Death Du Jour (48 page)

Noooooooo!

The scream was in my mind. I hadn’t entirely lost my self-control.

I closed my eyes and tried to control the hyperventilation. Clasping my hands, I tried to concentrate on one thing at a time.

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.

Slowly the panic receded. I got to my knees and
stretched a hand straight out in front of me. Nothing. The pain in my left knee brought me to tears, but I crawled forward into the inky void. Two feet. Six. Ten.

As I moved unobstructed my terror receded. A tunnel was better than a stone cage.

I sat back and tried to connect with a functioning portion of my brain. I had no idea where I was, how long I’d been there, or how I’d arrived.

I began to reconstruct.

Harry. The lodge. The car.

Ryan! God, my God, oh, God!

Please, no! Please, please, not Ryan.

My stomach roiled again and a bitter taste rose to my mouth. I swallowed.

Who shot Ryan? Who brought me in here? Where was Harry?

My head pounded and I was becoming stiff with cold. This was no good. I had to do something. I took a deep breath and rolled back to my knees.

Step by throbbing step I crept along the tunnel. I’d lost my gloves, and the frigid clay numbed my hands and jarred my injured patella. The pain kept me focused until I touched the foot.

As I recoiled my head cracked wood and the start of a scream froze in my throat.

Goddam it, Brennan, get ahold of yourself. You are a crime scene professional, not a hysterical onlooker.

I crouched, still paralyzed with dread. Not of the tomblike space, but of the thing with which I shared it. Generations were born and died as I waited for a sign of life. Nothing spoke, nothing moved. I breathed deeply, then inched forward and touched the foot again.

It wore a leather boot, small, with laces like mine. I found its partner and followed the legs upward. The
body was lying on its side. Cautiously, I rolled it over and continued my exploration. Hem. Buttons. Scarf. My throat constricted as my fingertips recognized the clothing. Before I touched the face I knew.

But it couldn’t be! It didn’t make sense.

I pulled off the scarf and felt the hair. Yes. Daisy Jeannotte.

Jesus, God! What was going on?

Keep moving!
a portion of my brain commanded.

I dragged myself forward on one knee and one hand, bracing a palm against the wall. My fingers touched cobwebs and things I didn’t want to consider. Debris crumbled and trickled to earth as I moved slowly along the tunnel.

After several more feet the gloom lightened almost imperceptibly. My hand struck something and I followed it. Wooden rails. Trestles. When I looked up I could see a faint rectangle of amber light. Steps leading up.

I eased up the stairs, testing for sound at each riser. Three steps brought me to the ceiling. My hands identified the borders of a cover, but when I pushed it didn’t budge.

I pressed my ear to the wood and the barking of dogs sent adrenaline to every part of my being. The sound seemed far off and muffled, but I could tell the animals were excited. A human voice yelled some command, then silence, then the yapping started again.

Directly overhead, no sounds of movement, no voices.

I pressed with my shoulder and the panel shifted slightly, but didn’t give. When I examined the strips of light I could see a shadow at the midpoint of the right side. I tried poking it with my fingertips, but the gap was too
narrow. Frustrated, I inserted my fingers farther up and slid them along the crack. Splinters pierced my flesh and tore at my nails, but I could not reach the retaining point. The opening around the edges wasn’t wide enough.

Damn!

I thought of my sister and dogs and Jennifer Cannon. I thought of me and dogs and Jennifer Cannon. My fingers were so cold I could no longer feel them, and I slid them into my pockets. My right knuckle struck something hard and flat. Puzzled, I withdrew the object and held it up to the crack.

The broken scraper blade!

Please!

With a silent prayer, I inserted an edge. The blade fit! Trembling, I wiggled it toward the retaining point. The scraping seemed loud enough to be heard for miles.

I froze and listened. No movement overhead. Barely breathing, I nudged the shard farther. Inches short of what I hoped was a latch it snagged, popped from my hand, and fell into darkness.

Damn! Damn! Sonofabitch!

I bumped down the stairs on my hands and bum, and seated myself on the ground. Cursing my clumsiness, I began a miniature grid search across the dank clay. Within moments my fingers came down on the broken scraper.

Back up the stairs. By now movement sent searing pain firing up and down my leg. Using both hands I reinserted the blade and pushed up on the latch. No go. I withdrew and repositioned the shard, then swiped it sideways along the crack.

Something clicked. I listened. Silence. I pushed with my shoulder and the trapdoor lifted. Grabbing the panel along its edges, I eased it up, then lowered it quietly
to the floor above. Heart racing, I raised my head and peeked around.

The room was lit by a single oil lamp. I could tell it was a pantry of some sort. Shelves lined three walls, some of which held boxes and cans. Stacks of cartons filled the corners ahead and to my left and right. When I looked to my rear a chill far greater than any caused by the weather overcame me.

Dozens of propane tanks lined the wall, their enamel luminous in the soft light. An image flitted through my mind, a wartime propaganda photo of armaments stockpiled in orderly rows. With shaking hands I eased myself down, and perched on the top step.

What could I do to stop them?

I glanced down the steps. A square of yellowish light fell across the cellar floor, just reaching Daisy Jeannotte’s face. I looked at the cold, still features.

“Who are you?” I muttered. “I thought this was your show.”

Total stillness.

I drew a few steadying breaths, then ascended into the pantry. Relief at escaping the tunnel alternated with fear of what I would encounter next.

The pantry opened onto a cavernous kitchen. I hobbled to a door on the far side, pressed my back against the wall, and sifted sounds. The creak of wood. The hiss of wind and ice. The click of frozen branches.

Barely breathing, I eased around the doorjamb and entered a long, dark hall.

The storm sounds faded. I could smell dust and wood smoke and old carpet. I limped forward, supporting myself against the wall. Not a sliver of light penetrated to this part of the house.

Where are you, Harry?

I came to a door and leaned close. Nothing. My knee trembled and I wondered how much farther I could go. Then I heard muffled voices.

Hide!
the brain cells screamed.

The knob turned and I slipped into blackness.

*   *   *

The room smelled dank and sweet, like flowers left to die in a vase. Suddenly, the hair on my arms and neck stood straight. Was that movement? Again, I held my breath and sorted sounds.

Something was breathing!

Mouth dry, I swallowed and strained for the tiniest motion. Save for the steady rhythm of inhaling and exhaling, the room was devoid of sound. Slowly, I crept forward until objects emerged from the darkness. A bed. A human form. A nightstand with water glass and adjacent vial of pills.

Two more steps and I could see long blond hair on a patchwork quilt.

Could it be? Could my prayers possibly be answered this quickly?

I stumbled forward and turned the head to expose the face.

“Harry!” God, yes. It was Harry.

Her head rolled and she gave a low moan.

I was reaching for the vial of pills when an arm caught me from behind. It wrapped around my throat, crushing my windpipe and cutting off my air. A hand clamped across my mouth.

My legs thrashed and I clawed to break free. Somehow I got hold of the wrist and twisted the hand off my face. Before it arced back I saw the ring. A black rectangle with a carved ankh and crenulated border. As I thrashed and clawed I remembered a bruise in soft,
white flesh. I knew I was in hands that would not hesitate to end my life.

I tried to scream but Malachy’s killer had me in a grip that compressed my throat and muffled my mouth. Then my head was yanked sideways and pressed against a bony scarecrow chest. In the murky gloom I saw one pale eye, a white hair streak. Light-years passed as I struggled for air. My lungs burned, my pulse pounded, and I slipped in and out of consciousness.

I heard voices, but the world was receding. The pain in my knee faded as a numbness overtook my mind. I felt myself being dragged. My shoulder struck something. Softness underfoot. Hard again. We banged through another doorway, the arm a vise on my trachea.

Hands grabbed me and something rough slid over my wrists. My arms shot up, but the pressure on my head and throat was released and I could breathe! I heard a moan from my own throat as my lungs gulped precious air.

As I reestablished contact with my body, the pain returned.

My throat ached and my breath was labored. My shoulders and elbows were stretched from the traction, and my hands felt cold and numb above my head.

Forget your body. Use your brain.

The room was large, the kind you see in inns and lodges. It had a wide plank floor and heavy log walls, and was lit only by candlelight. I was roped to an overhead beam, my shadow a Giacometti figure with arms held high.

I turned my head and the ovoid shadow skull elongated in the flickering light. Double doorway straight ahead. Stone fireplace to my left. Picture window to my right. I stored the blueprint.

Hearing voices behind me, I threw one shoulder forward, retracted the other, and pushed with my toes. My body twisted, and for a split second I saw them before the ropes spun me back. I recognized the streaked hair and eye of the man. But who was the other?

The voices paused, then continued in hushed tones. I heard footsteps, followed by quiet. I knew I wasn’t alone. I held my breath and waited for them.

When she stepped in front of me I was startled but not shocked. Today the braids were coiled on her head, not hanging down as they had been when she had walked the streets of Beaufort with Kathryn and Carlie.

She reached out and wiped a tear from my cheek.

“Are you frightened?” Her eyes looked cold and hard.

Fear will rouse her like a junkyard dog!

“No, Ellie. Not of you or your band of zealots.” The pain in my throat made it hard to talk.

She ran the finger down my nose and across my lips. It felt rough against my skin.“Not Ellie.
Je suis Elle.
I am She. The female force.”

I recognized the deep, breathy voice.

“The high priestess of death!” I spat.

“You should have left us alone.”

“You should have left my sister alone.”

“We need her.”

“Didn’t you have enough others? Or does each kill excite you so much?”

Keep her talking. Buy time.

“We punish the intractable.”

“Is that why you killed Daisy Jeannotte?”

“Jeannotte.” Her voice grew harsh with contempt. “That vicious, meddling old fool. Finally, she’ll let him be.”

What’s the right thing to say to keep the conversation going?

“She didn’t want her brother to die.”

“Daniel will live forever.”

“Like Jennifer and Amalie?”

“Their weakness was going to hold us back.”

“So you take the weak and watch them torn to bits?”

Her eyes narrowed into something I couldn’t interpret. Bitterness? Regret? Anticipation?

“I brought them out of the famine and showed them how to survive. They chose cataclysm.”

“What was Heidi Schneider’s sin? Loving her husband and babies?”

The eyes hardened.

“I revealed the way and she brought poison into the world! Evil in duplicate!”

“The Antichrist.”

“Yes!” she hissed.

Think! What were her words in Beaufort?

“You say death is a transition in the growth process. Do you nurture by slaughtering babies and old women?”

“The corrupt cannot be permitted to pollute the new order.”

“Heidi’s babies were four months old!” Fear and anger made my voice crack.

“They were perversion!”

“They were babies!” I struggled and tried to lunge at her, but the ropes held firm.

Beyond the doorway I could hear the sound of others moving around. I thought of the children at the Saint Helena compound, and felt my chest heave.

Where was Daniel Jeannotte?

“How many children will you and your henchman kill?”

The corners of her eyes pinched almost imperceptibly.

Keep her talking.

“Are you going to ask all your followers to die?”

Still she said nothing.

“Why do you need my sister? Have you lost your ability to motivate followers?” My voice sounded tremulous and two octaves too high.

“She will take the place of another.”

“She doesn’t believe in your Armageddon.”

“Your world is ending.”

“The last I looked it was doing fine.”

“You kill redwoods to make toilet paper and pour poisons into the rivers and oceans. Is that doing fine?” She thrust her face so close to mine I could see vessels throbbing at her temples.

“Kill yourself if you must, but let the others make their own choices.”

“There must be perfect balance. The number has been revealed.”

“Really? And is everyone else here?”

She drew back her head but didn’t speak. I saw something spark in her eye, like light skipping off broken glass.

“They’re not all coming, Elle.”

The eyes never faltered.

“Kathryn’s not going to die for you. She’s miles from here, safe with her baby.”

“You lie!”

“You’re not going to hit your cosmic quota.”

“The signs have been sent. The apocalypse is now and we will rise from the ashes!”

Her eyes were black holes in the flickering light. I recognized the look for what it was. Madness.