A Latent Dark (55 page)

“Someone is coming. Hide.”

“But they—”

“Hide. Hide. Hide.”

She ducked into the corner, hidden in the shadows as the bearded man ran by. She waited until he was completely out of view.

“Two more,” said the scratchy voice. “Wait for them.”

A moment later two more men ran by, one of them only a boy. They stormed through the darkness in pursuit, completely ignoring her and her new friend.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

“Things are about to get interesting,” he said. “Now take that ring… that’s right. Place it there. Now, get ready to run.”

*

After a few nights, James had woken to find himself alone. The man he took as a hostage had led him here, to a darkened cemetery, under the branch of a large oak tree. There they had camped for several days, as James tried to get more information from the man to no avail.

He had given himself one week before he gave up and left for home. If he didn’t see a sign by then, it simply wasn’t meant to be. There was a point where he considered going into the CONFESSIONAL and seeing if he could find answers there, but between the amount of guards and the way in which Axel reacted near them (hitting his own head with a palm and almost screaming) James decided it was best to find an alternate route.

Now he was alone.

Something had clicked nearby and fallen to the ground, waking him. He shuffled his equipment and crawled toward the sound. The gate on the tomb sat unlocked. A long black feather lay on the damp ground next to the thick iron padlock that had recently been on the gate. Pushing the bars slowly, he took a step into the darkness. To his surprise, the tomb had no back wall, just an endless slope of concrete that spiraled down into the depths, ending at a nest of vehicles painted dim red by a single light. There were no other people.

Past the vehicles, James pushed open the doors, wincing at the glare. The corridor was as bright as the sun and stabbed at his temples, making him squint and raise his hand. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Though the facility didn’t seem to be at all deserted, James was surprised to find that he stood completely alone until a speaker on the wall squawked, startling him.

“The first piloted demonstration will begin in fifteen minutes,”
a female voice said through the speakers, followed by another squawk which terminated the announcement. He heard a low hum from the walls and then a click. James unfolded his gun.

Polished silvery doorknobs lined the hall and he tried one. The first door he opened was equally as white as the hallway. It had rounded corners, a table, and two chairs, nothing else. He closed it and moved to the next. The white on white décor made him feel unbalanced, never quite sure where his feet were landing. There were no shadows.

Two doors down he found a storeroom, concrete and poorly lit. He almost closed the door on it until a brown rucksack caught his eye. He flipped open the flap and saw the crumpled blue school uniform. As he reached for it, the sound of footsteps caught his attention. In one breath, James snatched up the rucksack by the strap and ducked away deeper into the forest of shelves.

As faint voices mumbled through the door, he inched his way past the shelves lined with trinkets and skullcaps with goggles—identical to the pair Skyla had worn on her head the last time he saw her—to the other end of the room. Another silver knob gleamed against a white wall. James reached out and grabbed it, hearing voices.

“That you Cater?” said a voice, muted behind the door.

“Who wants to know?” said James.

“Stop clowning around,” said the man. “Are you going to relieve me or not? I’m not covering for you again, not with this group of
Lassimirites
.”

“Sure,” said James, tightening his grip on the gun.

As the door swung open, James found himself face to face with a man dressed in a guard’s outfit, only without the helmet.

“You’re not Cater—” The guard’s eyes flashed towards the rifle, just in time for the butt of it to connect with his forehead.

James stepped over the unconscious man and pushed him into the storage room. He locked the door, turned around, and found himself looking down from a sharp ledge. Below him was a wide square pit filled with dirty, downtrodden people. They stared up at him from their holding cell with grimy faces and curious eyes.

“Can you get us out?” asked one girl in a tattered yellow dress. She had delicate features, her blue eyes a pair of jewels in the dirt and dried tears on her face. Her greasy straight hair hung in golden threads over her shoulders, visible through the rips in her dress.

“How do I do that?” he asked.

Another man spoke up. “A lever up there opens a door. But I think another person has to do the same from the outside.”

“Where’s the other guard?” he asked, looking nervously at the other door.

“Don’t know,” said the man. “They took Baker and we never saw him or the guard again. You’d better hurry whatever you do. No idea how much time we have.”

James looked around the tiled platform where he stood. There was a lever, a dormant light, and another door. He took a tentative look out into the hallway. It was white and empty. The door that led out of the holding pen must have been on a different floor. He ducked back in and went to the ledge.

“Can any of you reach me?” he asked. “I can try and get to the door below, but someone up here has to watch the lever.”

“Sarah can,” said the man. “She’s light.”

James felt his heart thump once in his chest as the girl stepped into the clasped hands of two other men, lifted upward. He gripped her wrist and James’s heart went thump again. Her dark eyes held so much pain—familiar pain.

“Okay,” said James. “Sarah, wait here. I’ll try—”

“Like hell I will,” she said, kneeling back over the ledge. “We have to get them out now.”

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

She shot him a glare. “No, we don’t,” she said, urgency making her voice hoarse. “They’ve been taking us one at a time. Nobody comes back.”

“Do you know where they take them?” he said.

“They call it confessional… but…” she frowned. “I don’t think that’s really what it is.”

Somewhere in the corridor there was a stampede of guard boots. His uncertain gaze shifted between the girl, the hallway, and the people in the pit below. There was a low buzz from the walls, the same buzzing he heard from outside.

 “All I know is that they don’t come back,” she said. A tear welled up in her eye.

James shuffled his feet like a scolded boy, fighting the overwhelming urge to reach out, grab her, and run as far away as possible, stealing her away with him. He had never been a man to believe in love at first sight, but he now questioned that assertion.

He took two steps toward the ledge and leaned over.

“Give me your hands,” he said to the people below.

Chapter 40

Harold Montegut held a revolver in one hand and a black leather case in the other. The gun belonged to him. The leather case and its contents did not. He had no plan. The gears of the machinery that ran his life were stripped and spinning out of control.

“I don’t think this is the right way go about this,” said Arthur. “We really should be notifying the local authorities.”

“The authorities,” hissed Harold, “killed my daughter. You were in the hotel room with me. You saw
this
.”

He brandished the leather case in his hand like a cross to a vampire. The black cover was worn, with patches of blood on it.

“Promise me we’ll just arrest him,” said Arthur.

“I promise nothing.”

They had seen the burly, bearded man enter through the tomb, at first thinking he was some kind of vagrant. It wasn’t until they saw the ornately crafted rifle that Harold decided he might be worth trailing. They had kept far enough behind him that he didn’t seem to be even the slightest bit aware. The darkness was their camouflage.

They followed the man into a cave, and then into a white-on-white hallway where he disappeared into a room. Further along, they came upon a man and woman wearing white lab coats. They looked at Harold in the same way dodos might have looked at humans for the first time. It was more vague curiosity than alarm.

“I’m looking for Lyle Summers,” he said to them.

They blinked and looked at one another, then looked back at him. Harold pulled the revolver out of his pocket and the man took off at a dead run.

“Who let you in?” asked the woman.

“Take me to Lyle Summers,” Harold said. “Or this will be the last thing you see.”

He strode up to the woman and grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back. She made a loud grunt, but did not scream. Good. At least she understood what was going on. He held the gun to her back, followed by a very nervous Gansworth down the hallway.

“Are you sure—” said Gansworth.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “You have been a great help to me, Assistant Investigator, and I am eternally grateful, but if you do not stop asking me if I am sure I am doing the right thing, I will shoot you myself.”

Gansworth fell behind him, saying nothing.

“We are making an arrest, are we not?” said Harold.

“Yes but—” said Arthur.

“And you saw that room, did you not?”

“Yes but—”

“And you agree that the only way The Reverend is going to come with us is if we take him by force.”

“
Yes,
but—”
Gansworth’s
voice was becoming more frantic.

“And since most of the police force is still busy processing that paperwork from the Lassimir—here? Turn here? I hope you aren’t lying to me—since they are still mired in paperwork it would be weeks before anyone even presented an accusation—”

“Guards!” shouted Gansworth.

From around a whitewashed corner came two angular, armored men brandishing rifles with long bayonets. They skidded to a halt at the sight of the revolver that was now pointed at the woman’s head.

“Gentlemen,” shouted Montegut. “I know this looks like a hostage situation. And I am sure that under most circumstances you would shoot me dead. I think it is time for you to listen to what I have to say before you decide to test your aim with those rifles.”

One of the soldiers made a subtle gesture with the barrel of his gun. Harold heard footsteps come to a halt behind him as well. He raised the revolver over his head.

“I am here on official police business,” he said.

The soldier in charge asked Harold to drop his weapon. Harold saw itchy fingers around the triggers of their guns as he held up the black leather case and unlatched the strap. It unfolded like a thick black ribbon, detailed with what at first appeared to be shiny silver bits of foil. Streamers perhaps. He tossed it out onto the floor. Upon further examination, the contents became disturbingly clear.

“This,” Harold said, “belongs to the Reverend Inspector. I found it in his hotel room, in his trunk. The assistant investigator and I have reason to believe that he murdered Melissa Eleanor Montegut, my daughter.”

The captain made another hand signal and the two guards behind him receded back the way they came. The captain lifted his visor.