Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) (22 page)

Doug remained silent in thought. Actually he was beginning to enjoy this. He’d heard about secret societies, of course. The internet, as well as the cable television networks, were filled with theorists who predicted government cover-ups as wide-ranging as UFOs to a secret Illuminati society that was plotting to take over the world. He had always taken most of it with a grain of salt. This was the first time, however, that someone he knew was talking like it was real.

“Who are these people that control everything, Édouard?”

De Roché frowned. “You want names?”

Doug nodded. “Yeah, you seem to know everything else, give me some names.”

Again De Roché frowned. “My dear boy, I can’t give you names.”

“I thought so,” Doug said.

“There are no lists,” De Roché said in irritation. “These are the men in the shadows. They run governments and choose
world leaders, control minds; they manage the planet’s security forces, organizations such as the CIA, NSA, INTERPOL and Homeland Security to name just a few.”

“So it wouldn’t be difficult to find out who they are.”

“Much more difficult than you could ever imagine.”

“But you just said—”

“I know what I said, Douglas. Truth is, there are groups within groups, many levels of power. The ones you see on TV or at the White House, or in the halls of congress, they’re merely the spokespeople, the puppets, the talking heads. The real power brokers have insulated themselves quite successfully, and quite necessarily. I’m sure you can understand why. The men at the highest levels answer to no one. It’s always been that way. Their long term goal is to see that we as a people, attain a oneness-of-mind, that we, as world citizens are spiritually and politically harmonized to a common frequency. The Masters have commanded them to eliminate the old world, with all of its old ideas, to construct a new generation, a new world order.”

“Masters?” Doug said with incredulity. “New world order?”

De Roché flapped an impatient hand. He was becoming agitated. “Never mind,” he said. “Talking to you was a mistake. You have no vision.”

“No, go on,” Doug said. “I’m enjoying this.” In reality he could not believe his ears. De Roché sounded more like a mad man every minute. Whether this shadow elite actually existed or not wasn’t what was important. The fact that De Roché believed they existed was the scary part.

De Roché cleared his throat and was silent for a long moment in thought. “In recent years, the Masters have backed off and just watched, wondering where humanity would go if left to its own devices. The result of this is what you see every day on the twenty-four hour news channels: lies, uncertainty, chaos, political quagmire, fundamentalists from every known sect and some unknown, espousing their virtues and damning the rest of us for not towing their line.

“We live in a world filled with damaging contradictions,” De Roché went on. “Take this nation for instance. On one side you have conservative Christian fundamentalists threatening to tear the heart out of scientific progress, on the other are bleeding heart liberals who would prefer to fund mothers who give birth to huge numbers of crack-babies, or to an establishment that creates the illusion of fighting crime. The result: these internal struggles impede progress; our cities are decaying; our major highways and bridges are crumbling. The drug war is a colossal hoax. The population is degenerating. The whole infrastructure of our country, hell, the world, is collapsing before our eyes as religious fanatics fall to their knees for guidance and rise up with weapons, and the men with true vision are left frustrated and powerless. Well, that is all about to change. We are poised on the brink of a renaissance. The war on terror will end swiftly and decisively. There will be no more bleeding heart liberals and their social programs. Fundamentalism will no longer play a role in scientific decision making. Change is about to come to this planet.”

De Roché stopped, his face flushed, his breathing labored. Doug saw that a fine rash of sweat had broken out on the man’s brow.

“How will you correct all of these injustices where others have failed,” Doug asked.

“The evil doers will be brought to their knees,” De Roché said.

“By this . . . power you spoke of a moment ago?”

De Roché gave a pained grin. “Correct, Douglas.”

“But you can’t tell me what this power is.”

“I can tell you this. I had it in my hand once, and like a fool I let it go. Since then it has remained elusive, until now. Now it is again within my grasp. And I can promise you, I will possess it.”

“I understand you’re thinking about running for president,” Doug said.

“The office is merely a focal point,” De Roché said. “There has never been any real power in the presidency. I intend to change that.”

“So, if you’re elected, and you do manage to . . . recapture this . . . power you speak of, then I presume you’ll begin a campaign to set all your ideals in motion.”

“They’re already in motion, Douglas. They have been for a very long time. My job and the job of my administration will be to escalate these principles and bring the dream to fruition.”

“I see,” Doug said. “Frankly it doesn’t sound like the kind of world I’d want to raise children in.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” De Roché said in a voice that chilled Doug to the marrow.

Doug grasped Annie’s hand and squeezed it. She did not squeeze back. Her hand fell limp
ly in his. Doug feared that she was lost, that everything they’d worked together to achieve was lost. Her father was a mad man and Annie was under his spell. De Roché did not say another word. Evidently the conversation was over, and that was just fine with Doug. In the past twenty-four hours he’d seen and heard enough madness to last him a lifetime.

Inside the church the atmosphere was heavy with the scent of flowers. A
n overweight woman in a rose-spattered dress sat at a gigantic pipe organ playing softly. The trio was led by ushers to reserved seats in front, but first they passed by the open coffin.

Rachael’s eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, touched with color, her face heavily made up. She could have been sleeping.

Endless rows of people passed by the coffin to pay their final respects, every manner of long lost relative, friend and acquaintance. Annie leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek and Doug saw that she was weeping. Weeping for a mother she missed, Doug wondered, or for a mother she’d never really had?

The eulogy was delivered by a tall stick-figured pastor. The man was too thin, all bones. He could not fill his clothes; his black trousers hung shapelessly on his knobby hips and his shoulders poked at the fabric of his white shirt as if only bare sharp bones lay beneath it. He vaguely resembled John Carradine, the actor from the 1940’s. He read the twenty-third psalm, which had been Rachael De Roché’s favorite.

Others got up, friends and relatives—people Doug did not know but some he recognized from television or magazines—and spoke words of affection, hope and salvation for the mortal soul of Rachael Kincaid De Roché.

As the reading was drawing to a close Doug could not curb the impulse to look over his shoulder. He had a strong sense that someone was watching him. He scanned up one pew and down the other but saw nothing out of the ordinary; just well-dressed mourners w
earing solemn expressions. Then Doug’s attention was caught by a white-haired old man standing near the exit door at the back of the church. The man did not wear a suit; just a wrinkled tweed sports jacket over a beige colored shirt and khaki trousers. His head of thick white hair was mussed, as if it had been slept in and uncombed. His expression was harried and his large brilliantly-blue eyes were haunted with some terrible knowledge. They stared out at Doug from eye sockets sunken and rimmed with bruise-colored indentations. Doug shivered, feeling uncomfortable. The man’s eyes seemed to speak to him, and they said,
I know something Doug, something you need to know.
Doug stared for a long moment, wondering what had drawn his attention to the old man in the first place. The man’s piercing stare never once wavered from his. Doug turned back around with a strong sense of unease.

It seemed like the service would never end. Impatient and ill-at-ease, Doug escaped through a side entrance. He went outside into the heat of the day and leaned against the cemetery fence.

People, ill-dressed for a funeral, lolled on gravestones and littered the lawn. Looking around at this heat-flushed congregation Doug felt contempt well up in him. He wanted to turn his back on all of it and slip away.

Instead, his thoughts wandered back to the old man inside the church.
He could not get him out of his mind. His haunting eyes seemed to have burned holes through Doug’s head. Who was he? What did he want?
Probably nothing,
his mind told him, even as he knew it wasn’t so. He kept his attention focused on the front doors of the building, expecting to see the old man appear, a combined feeling of unease and anticipation building.

There were half a dozen motley-looking black birds perched in the nearby heat-wilted trees. Unmoving, they seemed to be gathered only near him. Three others were perched on the fence less than ten feet down from him, plumage askew. They all stared at Doug with
scrutinizing eyes. Fear suddenly crawled into Doug’s belly. A particularly large specimen hopped down from a tree branch and lopped toward him, its head cocked eerily. It was staring at Doug with one ruby-red eye. The other eye seemed to be covered with a milky film. Doug was suddenly sure what was happening. He’d seen the same bird at his house in Maine yesterday morning just before the explosion that sent him and Annie running for their lives. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? How could a bird fly more than a thousand miles in just over twenty-four hours? Simple, it couldn’t. But as he sat watching the bird watch him, his sense of unease began to deepen until his brain began to squeal. He reached his hand up and massaged that maddening itch just above the bridge of his nose. There was something wrong here, an atmosphere of deepening dread. He clapped his hands together suddenly, causing a loud crack. The loathsome, bird took wing in panic, the others following, cawing loudly. They did not go far, however. Perched in trees throughout the cemetery they seemed to be watching, waiting for something, as was he.

Doug went back to watching the church’s front entrance, his dread
multiplying. Finally, from inside the church, there came the clatter of people rising from pews, shuffling to gain exit. Doug craned to get a better view of the porch as doors exploded open and people exited the building. The procession of mourners followed on the heels of the pallbearers.

Doug did not see the strange old man emerge and assumed that he had either stayed inside or had slipped out through another exit.

Finally De Roché and Annie emerged from the building arm in arm into the brilliance of the young afternoon. A buzz spread through the crowd as people moved forward in a wave. Those who seemed disinterested a moment ago now stood up and paid attention. “That’s their daughter Annie,” he heard a woman say in a nearly breathless whisper; completely unaware that she was standing not ten feet from Annie’s husband. “Her real name’s Antoinette. Isn’t that a beautiful name? Antoinette De Roché. Supposedly there’s royal blood in their veins. It’s all so romantic. She’s been away for a long time. I hear she married somebody from up north.”

“Wow!” another voice exclaimed—this one a teenaged boy dressed in baggy blue jeans and a
n AC-DC T-shirt. “She’s a babe!” Doug peered between the heads of the crowd to catch a glimpse and he couldn’t help but smile. There seemed to be an aura surrounding Annie that was nearly supernatural. Although he could recognize the grief on her face it was eclipsed by the sheer power of her astonishing presence. The lady was indeed a babe. He saw Annie scanning. She was looking for him.

He kept his distance, following the procession to a sit
e in the cemetery where sandy soil had been freshly dug from the earth and lay in a mound near the hole. The pallbearers eased the casket down onto the grass and a small crane hooked onto it lowering it into the hole. John Carradine read another passage from the bible, and then Édouard De Roché tearfully said several words of his own for his dead wife. Doug was surprised that the old man had the capacity to shed tears, or show any emotion, for that matter. Could he be human after all? The sentiment was short-lived.

Annie kneeled and scooped up a double handful of sandy earth. She leaned
over the grave and allowed the soil to sift slowly through her fingers. The crowd became eerily silent, so silent, in fact, that Doug could hear the soil softly striking the top of the casket. Tears ran down Annie’s cheeks in glistening rivulets. De Roché took a shovel and threw a scoop of earth into the grave. His actions seemed to be posed, contrived; as though every move was staged for the cameras.

And then it was over. The crowd began to fragment. Out on the cemetery road parked limousines were taking on well-dressed dignitaries. Annie left her father’s side and caught up with Doug.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“I needed some fresh air.” He looked at her appraisingly, took out his handkerchief and wiped at her cheeks. She smiled and kissed him softly on the mouth. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

“Okay,” she said. “It’s over now . . . that part of my life, I mean . . .” She sighed. “Now I have to deal with the rest of it.”

Doug knew what she meant but had vowed to avoid the subject of her father. His nerves were jumpy and his instincts told him to put distance between himself and this place. “I can’t stay here, Annie,” he said suddenly, surprising even himself with this confession. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, Doug,” Annie said, trying to sound sad, but there was something in her voice that betrayed her relief. Sharp stabs of pain shot into Doug’s heart. “I do love you,” she said, and Doug honestly believed she did. He didn’t believe, however, that she understood the danger either of them was in, and she wouldn’t until he could find some concrete proof of her father’s betrayal.

“I hope you can understand,” she went on. “It’ll only be for a little while, I promise.” Again she kissed him softly on the mouth, her moist, full lips lingering there for a long moment in torment. The taste of her made Doug ache inside.

He took hold of Annie’s shoulders and pushed her away to arms length, staring appraisingly at her. “The thought of leaving you here scares me,” he said. “I can’t help it.”

“It’ll be okay, Doug.”

“I know you think that—”

Before he could finish, Annie hugged him fiercely, her arms around him in a strong
hold. They stood that way for a long moment in silence. Finally she said, “There are demons here that I need to face.”

“I know. I wish I could help you, but I realize it’s not about me. I just hope it’s the right thing for you. I just hope it’s the right thing for our child. I can’t help it, I just have this . . . bad feeling.”

“I know how to handle him.”

“You’ve been away from him for more than a decade. There’s something—” He stopped short of telling her what he ached to tell her. That he now knew her father was a monster.

“What?” she said.

“You heard the things he was saying in the limo. He doesn’t even sound sane.”

Annie released her grip on Doug, stepped back staring intently at him. “Why, because he has vision?”

Doug rolled his eyes. “Vision? Listen to yourself, Annie. Did you actually hear the things he was saying? A new world order, shadow governments,
a new kind of power. What the hell was he talking about? Would you vote for him?”

Annie frowned. “He’s my father, Doug, and it’s time I accepted that.”

Doug looked away shaking his head. “Yeah, you’re right. He needs you more than I do.”

“There, I’ve made you angry.”

“No,” he said, “not angry, just sad. I’m not even sure I know you any more.” He laid his hand gently on her abdomen. “Please, take care of our child, Annie.”

“Oh, Doug,” she said scowling. “You act like we’re never going to see each other again—”

A hail of gunshots rang out. People screamed and the crowd began to stampede like cattle. Doug pushed Annie to the ground, covering her with his body while he quickly scanned the area. More shots sounded, two or three in quick succession. Over toward the grave mound he saw something that made his blood run cold. A bullet struck De Roché in the chest, ripped through his body and splattered blood onto the grass behind him. The whole scene played out before Doug as if in slow motion. De Roché’s hands went to his chest and Doug could see bright red arterial blood, pumping out between his splayed fingers. The man dropped slowly to his knees and bowed his head. There was a look of complete and utter peace on his face.

More shots followed, accompanied by shouts and screams. Annie was cursing and thrashing, trying to struggle to a sitting position, but Doug held her down. In the next instant he saw the old man from the church determinedly making his way through the parting throngs toward De Roché, and there was a pistol in his hand. Theo was sprinting across the lawn toward the gunman, weapon drawn. He fell to one knee, aimed the gun carefully and squeezed off two shots in quick succession. One of the bullets caught the old man in the chest and there was an explosion of blood. Another caught him in the right shoulder. The
old man dropped like a November deer. The crowd was in a panic now, people running aimlessly, screaming and shouting, tripping over one another.

“Daddy,” Annie screamed, finally struggling to her feet. Scowling at her husband, she turned and sprinted toward her father.

“Annie, no!” But it was too late. The crowd had swallowed her. A moment later he saw her bent over her father on the mound.

Theo walked up and nudged the gunman with his foot. Satisfied that he was not going to get up, the security chief retrieved the man’s weapon and started pushing his way through the throngs toward his boss. Doug saw Don Savage
and several other security personnel move toward De Roché from several points of the compass.

“Someone call 911!” Annie screamed. She was standing on the mound next to her kneeling father. A man with a camera had broken through the line and was filming the action.

Theo had finally made it through, weapon drawn and ready. Father and daughter were now surrounded by security types, guns at ready, scanning the crowd for other possible gunmen. None were immediately evident. As the moments ticked by it became clear, at least to Doug, that the old man had acted alone.

The crowd seemed only to be concerned with De Roché, and for this Doug felt a strange sense of gratitude. He stood over the gunman, staring down at him. The man’s hand moved ever so slightly.
To Doug the movement looked like something more than reflex, a conscious gesture perhaps. Could he still be alive? Doug kneeled down beside him. The man’s lips were moving. “Come . . . closer,” he whispered.

Doug was amazed that the man was still breathing. His head lay in blood.
More of it pumped from the hole in his chest in time with the beating of his failing heart. He should have been dead, but somehow he was alive.