They (21 page)

“What’s their agenda?”

Frank appeared to think about this. “All I know is they seem to be working on something really big. They’re devil worshippers all the way; they not only hold allegiance to the Christian devil, they honor his father in even higher regard. The ancient Sumerian god Hanbi.”

“That name was written on the wall in my mother’s bedroom,” Vince said.

Frank looked at him. “You sure?”

Vince nodded. “Yeah.”

Frank turned away. Vince thought he muttered, “They’re moving fast,” but he wasn’t sure. He quickly regained his composure. “Anyway…they know who I am now. To conduct the kind of background check that revealed my e-mail address would require what O.J. Simpson paid for his defense team.”

“But somebody found out anyway?”

“Yes,” Frank answered, looking more grim. “The day I got that transcript I was away from the house. My wife was at work, and the kids were at her mother’s. Somebody broke into our place and ransacked it. Tore it apart. Nothing was taken, but they destroyed my computer and my office. They started a small fire there—that’s how we found out about it. A neighbor saw smoke pouring out of my office window and called the fire department and managed to track my wife down, who called me out of the meeting I was at.” He paused, as if struggling with that tragedy. “My office was a shambles. I lost everything except a backup tape that I keep in a safe deposit box, and my laptop computer, which I had with me. All the information about the cult, with the exception of the stuff I managed to save on tape, was destroyed.”

He regarded Vince with those deep brown eyes again. “And here I am.”

VINCE WALTERS DIDN’T get back to the office until 1:30 that afternoon. When he returned he went immediately to his office, shut his computer down, and checked his messages. There was a call from detective Staley. Vince returned the call, on nervous edge as he was put through to the detective.

“So what’s the news?” he asked detective Staley.

“We don’t think he’s the guy,” Detective Staley said, clearly irritated at this turn-of-event. “Insufficient evidence. The guy has a clear alibi, but we’re holding him on weapons charges.”

“What turned you on to him anyway and who is he?”

“He was fingered by a witness at the airport,” Detective Staley said. “I won’t name the witness, but he related that the guy resembled somebody he knew that had been making terrorist threats at his place of employment. We followed up on it and visited the suspect at his home in Huntington Beach. Turns out the guy is a neo-Nazi and had a pretty good arsenal, most of it illegal firearms. We’re holding him on that charge now without bail until we can build a case against him. But I don’t think he’s the guy that shot at you.”

“Why’s that?”

“This guy claims he was attending a White-Power rally in San Diego,” Detective Staley said, his voice tinged with disgust. “We checked that angle out and found video-tape that supports his alibi. He certainly appears to have been elsewhere.”

“So what happens now?”

“That’s up to you. Have you been to your home yet?”

“I’m planning on going now.”

“I’d be careful. I can’t spare any more resources, so I suggest you lay low and alter your driving routes and habits. We’re doing all we can on this end.”

“Thanks.” Vince hung up. He wanted to call Tracy right away and he glanced at the digital clock on his desk. He had to get going if he wanted to meet Frank at the house. He would call Tracy later.

He quickly packed up his briefcase and headed out. He told his secretary he wasn’t feeling well and was going home. Then he left for the day.

Frank met him at his house. He’d given Frank directions before being dropped off at the mall to pick up his car. Frank told him that he still wasn’t sure if the group was on to him; if they’d wanted him dead, they would have made it look like an accident, not a full-blown assassination attempt. He was going to call Mike from his cell phone and give him the latest news, then he would meet him at Vince’s home. Whoever it was that tried to have him and Tracy killed was probably lying low after Sunday’s aborted attempt. While Vince was fairly confident The Children of the Night hadn’t been making inquiries into him, Frank’s story spooked him. Luckily most of the staff was out at late lunches or still in meetings and he was able to escape the office relatively undetected. If anybody inquired as to his whereabouts, Glenda would simply tell them he’d gone home sick. No problem.

When he arrived home he opened the garage door and pulled the car in, parking as far to the left as possible so Frank could ease his vehicle in. That had been Vince’s idea. If they were on to Frank he didn’t want them to find out where
he
was living. He made sure he wasn’t followed on the drive home, and he knew Frank would be even more wary. Therefore, when he closed the garage door behind them he felt a great sense of relief as it rattled down. Frank stepped out of his car, a tall silhouette in the darkened garage, long hair flowing down to his shoulders. He was brandishing a handgun. “Turn on the light.”

“Jesus Christ, man!” Vince felt instantly nervous at the sight of the gun.

“Just turn on the fucking lights!”

Vince reached over and turned on the garage lights.

Frank stood still for a moment, weapon ready. It was a two-car garage with no storage space above, but there was a small makeshift closet against the wall. He motioned to Vince with the gun. “Move out of the way,” he said, as he stepped forward and swung the door open.

Vince almost jumped, as if expecting something to leap out at them. Frank inspected the closet quickly. The storage space was empty.

“Okay,” Frank said, motioning for Vince to follow him. “Stay behind me and be quiet.”

He followed Frank into his house, heart racing madly as the formidable figure crept silently through the house, opening closets stealthily, checking out available hiding places. They covered the kitchen, the downstairs bathrooms, the living room, den, and dining room. Then they headed upstairs, Frank looking more like an undercover narcotics agent than a science-fiction writer paranoid that some shadowy organization was about to kill him. He moved with precision and stealth, his body flattened against the wall as he swung open doors to bedrooms, checked under beds, looked in closets. Finally, when all the rooms had been checked and cleared, Frank relaxed. They were in the second floor hallway. He flipped the safety on and stuck the handgun in his jacket. “We’re cool. Now I gotta pee.”

“Me too,” Vince said. He pointed downstairs. “There’s a bathroom downstairs. I’m going to get out of these clothes. Feel free to make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, heading downstairs.

Vince went into his bedroom, relieved himself in the master bathroom, and then shed his work clothes quickly. He left his clothes on the bed and rummaged around in a dresser for a pair of shorts and a tank top. He found a pair, donned them, and gave his appearance a quick glance in the mirror. His face looked flushed, his eyes slightly wild looking, but that was to be expected under the circumstances. He’d just learned some pretty hideous things today. Whether they were one hundred percent true still remained to be seen, but the adrenaline running through his body was a sure sign that Frank’s story had affected him physically. It felt like his nerves were alive, squirming under his skin.

When he went downstairs he found Frank sitting on the cream co
lored sofa in the living room. Vince headed toward the kitchen. “Anything to drink?”

“Water would do,” Frank said.

“Evian okay?”

“Perfect.”

Vince got two bottles of Evian out of the refrigerator and carried them into the living room. He handed one to Frank, who twisted the cap off and drank deeply. Vince sank into a plush seat by the sofa and twisted the cap off his bottle. They relaxed for a moment, lost in the sounds of peaceful silence. There was a light summer breeze blowing through the living room window, and it felt nice to just chill out for a little bit. If it had been any other day Vince would have just been content to lay here and let his mind drift, letting his body relax limb by limb, muscle by muscle, until he could feel his mind detaching itself from his body. But that wasn’t going to be the case today. His mind was so cluttered with what he’d learned that he didn’t know if he’d be able to sleep.

“So what do we do now?” Vince asked.

Frank didn’t look at him as he answered. “I’ve sent my wife and kids away. I made the arrangements two days ago.”

Vince looked at him, astonished that he’d taken such steps.

“Brandy knew something was getting heavy. She knew it had something to do with my mother, with what Mike and I were investigating. And up until two days ago she was good about giving me my space. She’s what any man who makes his living as a writer can ask for.” Frank smiled. “She’s a good woman.”

Vince sat calmly, waiting for him to go on.

“Two days ago when I knew we were going to contact you, I told her everything I found out. Naturally, she was horrified. Then I called her mother and told
her
everything. Her reaction was naturally the same as her daughter’s. The three of us talked, and I told them that the best thing for them until this was over was for me to send Brandy and the kids to her mother’s and have Wendy make arrangements to get them out of California. So that’s what we did. We packed up, and I drove them to Wendy’s that night and saw them off. And believe me, it was hard.”

Vince could only imagine. For a moment Laura’s features swam to the surface of his mind again and he saw himself in Frank’s situation. Up against a secret organization that knows you exist, that knows you’re aware of their secrets and can kill you at the push of a button. If he were in Frank’s shoes he wouldn’t be that concerned for himself; he’d be more concerned for his wife.

“I have no idea where they are now,” Frank said. He took another hearty drink of water, set the bottle down on the end table by the sofa and sighed. He leaned back into the comfort of the sofa and crossed his legs. “I know they’re safe. Wendy is keeping my literary agent informed as to what’s happening and I’m getting the news from Peter, who’s sort of acting as a message hub for the whole thing. Peter has no idea what’s going on. He thinks Brandy and I split up.”

“So what do we do tonight?” Vince asked.

Frank looked at him. “We make a plan of action.”

THEY MET MIKE Peterson in the back booth of a Round Table Pizza Parlor, located in the Mission Viejo Mall.

Frank called him from Vince’s living room around four that afternoon and they spoke briefly. Vince busied himself in the kitchen, running last evening’s dishes through the dishwasher and tidying up. When Frank was finished he walked over to the breakfast bar. “Mike wants to meet you. Tonight.”

“Fine.” He wanted to meet Mike Peterson as well.

“He’ll back up everything I’ve told you. And if you’re up to it, we’d all like to fly out to Pennsylvania as soon as possible.”

“What for?”

“To do more checking.”

“On whether my mother was involved with The Children of the Night?”

“No,” Frank said, downing the rest of his Evian. “To find out why they’re trying to get back in touch with you. Mike wants you to tell him what happened at the airport, too.”

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“Yeah, I did. He was just as surprised as I was. He didn’t think they would take such drastic measures. He says what happened to you at the airport isn’t part of their M.O.”

A chill went through Vince’s spine but he tried not to show it as he put the remainder of last week’s dishes in the dishwasher. He closed the dishwasher, flipped the switch, and started the load. “Do you think…that whoever it was that tried to kill me and Tracy wasn’t…that they
weren’t
part of The Children of the Night?”

“I don’t know.” Frank leaned his tattooed arms on the breakfast bar. “But they’re involved somehow. You’re having these dreams for a reason. And you’re remembering your past for reasons that go beyond the traditional Satanic Ritual Abuse syndrome.”

“You mean there’s a technical term for people like us?”

Frank grinned. “Surprising, isn’t it? Fortunately, ninety percent of those cases are outright frauds. Therapists planting false memories in the fragile minds of their patients to make a quick buck. The sad thing is these people seriously undermine the
real
threat that’s out there.”

“That groups like The Children of the Night are really involved in stuff like this?”

Frank nodded.

Vince leaned on the opposite side of the breakfast bar, facing Frank. He was beginning to get hungry, and their rendezvous with Mike was only forty minutes away. “You know, I’m glad you said that because for a moment I thought I was caught in a bad dream.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“Well, I’ve heard stories about Satanic Ritual Abuse before,” Vince began. “And to tell you the truth, I just dismissed it as something unsubstantiated. There was a case here in Mission Viejo in the late eighties when a pair of sisters sued their parents for abuse they claimed to have suffered at their hands when they were forced to participate in satanic rituals. One of the sisters claimed she was a breeder for Satan. She said she bore three children, all of who were killed a few days after they were born in ritual sacrifices. She claimed to have vivid memories of this; both of them did.”

“The case was thrown out of court,” Frank said, with the all-knowing sense of one who has done his homework.

“Right,” Vince said. “At the request of the defense, both women were examined by psychiatrists and other medical experts. The sister who claimed that she’d been a breeder was examined by a gynecologist who testified there were no signs that she’d ever given birth.” He shook his head. “So when you showed up today and started on this thing, I was prepared to chalk your story up to something for the tabloids. But the thing that kept me from dismissing it is that—”

“You remember.”

“That’s right,” The memories flashed through his mind. “I
remember
. And I know for a fact that nobody planted any memories in my mind. These things started
before
Laura was killed. Hell, they started intensifying in their imagery before I even
started
therapy.”