The Messiah Choice (1985) (12 page)

For himself, he had very mixed emotions about the episode, but he was certainly uncomfortable. Although he'd known that she had a crush of sorts on him, up to now it had been a purely non-physical thing, and, therefore, somewhat abstract. Now, he knew, it could get more than a little awkward for all concerned, and he had enough on his mind as it was. When a cop got emotionally involved in a case, even unwillingly, he lost his objectivity and was more prone to take risks and make mistakes. This was a game in which risks and mistakes were what he couldn't afford. The other side held most of the cards, and he had no large force or laws to back him up.

For Angelique, it was the fulfillment of a fantasy. Still very much an adolescent emotionally and desperately in need of a close companion, the father figure of the psychiatric report, she had seized upon MacDonald from the start. What was strangest and most wonderful during the kiss, though, was that she was sure she felt various other parts of her body tingle and glow as well. She wanted to shout out that she loved him, wanted him, would do anything for him, but she was afraid that she might drive him away. She had nothing really to offer him except money, and he had never shown much liking for it in large amounts. His file had said he'd been a lifelong member of the socialist New Democratic Party back in B.C.

And, of course, that was one of his attractions, at least in reassurance terms. She knew full well she'd never lack for suitors, but he was the only one that she could count on from the start not to be thinking first of the dollar signs.

So she said, "Thank you, Greg. It meant a great deal to me."

"No, no! Any time you like! It's in my job description. Kiss any and all beautiful women who ask me."

She chuckled. "And am I beautiful?"

"You bet you are," he answered playfully. "But now I think we ought to get you home."

"Red can run me up with the dusk patrol."

"Oh, no. I'll run you home. We can always get a cart— they're moving stuff up from the ship all evening. Uh—by the way, are you going to tell me about how you got all scratched up or not?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"You've got little scratches on your arms, ankles, and even one up there just on the side of your face. I noticed them as soon as we met but I figured you'd tell me about them."

She shook her head in puzzlement. "I—I did not even know of them." She looked down at her arms, held on the arms of the chair by small, loose straps. "I can not see. Undo one and hold it up."

He unbuckled a strap and did so, turning the arm slightly and carefully so he wouldn't hurt anything. The scratches
were
there—thin, random, and small, but deep enough and old enough to have formed scabs.

"Bruises I am used to—you get them all the time like this and never really know. But these—

these look deep enough that I should have at least known when they happened. You say they are also on my neck?"

"Yes—there, on the left side."

"Funny. I have had an itch there off and on today, but I did not pay much attention to it. I shall have Sister Maria take a look at them when I get back."

"I think you should." He didn't know why they disturbed him—they certainly weren't anything serious—but their mere existence troubled him. If he'd blocked it out before, he now had no doubts that he was the principal reason that she remained on the island. He resolved that if any of his strong suspicions and hunches could be independently confirmed he'd get her off this place, even if he had to physically carry her.

And then, one night, another came to the meadow, one not like them, yet not like the Others,
either. Dark he was, darker than the darkest night, yet even as he sat there upon the glassy rock
no features could be determined. It was not a man, but the shadow of a man, yet it moved, and
had depth and a form that was like something solid and real.

And they feared him, far more than they feared the Others, for he radiated power and fear and
his confidence was absolute, yet such was that power, so hypnotic, so magnetic, that they were
held, transfixed, and could not flee.

And he played for them tunes on a pipe, and the naked girl-apes danced for him and around
him, a wild, frenzied dance that aroused in them all their most primal emotions, and gave within
them a sense of power that overwhelmed their fear and intensified that hunger they had felt but
never understood or filled.

And when their dancing had reached a fever pitch, he stopped and pointed, and they were off,
no longer playful things but a wild, frenzied pack seeking a release they did not understand. They
came to a road and waited, hidden in the trees and bushes, their eyes glazed, mouths foaming,
waiting, waiting. . . .

And, soon, there came footsteps along the road, and they saw that it was one of the Others, a
small man with a balding head and slight goatee, dressed casually in shirt and shorts and
sandals. He walked very confidently and seemed unaware that they were there.

As one they leaped out and were upon him in seconds, and he was pushed to the ground and his
throat was slashed by nailed hands and biting teeth. He was dead very quickly, but they did not
stop, his blood flowing warm and inviting, and they tore at the corpse and drank the blood and
ate of the flesh and it filled their insane hunger.

There was a thunderclap which startled them, and then it began to rain quite heavily,
drenching them all. From down the road they could hear the sound of one of the Whining
Monsters, and they broke off and dragged the corpse with them, back into the woods, back along
the trail in the now-driving rain, back to the meadow where the Dark Man waited.

Lightning flashed as they reached the meadow, illuminating the scene briefly as if it were day,
yet the Dark Man remained the darkest black of shadows. He stood there, laughing, and gestured,
and they placed the corpse on the stone, and they howled their joy and triumph over the Others
and danced again around the stone with its grisly burden, danced in the mud and the lightning
and the rain. . . .

"Senorita
Angel,
Senorita
Angel, wake up,
por favor!"

She groaned and managed to open her eyes and blearily see the face and form of Juanita Hernandez standing there, holding a tray.

"Go away, Juanita, please," she managed, barely getting the words out. Her throat was sore and she was sure she was coming down with something.

"But,
Senorita,
it is well past noon. It is not good for you to sleep all the day. If you wake up I will feed you some breakfast."

She groaned again. "No, nothing, please. Just some coffee to help me wake up. I'm not at all hungry."

They were on the small fishing pier in the village, just watching the sea birds and watching the ocean. It was a rough surf, thanks to the storm the previous night, and that made it dramatic, plumes of waves sometimes striking the pier, rising up and threatening to get them drenched.

She had not been able to get the nightmare out of her mind. "It was a horrible dream, the nightmare that I felt was coming."

"You told nobody else about it?" MacDonald asked her, concerned.

"No. I had enough with psychologists at the Center. They would say that my fears and insecurities were causing it, that my frustration at this handicap was coming out in that wild experience, and that killing the man was in some way the resentment against my father expressing itself. But the man was a total stranger! I can see him now, describe him."

He frowned. "Go ahead. Describe him to me."

"But it was just a nightmare."

"That's all right. Real people show up in dreams all the time. Go ahead."

She did so, hesitantly, not wanting to remember too much. Is it—somebody real?"

"I think so. It sounds a lot like Jureau. He's the NATO security representative here—a Belgian.

Even more unpleasant than Ross, but you don't see much of him."

"Then I have met him?"

"You must have, although I didn't know he was back, or even if he was coming back. He's been in Brussels since shortly after your father's death. He's a stiff-necked by-the-book martinet that nobody likes."

"Greg—you will see this Jureau? Find out if he is actually here, yes? Find out if. . . ."

He stared at her in disbelief. "If what?"

"If—he is—still—alive."

He sighed in disgust. "Come on! You're not starting to believe this, are you? That somehow you're turned into a beast-girl every night and go out with the other beast-girls to prowl?"

"I—I don't know what to believe any more. When you consider my father, the way in which he died, what is impossible here? Don't you see? If you see him, talk to him, it will disprove it!"

"All right, all right. I have to go up to the helipad this evening and meet the chopper coming in anyway. Just don't go spooky on me. That's how these cults, these superstitions of fear, get you. If you start believing in it, they got you."

"And that is what this is? Some kind of devil cult?"

"I didn't say that, but now that you've asked, that
is
involved in all this."

"And if this Jureau
is
dead, what then?"

"He's not. If he were dead, or even missing for more than five minutes, there would be a hue and cry around here not seen since your father's death. But even if he was, it wouldn't mean anything. There are all sort of drugs and hallucinogens that can be slipped into food without anybody knowing and would have you believing the sky is pale yellow and horses rule the world.

You're particularly vulnerable to that sort of thing, remember, and your money and power are real tempting targets. I think it's time you got away from here. I think maybe it's time I did, too."

"Go? Where?"

"There's a little coastal fishing town on Bessel Island about forty miles due west of here. It's still in the country, but pretty remote. An American friend of mine named Art Cadell has a place there. Not much, but it's a little white stucco cottage facing the sea with a very nice beach. My hands have been tied here, and I'm thinking of moving over there to get a little breathing room.

No bugs that aren't alive and a little freedom to ask questions without Big Brother listening in.

We could use that while we make arrangements for a more civilized move, maybe to your father's place on Puget Sound, which I understand is pretty nice. I could arrange for security for you, and then see a few folks I have to see in person to ask a few more questions."

She stared at him. "Greg—do you know who killed my father?"

"I think so. I've known for some time. The trouble is, I need confirmation of my suspicions and fragments of information to do anything, and even then it'll be hell to prove or even act. In the meantime, I don't want you falling under their control."

He stood up and gestured back at the mountain, partly shrouded in mist. "Come on," he said as lightly as he could. "Let's get you home for now."
But not home for long,
he added to himself.

* * *

He couldn't contact Jureau. In fact, the security boys were adamant that the Belgian had never returned from Brussels and was off on a new assignment somewhere. They didn't know where, and didn't care, as long as it wasn't here.

That bothered him more than any stalling or lame excuses. If Jureau had never returned, then Angelique could not ever have seen him. And if she'd never seen him, how could she describe him so correctly, down to a silly outfit MacDonald knew the Belgian favored?

The hell with the renovations, he decided. No matter what did or did not come in on the chopper tonight, he was getting her out of here as soon as possible. He had the place for a getaway, and he had the means, the first time her crush on him would come in handy. He was going. If she wished, she could come with him. If not, she might be here alone and never see him again. He was pretty sure she'd move, only he wanted it to be as sudden as possible. No company helicopters, which were fast but which couldn't be set up on short notice without tipping his hand.

No, in two more days the ship was due back, and it would go from here to Port of Spain, from which transportation would be far more easily, and quietly, arranged.

For now, he could do nothing but go down to the Institute's helipad and wait for the executive chopper to come in and hope that what he was waiting for was on board.

Greg MacDonald used company couriers checked out and approved by his bosses for much of his information-gathering work. His biggest frustration, and largest stumbling block, in the investigation was his inability to use the vast telecommunications power the island represented, nor any means that could be sensed by that network. No matter what else he knew or didn't know, he was certain that anything done through computer or telecommunication lines at any point would, if traced to him, make its way to his quarry through SAINT.

He was in the unique position of being the very real leader of a large investigative team and also the decoy and the bait. So long as he remained on Allenby, they felt reasonably safe and secure, for he was the enemy they knew.

The helicopter was due in at 20:45 Atlantic time, and the fact that it was now very late worried him. He had seen Angelique safely to her quarters, and now all he could do was cross his fingers and wait.

They told him that they'd had only spotty radio communications with the chopper almost since it had started out. The pilot reported something like a large electrical storm with buffeting winds and downdrafts all around, yet the weather report and their own weather radar indicated nothing at all. He had been unable to fly out of it or around it, and by 22:10 they were telling MacDonald that the helicopter had turned back for now. He was just about to give it up when he heard the
Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!
of rotor blades together with the whine of the turbine and saw the landing lights for the chopper just to the south.