Rage, page 11
She hadn’t thought there would be.
She sat on the couch, determined to wait for Joyce to return, despite her growing fear that Joyce would never return here again. She folded her legs under herself and pulled an afghan from the back of the couch, curling up in a little ball to wait.
Her gaze swept across the table. It wasn’t like Joyce to leave food out like this. Again Blaize felt warning signals prickling her mind. There were too many red flags. Too many things not quite right.
She noticed a broken fortune cookie at the corner of the table, a curled slip of paper beside it. She reached forward. Something told her not to read it, but she couldn’t stop herself. She knew what it would say even before she read the words.
JOYCE KLAVAN
*YOU* have been chosen
Welcome to “THE PLAY”
Act II: Questions and Quests
As she read the note, Blaize was struck with the terrible premonition that she’d never see her friend again.
PART II
Questions and Quests
Chapter Ten
In a remote conclave nestled deep within the Adirondack Mountains, Celeste Pierce opened the door to her son’s room. As always, just the sight of him made her heart expand with a love so intense it threatened to consume her. Celeste realized that every mother thought her child was the most special child ever to grace the earth. However in her case, it happened to be true.
Joey sat at his desk, one leg curled beneath him, the other swinging inches from the floor. The light from his desk lamp turned his hair into a golden halo. Blessed with charismatic beauty and unrivaled intelligence, Joey was her gift, her only child and her reason for living. His eyes were a clear, true blue unrivaled by either sea or sky, and there wasn’t a man, woman or child who could resist his smile.
Celeste hated to disturb him. He looked so childlike, concentrating on his notebook with his tongue sweeping back and forth across his lips. At twelve, he was still more child than man. But soon the age of innocence would end and the time would come to take his place in the world. Although he lived a sheltered life in the commune, Celeste had prepared him well. Her handpicked family of mentors and guardians provided all of the boy’s physical, educational and emotional needs. Blessed with a photographic memory and genius-level intelligence, Joey was already far better educated than the average college graduate.
He looked up and smiled, and her heart skipped a beat as she smiled back.
“Is it time for bed?” he asked.
She nodded. Although Joey was privately tutored, they kept a rigid schedule, rising early to study eight hours a day, six days a week. He spent long hours learning medicine, philosophy, religion and politics. Greatness must be earned, and Joey was destined for unimaginable greatness.
Already in his pajamas, he walked across the room and climbed into bed. He patted the mattress and Celeste joined him for their nightly ritual of bedtime stories and songs before sleep.
Joey smiled. “I made up a song today,” he said. “Would you like to hear it?”
Celeste ran her fingers through his fine, flaxen hair. “Yes,” she whispered. “Sing me a dream, angel-mine.”
Joey began singing, his voice crystal clear in the quiet room. Celeste listened to the song, her spirit lifting to the heavens. She wasn’t surprised that this too was a skill he had mastered.
Suddenly his voice faltered. Just as quickly he recovered and finished singing the final verse.
…a presence sweet invades my soul
and makes what once was severed whole
blaze marks the trail of fate begun
with pages turning one by one…
He frowned.
“What is it, baby?”
“Nothing, Mom. It’s just…well, for a minute it sounded wrong to me. But that’s silly. I wrote it myself. How could it be wrong?”
“Of course there’s nothing wrong about it. It’s perfect. A perfectly beautiful song.” She brushed a wayward lock of hair from his forehead. “It’s sleepy night-night time.”
Joey settled on his pillow and Celeste tucked the blankets under his chin. She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. “Babynight, angel.”
“Babynight, Mom,” he replied, closing eyes grown heavy with sleep.
Celeste sat by the bed watching over him, guarding him as she had from the moment of conception. He’d been her private secret at first. She thought of the months spent hiding her pregnancy from everyone. Not that anyone cared. Her parents were dead, her brother off in another world somewhere with that glazed look in his eyes. He didn’t notice her—most of the time. But she wouldn’t think about that. It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was this miracle, her gift to the future. She’d known from the first moment of quickening that this child she carried inside her had a destiny to fulfill. After all, his was a virgin birth. Yes, as impossible as it seemed, she was a virgin of only sixteen when Joey had been given to her.
She frowned for a moment, then forced her mind away from dangerous, quicksand thoughts. A virgin, she reminded herself forcefully. A virgin who carried within her a gift to the world. The new Messiah.
Celeste stayed by her son’s side until his breathing deepened and she was sure he was asleep. Only then did she leave his side, closing the door soundlessly behind her.
A woman in neophyte robes sat outside Joey’s door. She bowed her head when Celeste walked by and uttered a reverent, “Mother Moon.” Celeste nodded and continued walking. Joey was never alone. Someone was always watching over him, keeping him safe, guarding their future.
Whenever she faltered she reminded herself that it was all for Joey. There would be dark days ahead, but it would all be worth it in the end. There was no sacrifice she wouldn’t make to ensure that her son fulfilled his destiny.
She stepped outside and breathed in the crisp mountain air, taking it deep into her lungs. Presiding over the field of stars, a crescent moon reclined in the sky. As children, she and her brother Algernon had called that lunar sliver a cradle moon. She’d loved it then, too. Her fingers found the silver pendant hanging from her neck, the twin image of the cradle moon in the sky above.
“Celeste?”
She turned and met the reptilian stare of her assistant, Oswald Gaderian. Despite his long lanky frame, he moved with a stealth that made his robes seem to float around him. If possible, his gaze seemed even colder in the moonlight. Cold, hard and unflinching. Gaderian’s watchful eyes missed nothing. She trusted him with her life.
She had to.
His lips curled slightly into a smile made more chilling by its rare appearance. “The boy is all tucked in?” he asked, taking her hand and folding it into the crook of his elbow.
“The boy has a name,” she replied. It irked her when he refused to show the proper respect Joey deserved. She swallowed her annoyance, blaming it on nerves. All of their plans were finally coming to fruition. Although they’d covered every contingency, something could still go wrong. But that was no reason to take it out on the one person she could trust. If not for Gaderian, she might never have come this far.
They walked together in silence along a twisted cobblestone path lit only by moonlight. “It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?” she said. The Community—she refused to use the word commune, which had grown tainted over the years—was made up of twenty-three communal living quarters secluded deep in the mountains. In addition to living quarters, there was a central courtyard surrounded by classrooms, workshops, meeting rooms and prayer centers for the congregation.
Oswald nodded and they continued walking side by side under the watchful moon. After a few more steps he cleared his throat. “Everything is in place.”
“Good. And the new tapes?”
“They’re all ready. I finished them tonight.” He stopped and took her hand, turning her to face him. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, drawing strength from his touch, silently acknowledging the risk involved. “I’m very sure.”
He squeezed her hand before releasing it. “Then I’ll do everything I can to ensure the plan is successful.”
She reached up and ran the back of her fingers down his face. “I know I can count on you,” she said, then turned and walked back the way she’d come.
He lit a cigarette and watched her until she was safely inside. He rolled the silver lighter in his palm like a magician performing a card trick, watching the moon’s glow wash over the logo engraved on its polished surface.
Miles away, under the very same stars, Algernon Pierce sat hunched over his desk, eyes glazed and unfocused as if recovering from a hypnotic trance. His hands trembled at the keyboard. It was happening all over again. Sometime over the last few hours, he’d finished the manuscript. He stared at the computer screen, studying words he couldn’t remember typing, staring at them until his eyes watered and he had to blink and look away.
He hadn’t simply written the finale, he’d lived it. It was a part of him now, and the words on the screen taunted him. He checked his hands. They were pale and clean, at least on the surface. But guilt kept him wiping obsessively, his clammy palms rustling over the paisley silk of his dressing gown, trying to clear any trace of blood from his hands. Blood on his hands, blame in his heart. Again.
Just like the last time.
He ran gnarled fingers through his hair, letting his mind wander back in time. When had everything gone wrong? He’d worked hard and it had finally paid off with success. At the peak of his popularity, he’d entertained some of the most powerful, brilliant minds in literary circles, rubbed elbows with Hollywood stars and traveled the world, enchanting fans and critics alike. And then everything had changed and his world had become a nightmare, with television crews circling him like hungry sharks, reporters camping outside his apartment day and night. His friends and fans had turned on him, and everywhere he went, people watched him with suspicious eyes. That’s what finally sent him into seclusion, because he couldn’t meet those questioning stares. He was too busy struggling with his own guilt.
The guilt came later, though. At first he’d treated it more as an annoyance than a concern. “Don’t these reporters have anything better to do?” he’d asked his editor. Mark Sanders was the one who’d broken the news about the series of copycat murders that echoed his book, scene for scene, word for word. The papers had even dubbed the killer “The Gateway Strangler.”
“It’ll die down,” his editor had assured him. “It’s just some kook looking for publicity.”
“Yeah, well why did he have to pick my book as his primer?”
Mark had assured him there was nothing to worry about. But Mark had been wrong. Instead of dying down, the episodes of bloodshed had escalated. Soon the similarities became more than could be explained as just coincidence or an isolated incident, and even serious newspapers and magazines began to question his connection. They ran articles pointing out each instance where life imitated art. He could no longer show his face in public. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t his fault. As hard as he tried to grasp that tenuous thread of innocence, something inside him denied it, and the guilt and fear haunted him until finally he’d given up the one thing he loved most.
He couldn’t write. Not a word. Headaches pounded him into submission during the day and nightmares kept him awake at night.
It had been the relaxation tapes his sister Celeste sent each week that had finally loosened the nightmare’s grip and helped him break through the dark, cold years when writer’s block held him in its possessive clutch. The tapes had given him some measure of peace, allowing him to sleep while keeping the headaches at bay.
Then one morning he’d awakened with an idea so compelling he couldn’t resist it. He’d outlined the series from beginning to end, writing for hours without eating or sleeping, letting the story pour out as if it had a mind of its own. That spark of inspiration had turned into The Play, and it was his best work yet—classic Pierce prose. His style. The voice that had made him the premier horror writer of this generation. But now…
He hit the print button then saved his manuscript to a backup disk. It was done. He dialed his editor to tell him the final book was on its way. His eyes burned and his shoulders slumped. He felt limp and drained and his robe hung around him like a shroud, as if he’d shrunk over the last few hours.
One hundred and forty-six miles away in a corner office in Manhattan, Mark Sanders, Senior Editor of Red Tag Publishing, took the call himself.
He let out a sigh of relief when Pierce told him the fourth and final book of the series was finished. He’d had concerns about this deal from the beginning. Pierce wouldn’t budge on his demands that each book be released on a strict three-month schedule beginning with January of this year. Mark would have felt more comfortable with all four manuscripts completed and on his desk before signing the contract, but they might have lost the deal if he’d insisted. Pierce was a big enough author to sell on proposal to any publishing house in New York, despite industry-wide rumors that he’d grown unstable over the years. Algernon Pierce coming out of seclusion with the penultimate apocalyptic novel was too sweet a deal to resist. And once committed, Mark fed a full-grown ulcer worrying that Pierce wouldn’t fulfill the terms of his contract.
So far his gamble had paid off. Visions and Voices had rocketed up the New York Times bestseller list within days of its release. Questions and Quests would go on sale in a few weeks, and the pre-orders alone had it climbing the bestseller lists already. Death and Destruction was in galleys, and he had only the final book in the series, The Coming, to worry about now. Then he could relax and hand Pierce over to someone else.
But something was still bothering him. He balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear, drumming his fingertips on the only four inches of desk space not covered in paperwork. He had a sixth sense where his authors were concerned and something in Pierce’s voice troubled him.
“Why don’t I send a courier out to pick it up,” he suggested.
Pierce’s voice sounded as if all of the volume had been wrung out. “No. I’m going to bed while it prints out. Then I’m heading out to my sister’s place in the mountains. I need a rest.”
“Sure,” Mark said. “Just leave me a number where I can reach you.”
“I don’t want to be reached. I need to get away. The manuscript will be in the mail in the morning.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Just leave me alone. Tell everyone to leave me alone.”
“Everyone?” Mark didn’t like the sound of that. “Anyone in particular I should watch out for?”
“Oh, you’ll recognize them when you see them.” Something that could have been either a cough or a chuckle followed. The sound reminded Mark of dry, dead leaves crushed beneath furtive footsteps.
“But what if…”
Mark’s voice trailed off as he realized Algernon had already hung up. His initial doubt blossomed into full-blown paranoid panic. He knew he wouldn’t relax until that manuscript was in his hands.
Chapter Eleven
Blaize shouldered the door open and crashed into Gate’s office. Too late, she remembered what had happened the last time she’d barged into someone’s office unannounced. Although it felt like a lifetime ago, the phrase “sow’s ear” still resonated through her like a childhood taunt.
She tried to stop herself and tripped, wobbled, then caught her balance just in time to save herself from sprawling face-first on the floor. Pierce’s book fell from her hands, fluttering and landing upside down like a wounded bird.
Gate looked up. “Walk much?”
“Give me a break,” Blaize said. She stooped over to pick up the book, then straightened and walked over to his desk. “I haven’t slept all night.”
Gate noted the book cover and raised an eyebrow. “That good, huh?”
She tossed the book onto his desk and slumped into a chair. “It’s not the book. I’m worried about Joyce.”
“Joyce?” He sat up straight, all traces of teasing gone from his voice. “What’s wrong with Joyce?”
“She’s missing. She didn’t come home all night.” Blaize studied Gate, seeing genuine concern in his eyes. “You know that’s not like her,” she said.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Not gone,” she argued. “She didn’t step out for a quart of milk. She’s missing.”
Gate broke in, interrupting her. “Let’s not jump to conclusions here. Joyce is a big girl and doesn’t have to report to anyone if she needs a night out.”
“I know, but the cat’s dish was empty and there was food out on the table. She wouldn’t just leave like that. Besides,” she said, handing him the slip of paper she’d taken from Joyce’s house. “I found this on her coffee table. It came out of a fortune cookie.”
Gate looked at the paper and gave a low whistle. “Just like the note you found in the paper.”
Blaize nodded. “Did you talk to Pierce?”
“Yeah. He’s nuts.” Gate snorted, then held up his hand, stopping Blaize before she could comment. “That doesn’t mean I think he has anything to do with these notes. He’s too busy with his own paranoid delusions to set up anything this elaborate.” Gate shook his head. “No. Pierce didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“You’re wrong and I can prove it.” She flipped the book open, swiveled it around to face him and stabbed her finger into the open pages. “It’s all here in his book.”
“What is?”
“Everything. Right from my accident to Joyce’s disappearance. Here, I’ll show you.”
Gate stopped her and picked up the phone. “Wait a second,” he said, punching in a three-digit extension. Blaize listened to his end of the conversation. “Did Joyce come in today?” he asked, a frown creasing his forehead. “No? Did she call?” He hung up the phone and turned to Blaize. “Nothing.”
