The Messenger (2011 reformat) (37 page)

"But
before we do that, the Messenger wants to feel you, he wants to feel all the
pleasures of your body. And we're going to do that right now, right
here"-he held up the knife-"after I cut my lord's emblem into your
skin."

Jane brought
her hands to her face with a shriek, shut her eyes and went rigid. Steve tore
open her blouse, cut off her bra.

"Behold
the Messenger, Jane," flowed a pitch-black voice that was only partly
Steve's. "The arrival of the Messenger is at hand."

He pressed her
back against the wall, brought the tip of the knife to her chest, and-

Bam!

The window
seemed to shatter before she even heard the shot. Jane fainted on the spot but
before she lost consciousness completely, she saw half-a-dozen figures
scrambling about the room.

Police.

I

Landslides of
nightmares shocked her awake. She was in a police car, being raced somewhere in
the night, red-and-blue lights pulsing above her. The cop driving was a
sergeant named Stanton, whom she'd seen around.

Jane's mind
felt wiped clean.

"What
happened?" she murmured, but then another landslide spilled into her mind
and she remembered.

"Steve
was shot?"

"Yeah,"
Stanton said. "I still can't believe it. I guess he was part of this cult
thing all along. It's crazy."

Aldezhor, the
name creaked in her ears.

The Messenger.

"How did
the police know what he was doing?"

"Anonymous
tip. We traced the call. Guess where it came from?"

Jane shook her
head, having no idea.

"The
BellSouth payphone nearest the west branch post office."

Jane felt too
fractured to try to make sense of it.

"So we
sent every cop on the shift to his house. Through the window one of our guys
saw him coming at you with the knife, so that was all she wrote."

She shuddered,
recalling the impact and concussion of the shot.

"Where
are we going now?" she asked.

"The
hospital. The doctor wants to look at you, make sure you're all right. You
could be in shock, plus you fell pretty hard."

"No!"
she blurted. "I'm fine. I need you to take me to my house! I have to make
sure my kids are all right!"

"No can
do," Stanton said. "I have my orders. First the hospital, then you
gotta come in to make a statement."

"To hell
with that!" she shouted, head throbbing. "Take me to my kids," and
that's when she noticed that Stanton turned left at the next corner. The sign
read hospital, next right, and then two hands behind her grabbed her hair and
dragged her into the backseat. Jane screamed like screeching brakes.

"Christ,
that's annoying" a voice said. "Shut her up, will ya?"

Martin Parkins
placed one rotting palm across her lips, pressed down hard, then squeezed her
throat till her eyes bulged. More weight arranged itself over her; her blouse
was pulled open, her breasts mauled.

"Sarah
and Marlene at her house?" the voice asked.

"Yeah,
they're tying up the kids, getting them ready."

Jane's heart
felt like a grenade whose pin had just been pulled.

"Good.
I'm gonna start cutting her now, been itching to put the Messenger's mark on
these tits. We won't rape her till we get back to her house-I want the kids to
see that too."

"I get a
piece, don't I?"

A laugh.
"Martin, your dick rotted off days ago."

"What
about me?" Stanton asked over his shoulder.

"After
me, partner."

Jane felt
certain she was dying; she wished she would die. An insane glance forward
showed her the shadow-shape machinating Stanton's hands on the steering wheel,
then another glance directly upward showed her Steve, with a bullet hole in his
head, grinning down, and that's when he brought the knife tip to her bare chest
and began to carve in the campanulation-

"-Ms.
Ryan? Ms. Ryan."

Jane arched
her back in the front seat of the police car, gasping for air as though she'd
just been saved from drowning.

"Jesus,
what's wrong?"

It was
Stanton, next to her, looking very concerned. "Sounded like you were
having a whopper of a nightmare."

Her eyes darted,
frantic. "Where are we?"

"Your
house. That's where you said you wanted to go."

Jane rushed
out the car, ran up her drive, and swung open the front door.

"Hi,
Mom!"

"Hi,
Mom!"

Jane nearly
fainted again, from relief. Kevin and Jennifer sat contentedly on the couch,
watching poodles jump rope on Animal Planet.

Both rushed up
to her, hugging her. "The police lady said she wasn't sure when you'd be
home," Jennifer told her, and then Jane saw the female officer sitting in
a chair next to the couch.

"They
were good as gold, Ms. Ryan," the officer said. "Everything's fine. I
was about to get them off to bed."

"Not yet,
Mom!" Kevin pleaded.

"Yeah,
Mom, can we at least stay up and watch the rest of Animal Planet?"

Her arms
trembled around their shoulders. She wanted to cry and laugh and shriek with
joy at the same time.

"Call us
if you need anything, Ms. Ryan," the female officer said. "I'll get a
ride back with Stanton."

"Thuh-thank
you," Jane stammered.

"Good
night."

The officer
left, after which Jennifer and Kevin practically dragged her to the couch. They
don't know about anything that happened tonight, she realized, with even more
gratitude.

"Mom, can
we make popcorn?" Kevin asked.

"Sure."

"I'm
gonna make it," Jennifer insisted. "Kevin always does the butter wrong
in the microwave-"

"I do
not!"

"Both of
you make it," Jane suggested.

"Good
idea!" and then the kids were off to the kitchen.

Just when the
comforting silence settled over her, the phone blared. Jane gasped again,
clutching her chest. Jesus! If I don't have a heart attack today, I never
will...

She looked at
the phone. Steve, came the most macabre thought. The undertow of her nightmare
in the patrol car was seeping back. But, no, it couldn't be Steve. He was dead.

She let it
ring several more times before summoning the courage to answer it.

"Hello?"

"I'm glad
you're safe ..."

Jane
recognized the accent at once. "Professor Dhevic..."

"I called
the police when I was finished at the post office-"

"How did
you know what was happening?" she asked, astonished.

When he didn't
reply, she felt foolish. He simply knew, she realized at once. "Sorry. Dumb
question. But thank you. You saved my life."

"It was
never actually in jeopardy." Did he chuckle? "Trust me."

"I'm
sorry I didn't believe you," she said next. "I thought you were one of
them."

"That's
understandable, considering what Chief Higgins planted in my motel. But none of
that matters now. It's over. And you and your children are safe."

Yes, she
finally realized. They were. "What about you? Are you all right?"

"I'm
fine."

"Where do
you go now? More TV documentaries?"

Dhevic groaned
over the line. "Only when my benefactors pay me late."

She paused.
"Who exactly are your benefactors, Professor?"

"It
doesn't matter," he said. "They'll be very pleased when they next hear
from me. But I'll be leaving town now, to go somewhere else."

"Did you
find what you were looking for?"

"Yes."

Another pause.
She didn't know what to say to this man who'd just saved her life.

"So I'm
off now, I'm off for the next one. I just wanted to say good-bye."

She couldn't
fully understand what he meant. "Good-bye, Professor."

"I'm not
a very proficient 'holy roller,' Ms. Ryan, but please take this quote from The
Book of Mark to heart. 'Your faith has made you well.' Think about that."

Jane kept the
phone to her ear even after the dial tone came on. Has it? she wondered. Has my
faith really made me well?

She supposed
she'd find out in time.

But one thing
puzzled her. I wonder what he meant when he said, I'm off for the next one?

The next what?

Jane hung up
the phone.

Dhevic hung up
the phone.

II

The new motel
was little better than the first, but he wasn't complaining. His quest was over
for now. His mind felt blissfully quiet-no inklings, not a single presage. He
let out a great sigh in his chair behind the little desk topped by a Gideon's
Bible. In the briefcase by his feet rested the striker, inert now, harmless
against his aura and his faith. Tomorrow his benefactors would meet him at the Tampa
airport, and would take the striker to the Security Depository of the Swiss
Guards, at the Vatican, and place it in the locked vault for such relics.

He winced when he sipped his
carryout coffee from the motel lobby. Behind him, the television babbled
innocuously; Dhevic wasn't much for TV but he liked to have the set on for the
welcome distraction. But then he heard:

"Welcome
to another edition of Satanism and Witchcraft, America's premier presentation
on the occult. Tonight's guests are master psychic Jeremy Hoty; the
lucid-dreaming priest, Father Jason Judd; and the world renown clairvoyant,
Professor Alexander Dhevic-"

Dhevic yanked
the television cord out of the wall.

Oh, the things
we do for money, he thought.

It had been a
relatively short quest this time, yet he felt worn out. Nothing surprised him
anymore. He knew, though, that he'd sleep better than he had in a long while.
He'd sleep without dreams and without visions.

The prospect
enthused him.

His folder lay
on the desk, the anonymous engraving of the Cymbellum Eosphorus. He looked down
at it with a touch of vertigo, and a cringe in the belly. All done for tonight,
he concluded and got ready for bed. Five down and one to go...

Another
polycarbonate plate lay under the first, supposedly from the same book; below
the frame, its title could be seen:
Metallurgous de Aldezhor
, or
The Metalworks
of Aldezhor
. Before a fiery furnace, demonic iron smiths forged and
hammered star-ended bell strikers on mammoth anvils. There were exactly six
such strikers being forged.

Teheran, Iran

Present day.

Saeed stood in
a manner of parade rest, high up in the observation room. Discipline was order,
and it was Saeed's job to maintain both for the good of the state. He wore tan
trousers, a tan tunic, and black leather boots to the knees. Even though this
was a civilian supervisory post, Saeed was allowed to wear his Victory Cross
and veteran's bars, which he'd earned with honor as an artillery captain in the
Holy War against

Iraq. Saeed
wore the medals with pride.

Now that there
was peace, Saeed was assigned to this important civilian station, the city's
central post office-the largest mail-processing center in the country. Down
below, through the long window, his handlers manned the sorters and conveyers,
focused in their tasks.

A sharp rap
came at the door.

"Enter,"
Saeed said.

The floor
supervisor came into the room and stood at attention with a package under his
arm.

"What is
it?" Saeed asked in authoritative monotone.

"A
package, sir. Improperly marked according to postal regulations."

"Set it
down and leave it to me," Saeed ordered. "And return to your work.
The work of the state is Allah's work."

"Yes,
sir," the man said and left.

Packages and
mail that weren't properly marked were taken into the custody of the state.
Illegibility and a lack of return addresses proved the most consistent
violations. Private marketeers often tried to mail opium-base to pickups in the
larger cities-a capital crime. It was Saeed's job to properly inspect any
suspect package.