Chapter 21 #2
Several people, most of them women, appear to be wearing nothing at all aside from their masks, which look more intricate and luxurious than those worn by the people around them.
Leroux’s eyes trace over the crowd, seeing these partygoers saunter through throngs of people completely nude.
All of them look like they are on another planet, undulating sensuously like carefully placed temptation points.
Will leans close, gesturing to one of the women and loudly whispering into Leroux’s ear, “I bet they’ve been hired to walk around like that.”
Leroux watches as one nude young woman lures away two men dressed like they stepped out of The Great Gatsby. She holds their hands, seductively guiding them toward a closed-off room, her hips swaying hypnotically.
He nods his agreement with Will and continues to watch as the men very willingly disappear behind the curtains and into the mysterious room.
“They’re a distraction,” he says, watching the curtains sway.
Will looks at him, brow raised. “I think you’re right, but a distraction from what?” he asks, now letting his eyes wander the room.
“We’ve got to put a pin in it for now,” Leroux answers, looking away as a questionable powder is poured onto a tabletop.
Around them, everything feels like it’s in slow motion, a glistening, dark carnival of decadent freedom, but something is brewing beneath the surface.
These enticing distractions—the women, the array of illicit substances—are meant to keep anyone from looking too closely or from hearing things they shouldn’t.
To Leroux, the masks are beginning to seem like less of a Halloween quirk and more a necessary part of this enigmatic dance.
He shakes his head, trying to maintain focus on what they are here to do, making a mental note to figure this whole thing out later. There is a feeling of secrecy in this place; the air is charged with a mystery he needs time to uncover.
“There a guy named Wyatt DuPont here?” Leroux asks a young man dressed as Julius Caesar.
The former dictator of Rome takes a long drag of a cigarette before slowly exhaling smoke out the side of his mouth.
He’s wearing a gold mask across his eyes that’s appropriately intricate for his costume.
He’s completely unbothered—he actually might not even be in the same world at the moment, judging by his unfocused, glassy eyes—but suddenly a slight flash of recognition crosses his face.
He gestures toward the doorway with his lit cigarette, swinging it centimeters away from someone dressed as a half-naked flamingo.
Leroux’s eyes follow his hand, just waiting for pink feathers to suddenly be ablaze.
“Wyatt was in the next room,” Julius finally slurs out.
“What’s he dressed as?” Will asks. That’s a question Leroux hadn’t even considered in all the strangeness.
Julius laughs, placing the cigarette between his teeth before helping someone tie the back of their costume together again. “A fucking priest. He’s such a blasphemous motherfucker.” A few people draped over a beautifully upholstered velvet couch laugh along with him.
Leroux heads in the direction Julius pointed, roughly pushing through people and keeping his eyes peeled for the fucking priest.
Julius calls after him in a teasing tone, “Ooh, Father Wyatt’s in trouble, huh?” Another chorus of drunken laughter follows.
They head past a delicate lace curtain tacked up across the doorway and into the next room, both of them elbowing bodies as they pass.
This area is a small study with cases of books covering three of the walls and another fireplace, unlit, at its center.
Like the other rooms, it’s packed with characters, sweat, alcohol, and debauchery.
The masks are doing their intended job. People hang all over each other, emboldened by the pseudoanonymity the masks provide.
Suddenly Leroux is the one who feels out of place, walking into a den of iniquity to drag a reveler out in chains.
Fortunately people seem particularly unaware of the investigators’ presence here, too busy writhing around on chaise longues and pressed up against bookshelves to notice the only two unmasked among them.
As soon as his eyes start their first pass over the room, Leroux spots Wyatt sitting in a large, overstuffed armchair, two people sitting on each arm and a young woman dressed as a 1920s flapper lounging across his lap.
Leroux had worried the party’s theme would be an issue, make it next to impossible to pinpoint Wyatt, a near stranger.
But the full priest outfit, collar and all, makes the job easy.
His normally wild hair has been gelled and combed back into a neat, crisp style, and what can be seen of his face under the partial black plague doctor mask has a sheen of sweat that shines in the candlelight.
The shadowy light of the candle against the mask gives him a ghastly look when viewed alongside the sanctified frock of a holy man.
“Wyatt DuPont?” Leroux asks. He’s curious to see how this interaction will play out.
Wyatt hesitates for only a second, and then he pats the woman’s leg to make her move. She slides off his lap, standing and scooting to one side, all the while giving Leroux and Will a look that could melt steel.
Wyatt doesn’t stand; instead he crosses his legs. “What can I do for you?” he asks, holding his hands in front of him.
Will’s jaw tics. “Take the mask off,” he says calmly.
Wyatt tilts his head to one side. The plague mask suddenly takes on a more sinister look. “I’m sorry, but that’s not how this works.” He motions around him, completely unfazed.
For a moment Leroux pauses, considering what Wyatt just said.
How what works?
“Wyatt DuPont, you’re under arrest on suspicion of murder,” he hears Will begin.
Wyatt laughs, and so do the characters lounging around him.
It’s as if they expected this, almost like Wyatt’s arrest is a part of the event.
Some of the attendees continue with whatever they were doing.
Strangely, some people even walk out of the room, completely unimpressed by the fact that their friend is being arrested in front of them.
“Stand up with your hands where I can see them,” Leroux demands, motioning with his finger.
“This isn’t the end, you know,” Wyatt says calmly, standing and raising his hands.
His compliance is unnerving; they weren’t prepared for his calm demeanor. This version of Wyatt is different than the socially awkward funeral home employee he’s purported himself to be. He’s exuding confidence and even acceptance of his situation.
Leroux’s attention falls onto someone who seems to be having trouble taking their eyes off him.
It’s a man in a black mask who stands, unblinking, to the left of Wyatt’s chair.
Leroux meets his gaze, and suddenly he feels a distinct chill run down his spine.
It’s like he has seen the man before, even with the partial mask covering his eyes, but Leroux can’t place him.
After a moment, he shakes his head and turns back to Wyatt.
“Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?
” Will asks, clicking cuffs onto Wyatt’s wrists.
Leroux flinches at the sound, realizing he didn’t hear Will read off the Miranda rights.
He’s been too busy observing this bizarre situation, trying to uncover what could be happening in the shadows.
They begin to walk Wyatt out of the room, and he complies, even nodding at partygoers on the way. Leroux notices more people simply turn back to what they were doing as Wyatt is led in the direction of the front door.
Suddenly it hits Leroux. I think that guy staring at me was the guard from Dead Creek. I think that was Jim McCormick.
His senses are too overstimulated by the music, the smells, and the heat to consider the implications of why the fuck McCormick’s at this party, because something strange has begun to unfold, something that makes this chain of events somehow even more bewildering.
“There are dozens more of us. This will just continue,” Wyatt says loudly, garnering a few looks. “You haven’t stopped the leak.”
“Shut up and walk,” Will says gruffly, pushing him through to the front room.
“Alea iacta est!” Wyatt suddenly yells, causing mostly everyone around them to raise their glasses in the air.
Together, many of them yell back, “Tunc ludum incipit!”
Leroux and Will look at each other, alarm blooming across both their faces.
Will pushes Wyatt roughly, clearly wanting to get out of this place quicker.
Leroux finds himself fascinated, unable to stop himself from taking another glance around the party, seeing glasses clinking together cheerfully and people beginning to laugh and smile.
The music turns back up, and the festivities simply continue, undeterred by the arrest. He racks his brain for an explanation of the strange scene.
What is this? Some sort of organized group?
They keep pushing Wyatt through the front door and into the arms of a waiting police officer.
Outside, more officers stand around the property.
Leroux takes one last look behind him, unable to reconcile the details but fascinated by the oddness.
There is something deeply unsettling about the partygoers’ reactions and the strange, cryptic phrases they exchanged.
It all swirls around in his brain like a puzzle that begs to be solved.
But for the moment, he puts it aside, quietly promising himself that once Beth is safe and this is all wrapped up, he will find out what the hell is going on here under this hedonistic revelry.
Once outside, they place Wyatt into the patrol car. His demeanor never shifts. He remains eerily calm, as if the gravity of the situation has not yet hit him. He leans against the cold glass, his pupils like saucers, and as they drive away, Leroux sees a grin spread across his face.