FEAST OF THE FEAR (11 page)

“
There are things in this life that defy common logic, Douglas,” De Roché said, dashing Doug’s hopes. “Things that you do not and never will have the capacity to grasp.” De Roché’s eyes fell unfocused, as though he’d suddenly heard a distant voice. “There are worlds beyond ours,” De Roché said. “Worlds within worlds. Vast and complex and unreasoned places. Most are beyond our grasp, but not all. There are a few within reach. I’ve glimpsed one of those worlds, been there actually, and the possibilities, oh the possibilities. One only needs the key to tap into them. But you’ll never understand, will you? You’re too compliant, too deferential, too . . . ordinary to see beyond your shallow little life. The universe contains wonders and horrors you could never fathom. The days ahead will bear this out and then you will surely see what I have known from the beginning.”

Doug stared at the man not knowing how to react to his strange rhetoric, but being suddenly sure of one thing: De Roché
was
insane.

“
And besides,” De Roché said dismissively, “this is between Annie and me and her firstborn. This is not about you. As it is I have to deal with the fact that she has chosen the likes of you to be its father.”

That’s when Doug had done the thing he would always regret. Not for his sake but for Annie’s. Rage had replaced all semblance of rationality and the fist was at De Roché’s face before the man saw it coming. Although in that moment Doug believed De Roché deserved what he got, it was the wrong thing to do under any circumstances.

De Roché recovered nobly from the blow, however, picking himself up off the floor and wiping the blood from his mouth. He opened the liquor cabinet, poured himself a shot of some amber liquor and downed it in a single swallow, his sharp, canny eyes never leaving Doug’s. Doug stood like a statue, fists clenched at his sides. He could not even bring himself to feel pity for De Roché, just more rage and frustration that such an unfeeling creature could be possessed with such maddening influence.

“
By the way, Douglas,” De Roché said unflinching. “Annie’s not to know of our little . . . deal.”

“
Deal?”
Doug said with incredulity. “I’ve made no
deals,
you sick bastard, and I never will. Especially when it comes to my children.”

“
I thought I’d made it clear that this is not about you, Douglas. Annie
will
bear a child. This is not debatable. And it does not matter with whom. You are only a minor player in this little drama that exists between Annie and her father. Just remember, if Annie learns of our conversation today, I
will
kill you. Regardless of Annie’s feelings, I will squash you like a bug. Annie’s playing the part now with her newfound freedom, being the rebel and all, the tortured artist. I tolerate her behavior, although I don’t understand it. But make no mistake. Annie is my girl. She always has been and she always will be. She has a responsibility to this family that she’s too blinded to see right now, but she will eventually, trust me, she will, they always do. I believe this thing she has for you and the bohemian lifestyle you two have chosen is just a temporary distraction, and if it turns out that it’s not, that I’m wrong, well, the world is not large enough for you to hide her from me. I
will
find you and I can promise you, when I do, you’ll beg for mercy before you die.”

That’s when Doug had taken Annie away from De Roché, away from all the money and privilege. Away from the sickness that infected De Roché and all that he surveyed. And Doug had remained defiant right up until the final moment. His defiance, however, could not drive away the fact that Annie
was
De Roché’s daughter and that he would always have to deal with the reality of it. De Roché was not a man to be fooled with, Doug knew. He might be power mad, he might even be insane, but it was of little consequence, for the man had the clout to accomplish nearly any task. Doug was maddeningly sure of that simple fact.

Nonetheless Doug had heeded De Roché’s admonition; he had never told Annie of the conversation he’d had with her father concerning their future child. It wasn’t because he was afraid of De Roché. He wasn’t, despite the fact that De Roché had threatened his life. He was more concerned with Annie’s stability. How in the world would she have been able to handle such knowledge? Although Annie possessed great intelligence, enormous strength of character and undeniable talent, there was something hidden inside these complexities that baffled him, sometimes even frightened him. Sometimes he saw things in her eyes, a dark and fluttering presence that in a very strange sense seemed mirror Doug’s own inner demons. Coincidence or something else? He never wanted to think about that. When Annie was up and on an even keel her strength could lift the earth but when she was down she brought the world down with her. Doug suspected that her emotional highs and lows had everything to do with her former life as Edmund De Roché’s only child. Now he was afraid he’d waited too long, and that disclosing her father’s desire to possess her firstborn might destroy her. But the true heart of Doug’s fear was that his years of silence would bear evidence to some sort of complicity between him and her father. But isn’t that what De Roché had been banking on all along? The man might be insane. He was by no means stupid.

After marrying Doug, Annie had been ready and willing to leave De Roché’s lair for good. She was eager to be free of her father and his influence. Or so she’d said. The old man had gone nearly mad with grief on the day his daughter had left his fold as the wife of Douglas McArthur, jockeying and positioning, trying everything within his enormous power spectrum to win her back. And Doug had taken a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing it; ever aware that his world could come tumbling down at any moment and the last laugh might very well be at his expense. Annie had been adamant, however, repeatedly insisting that nothing her father could do or say would change her mind; she was, after all, in love with Douglas McArthur and that was a place she was quite happy to be in.

“
But he’s a carpenter!” De Roché railed with equal amounts of fury and loathing. “And you’re going to live in the woods on the edge of a fucking freeway in a half completed wood-frame house!” Doug had been working on the house prior to their marriage and that’s where he and Annie intended to settle down, at least for the time being.

“
Jesus was a carpenter,” Annie reminded her father. “It’s a noble profession. Besides, I like it in the woods. Doug and I will be happy there.”

“
Happy?”
De Roché said as if the word tasted foul on his tongue.
“Living like common trailer park trash?
What makes you think that happiness is an inalienable right? You’ll change your tune,” he admonished his daughter. “You’ll come crawling back when you realize you have nothing, when you need a fix of what only daddy can provide.”

But Annie hadn’t changed her tune. It had been more than eight years since that terrible day and Doug was as amazed as De Roché that he and Annie were still together and vital. There was some part of Doug that had always expected Annie would some day come to her senses and go back to her sheltered and privileged life. And now, it had taken the death of her mother to accomplish the deed. Poor Rachael, she’s the one who’d suffered because of her husband’s perversions, hadn’t she?

Loyal wife, keeper of terrible secrets.

Now she was dead and De Roché was calling in all his debts.

Annie was being forced back into De Roché’s sick world. And Doug knew why, and he was almost crazy with grief over it. As he’d said would happen, De Roché had somehow found out about Annie’s pregnancy and he’d sent those assholes to root them out, to frighten them into going back. Doug was trying to convince himself that at least Annie would be safe behind the walls of De Roché Manor. No harm would come to her until after the baby came. He was reasonably sure of that. He wasn’t quite so sure, however, about his own chances for survival. What he should do is deliver Annie, then get away as quickly as possible, disappear, begin looking into De Roché’s life, his past, find out everything he could about the man and his associations. From where he stood right now, there didn’t seem to be any other choice. He should have been doing it all along instead of blissfully loving Annie and ignoring De Roché’s resolve. Now he was sorry he’d become so complacent. Annie was an heiress to one of the largest political and financial dynasties in the history of the United States. How did he think that their lives could ever be normal? The years had almost made him forget De Roché’s threats. Big mistake. Now Doug needed to remember if he was going to survive. If he got moving now perhaps there would be time enough before the baby came to figure out what the hell was going on and rectify the problem.

3

In a room beneath an ancient cathedral, a telephone began to ring. The monk in the simple black robe and white collar turned away from the altar at which he had been praying and stared at the ringing telephone as if it were something not of this world. Carefully he tucked the object which he had been clutching tightly in his praying fists into the side pocket of his robe. This was only the third time in as many years that this particular phone had rung. The telephone number was unpublished and there were only seven men in the world who knew it. After the third ring, the monk got to his feet and picked up the handset.

“
Yes?” he asked.

“
I have news,” the voice on the other end of the line proclaimed. The caller was male and he sounded winded and overwrought.

The monk hesitated for a long moment before replying. “What is the code?” he asked. He would never acknowledge his identity unless the code was repeated exactly as he knew it; exactly as they all knew it. To do so would be to violate the most sacred of all oaths.

The man on the other end of the line recited a seven digit code. It was merely a series of numbers, like those on a lottery ticket. There was no deep or hidden significance to the sequence. The odds were one hundred and thirty-five million to one that the number could be randomly selected. Although the monk did not recognize the man’s voice, he was not surprised. For security purposes,
The Brotherhood
met infrequently, usually only if there was an emergency, and their meetings were always held in the greatest secrecy and in the most remote places. As priests swear oaths of celibacy, so these monks had sworn a long ago pledge against friendship, understanding that any complicity, however casual, could mean the
Brotherhood’s
destruction
.
It had been more than a year since the monk had spoken to another member.

Finally he said, “Yes, the number is correct. To whom am I speaking?”

“
This is Isaac,” the voice replied. Isaac was a pseudonym, of course. All members of the
Brotherhood
used pseudonyms. All were named for apostles.

“
Am I speaking to Brother Paul?” Isaac asked.

“
Yes, Isaac, this is Paul. Now please tell me what is so urgent that you felt the need to compromise security protocol.”

“
Something has happened,” Isaac said. “The chosen ones are in danger.”

The monk’s heart began to race. “Tell me, Isaac, what exactly do you mean by this? Be very specific.”

“
This morning their home was destroyed. They were driven out and pursued by men with guns.”

“
I want to know how this could have happened. Your duty was to protect them—”

“
Our agents were there, Brother Paul, as always, watching from the shadows. When the attack came it was so sudden that we were taken completely off guard. We believe the attackers . . . knew.”

“
That you were there? About us and our intentions? About the information we possess?”

“
Yes, we believe so.”

“
Do you know who these men were?”

“
Several are dead. Their bodies were taken to the city morgue. By morning they will be gone and the authorities will be left scratching their heads.”

“
Yes, of course,” said the monk. “Men without names or identities. I should have guessed.”

“
There is something else,” Isaac said.

“
Yes?”

“
The Collector has resurfaced.”

There was a long silence on the line before the monk replied. “I need details,” he said.

“
Last night he murdered a family in coastal New Hampshire. The details are sketchy. The police have yet to issue a statement. But my sources are reliable.”

“
You are certain of this?”

“
There is no mistake. He left his calling card.”

“
Written in the ancient language?”

“
This is what my sources tell me.”

“
Was there anyone . . .?”

“
Taken? I’m afraid so. A six-year old girl.”

The monk was suddenly speechless. His heart began to race and his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth. He was gasping for breath, grasping to make sense of what he’d just learned.

“
There is something else, Brother Paul.”

“
Yes?”

“
Along with his signature he left the image of a symbol.”