Chapter 22
He was agitated.
And wounded.
That psycho-pagan bitch had cut him with her ridiculous weapon!
But then, he’d been foolish.
Prideful.
Again.
He slipped down the stairs and tried to find solace in his private workplace, his sanctuary, but the cut on his arm burned, and there were other problems as well.
Not just the authorities; he could handle them and make them chase their own tails.
But the reporter. That was another matter.
She had no rules to follow. No laws that couldn’t be broken. No code of ethics.
In the dimly lit room, he dumped out his bag, the glorious, shining stones catching in the weak light. These rocks should have delighted him with their sharp points, flat planes, and sparkling facets, but not tonight. Because of the pain, he couldn’t truly appreciate them.
Later he would study their unique and dazzling features.
Now he ignored them and searched through his medicine cabinet, which he kept cool, as it was the spot where he held all the vials of blood, along with salve and bandages, old-fashioned iodine, and a few other herbs and medicinals. He’d collected them for years, and they’d come in handy.
He slipped off his shirt and examined the cut.
Not so bad, he decided. Nothing that a little antiseptic, salve, and a hidden bandage wouldn’t solve.
The flesh was cut, yes, blood coagulated over his wrist, but the wound was shallow, and when he flexed his hand and moved his fingers, everything worked perfectly.
The pain was but a sting. The deeper wound was to his pride.
He hadn’t anticipated the old witch would be so spry, so deft, so agile.
He’d have to be more careful.
More humble.
And, he reminded himself, he would have to change his schedule. He had plans for those he would send to their maker, a time line that he hated to alter. But adjustments had to be made.
He tended to his wound, sucking in his breath at the sting of the iodine, as he carefully applied it. Next the salve, and then the small bandage that would be easily hidden beneath his clothing.
Tonight, there would be no music.
Tonight, he would bow down to necessity and polish a new stone. One he’d planned for much later in his agenda. He’d etch it with precision, let the blood of those who had been sacrificed stain it, and then he would put his new plan into action.
He sent up a prayer, placed several stones in the rock tumbler he’d retrieved from that thief Billy Huber, and waited, listening to the hum of the machine and the clatter of the rocks.
Despite the noise, the sound of his mother’s voice came to him, just as it always did. “Have you atoned, son?” she asked. He ignored her.
But she persisted. “I know you’re doing the Lord’s work,” she wheedled, “but taking a life is a sin.”
He knew that. They’d been over this before.
“The first commandment,” she said. “Oh, no, I’m wrong. It’s the sixth, is it not?”
“It’s not a sin if it’s ordained by God,” he said to the empty room and would not allow her perception of right and wrong to influence him. He knew that God had asked him for these sacrifices. The word had come to him as he’d asked for guidance. God had spoken to him. Over and over.
“And was it not a sin when you first took a life?” She was taunting him.
Once more.
And forever.
He’d thought that, once she was dead, he would never hear her voice again. That had been vanity. Her demise had only intensified her voice, causing it to be everywhere. While she was alive, he’d been able to escape her, but now there was nowhere he could be rid of her. She was with him always.
“Your cross to bear, my boy.”
“Stop!” he screeched. “Just stop!”
He scraped back his stool and crossed to the stereo, switched it on.
Nerves jangled, feeling as if he might jump out of his skin, he rifled through the records, his father’s treasures, until he found an LP he thought could drown out her voice.
With trembling fingers, he set the record onto the turntable and …
dropped the needle. Scrriitttch! The needle skidded noisily across the vinyl, and it was all he could do not to scream.
He couldn’t ruin this, one of his father’s prized albums from the early seventies.
Sending up a quick, quiet prayer, he tried again and closed his mind to his mother’s taunts.
“Haste makes waste, boy. Can’t you see? You’re not good enough. You will never be good enough. Nothing you can do will ever be good enough.”
Biting down on his lip, he carefully set the needle onto the spinning record once more and cranked up the volume.
This time, over the continuous click of the tumbling rocks, the thunderous beat of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” echoed through his sanctuary.
Seconds later, Robert Plant’s howling scream shook the rafters and burned through his brain.
To no avail.
His mother’s cigarette-rasp of a laugh was louder than it all.
“You’ll never drown me out. No matter what you do, son, I’ll be with you until your dying day.”