To quickly review our present situation, we find that a . . . complication . . . has developed, which at first seemed not so grievous as it now appears. Ehmmmm . . . and with each passing moment, the gravity of the complication increases . . .” Then Santinelli looked straight at Bardine and asked, “Mr. Bardine, are you familiar with the name Sally Beth Roe?”

  Arrow Number One. Bardine could feel the question go right through him. “Yes, sir.”

  “And what about the name Alicia Von Bauer?”

  That felt like several arrows. “Yes, sir.”

  “Would it be true to say, Mr. Bardine, that you are extremely familiar with the name of Ms. Von Bauer?”

  “Well . . . I’m not sure what you mean by that . . .”

  “We’ll get to that later.” Santinelli set that paper aside and perused the next sheet. “I’m sure you are aware by now that Ms. Von Bauer is dead?”

  “Mr. Mahoney advised me of that this morning, sir.”

  Santinelli adjusted his reading glasses and studied the paper in front of him. “Sally Beth Roe . . . How interesting that she should pop up again, and in Bacon’s Corner, of all places!” Santinelli looked at the men on either side of him. “Strange how things like this happen so often. You’d think there was an intelligent mind behind it, the hand of whatever god you may wish to imagine . . .”

  It was no joke, and no one laughed.

  “At any rate,” Santinelli continued, “we have just recently learned that a plan was launched to have Sally Roe murdered, and, of course, to make it look like a suicide. Just whose idea was that?”

  Mahoney spoke quickly and clearly. “Mr. Bardine’s, sir.”

  Bardine looked at his superior in horror.

  Santinelli asked, “You seem to be having a problem with his answer, Mr. Bardine.”

  Bardine’s voice cracked as he said, “Uh, well, yes . . .”

  “We’ll get to that later,” said Santinelli, looking at the paper again. “To continue my recounting—and please correct any flaws as you catch them—Alicia Von Bauer, a member of a Satanist organization called Broken Birch, was hired to perform this murder, and paid . . .” Santinelli bristled as he read the amount. “. . . ten thousand dollars as a retainer, with another ten thousand promised upon successful completion of her assignment. Am I correct so far?”

  Mahoney just looked at Bardine. Bardine looked back at him. Neither man answered.

  Santinelli continued, but watched both of them. “Apparently Ms. Von Bauer made her attempt on Tuesday night of this week, but found Ms. Roe to be more than her match. Ms. Roe was able to overcome her assailant and escape, leaving the dead body of her assassin behind, where, theoretically, she herself would have been found had the plan succeeded.” He set the paper down flat in front of him, folded his hands on top of it, and looked at Mahoney and Bardine over the top of his reading glasses. “In other words, this ambitious, overly imaginative plot was a pitiful failure.”

  Mahoney looked at Bardine again. Bardine glared back at him.

  Santinelli slid that paper aside and picked up the next one. “To further complicate matters, the, uh, planners of this scheme widened the circle of confidence beyond the key players and brought in a local peace officer named . . . uh . . . Mulligan, as well as the local medical examiner—the assumption being made, I suppose, that these two parties are steadfastly loyal to our cause, seeing that they were actually told in advance that there would be a suicide at the Potter farm and to handle it as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  Santinelli dropped the paper to the table and leaned back, removing his glasses. “Which, much to their credit, they are doing, or at least are trying to do, despite the fact that the deceased who is supposed to have killed herself is dead from an obvious act of violence and is, of course, the wrong person to begin with. By your silence I take it my account is accurate so far?”

  Santinelli didn’t need the answer he didn’t get. He just replaced his reading glasses and went to the next sheet of paper. “Now for the complications—the real complications. First of all, the most obvious: Sally Beth Roe is alive . . . somewhere. She is living, breathing, walking about, and I’m sure totally cognizant that there was a ruthless attempt on her life. If she doesn’t know who was responsible, I’m sure she has a very good idea. And how am I so sure? Let me tell you the next complication.

  “According to a reliable source who shall remain nameless, Alicia Von Bauer was wearing a ring when she committed—excuse me, tried to commit—the murder. At our request, the medical examiner checked the body for that ring, and found that it had been removed from the third finger of the right hand with the help of cooking oil . . . uh, traces of the oil were still on the finger. We sent some people to check the murder site and the house, and the peace officer and medical examiner doublechecked the personal effects of the assassin. The ring is gone.

  “And then there is the matter of the ten thousand dollars. That is also gone, without a trace. Von Bauer may have placed it in a secret account somewhere, but that is unlikely, knowing the delicate nature of her mission.”

  “Uh, sir?” said Bardine.

  Santinelli lifted his eyebrows just enough to give Bardine the floor.

  “The . . . uh . . . ten thousand dollars was laundered. It can’t be traced to us.”

  The eyebrows went up again. “To us, Mr. Bardine?”

  Bardine stumbled a bit. “Uh, to uh, the . . . to, uh, well, to us . . . myself, and . . . and uh . . .”

  “It is gone, is it not?”

  “Gone, sir?”

  “Unless you can make a call or take a drive—just go and get it?”

  “Oh . . .” Bardine stalled, but finally answered, “Yes, sir, I would say that the money is out of our reach now, irretrievable.”

  “But . . . laundered.”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  Santinelli continued, referring to his notes. “The third complication embodies the first two: We have every reason to presume that Sally Roe has both the ring and the money. As such, she presents the greatest possible threat to us and to our plans.” Santinelli paused for emphasis. “A greater threat, gentlemen, than she ever could have be
en had she been left alone.”

  Santinelli put his notes aside, removed his glasses, and looked squarely at Mahoney and Bardine. “Now, Mr. Mahoney and Mr. Bardine . . . let’s return to an earlier question: Just whose idea was this assassination plot?”

  Mahoney spoke first. “Mr. Santinelli, I’ll have to claim some responsibility. When we heard that Sally Roe was in Bacon’s Corner, we knew it could be a serious deterrence. We weighed many options, and I guess it became too high a priority in our minds. When Mr. Bardine presented the idea of an assassination to me, I guess I just wasn’t firm enough in discouraging it. But by no means did I authorize the action, sir.”

  Santinelli could see that Bardine was quite agitated. “Do you have anything to add to that?”

  Bardine looked from Mahoney to Santinelli and back again. “Sir . . . I . . . well, I understood that this undertaking had been authorized from the top down. I believed I was carrying out the plan with the full endorsement and authorization of my superiors.” Bardine could feel the cold, icy wind blowing his way from Mahoney’s countenance. He found himself at a loss for words—appropriate words, anyway. “The . . . uh . . . concept of a suicide, sir. This was not to be a murder, you understand, but a suicide, for all practical purposes. Done correctly, it would never be interpreted as anything else. Sally Roe was already a lonely and wasted individual with a terrible past and nothing ahead of her. Suicide seemed credible.”

  “I did not authorize it, sir!” said Mahoney. “He acted without my direct orders!”

  Santinelli made no attempt to hide the smirk on his face. “We’ll get to that later. Mr. Bardine, I do have some questions about the involvement of the deceased, Ms. Von Bauer. How was she brought into this?”

  “Uh . . . she . . .” Bardine felt like a badgered witness on the witness stand. “I, uh, was talking to her about this particular problem, and she . . . well, she proposed the arrangement.”

  “She proposed killing Sally Roe?”

  “Yes, sir, for the price of twenty thousand dollars.” Bardine quickly added, “As you know, this sort of thing is done now and then.”