Rage, page 16
He stripped the sheets from the bed, which were damp with the sweat of his nightmares. He undressed, adding his clothes to the pile of clammy sheets. Scooping the bundle under one arm, he walked naked to the bathroom, dropped the laundry into a hamper and turned hot water on to fill the tub. Steam rose in a thick, hot cloud. He’d sweat it out, he decided. Like a fever.
The phone rang just as he stepped into the bathtub. He hesitated, then climbed all the way in. Screw it. Whoever it was would call back.
His hands shook. His heart raced. The nightmare was winning. One or two he might be able to explain away, but not these regular nightly visitations. Recurrent dreams indicated emotional distress—or worse. He caught himself wringing the washcloth, squeezing and twisting and rolling it between his clenched fists.
Shit, shit…SHIT!
He couldn’t let Blaize come back here. She was in danger as long as she was near him. There was no way he could stay awake forever, and there was no telling what might happen if he fell asleep and confused the dream with reality. No. He cared about her too much to risk her life. He had to let her go.
But the thought of never seeing Blaize again left him feeling empty and hollow inside. How could someone he didn’t even know existed a few weeks ago suddenly be so important that he couldn’t imagine a life without her? It didn’t make any sense. He’d built a reputation writing songs about love, but he’d never really believed the words. Now all the lyrics made sense. Now he understood.
He leaned back and sank into the hot water. Things were changing. His life was taking turns he hadn’t anticipated. Maybe Blaize was right. Maybe their free will had been hijacked and manipulated by a master plotter with a macabre sense of humor.
Yeah, right. His laughter sounded forced as it bounced off the tile walls of the bathroom. Even the hot bath, which usually drained the tension from his muscles, did little to ease him today. With a defeated sigh he stepped out of the tub and dried off, pulled on a pair of Levi’s and finger combed his damp hair. On the way to the closet for a clean denim shirt, he noticed the light flashing on the answering machine. He hit the play button, unprepared for the rush of emotion he felt hearing Blaize’s voice.
“Spyder, I won’t be back over tonight. I, um…I’ve come across some new facts. I’ll tell you about it later. I don’t know when. I’ll call you.”
He waited through the electronic buzz, but that was it. No number. No explanation. He frowned and stared at the machine, as if it held an answer. There was something in her voice. Something guarded and afraid. He clenched his fists, a gut-wrenching ache in his belly. She was afraid and he couldn’t help her. He couldn’t comfort her.
Damn, he should have picked up the phone. He should have been there when she needed him. For a moment he forgot that he’d already come to the decision that he couldn’t see her anymore for her own safety.
He rewound the tape and played back the message, content to simply hear her voice again.
Chapter Sixteen
Blaize woke up hunched over the table, her face buried in the open book. Her back complained when she sat up, sending stabbing pains along her spine. A sharp red indentation from the page’s edge creased her cheek. She had a sudden urge to wash her face, as if Pierce’s words had left a vile tattoo across her skin, seeping toxins into her soul.
Damn, how could she have fallen asleep? It was almost as if Pierce had reached out from beyond the pages of the book and hypnotized her into sleep with his singsong, stream of consciousness passages.
There was a niggling at the edges of her memory, blurred with sleep but demanding her attention. Something she should know. Some connection she wasn’t making. She felt the weight of urgency and the pressure of time slipping away.
She blinked sleep from her eyes. What time was it? She checked her watch. Ten o’clock. Sunlight streamed in the window. She couldn’t believe she’d slept so long. She had to finish the book and get it back to Connie. And there was that strange sense of urgency pulling her. She tried to focus on the book, but the words blurred together. She rubbed her eyes and concentrated all her attention on reading.
…fierce creatures cast their stony gazes below on streets of fire. First one, then two, then three explosions rock the foundations, crumbling mortar sprays north, east, west and south. A noxious rain of ashes settles on upturned faces, turning skin the gray of moonlit mist hovering over a graveyard.
She didn’t get it the first time. She had to go back and read the passage over again. And then it hit her. Fierce creatures. Stony gaze. The gargoyles she’d seen outside the newspaper offices. Another clue was in Pierce’s odd configuration of directions. North, East, West, South. The first letter of each word spelled out NEWS. It couldn’t be any clearer. Pierce had literally spelled it out. This scene would take place at the very same building—Joyce and Gate’s offices.
With frantic urgency, Blaize flipped pages, reading more carefully. An explosion. No. Three explosions. Oh my God! When? She flipped back to the beginning of the chapter searching for a clue, a date. Nothing. It could be any time in the future, but for some reason she felt it was close. Too close.
She read through the passage again and finally realized that the scene was out of order. A flashback. She remembered reading the original passage in the first book, but it hadn’t clicked until now. Pierce had used the explosive scene as a cliffhanger at the end of Visions and Voices. If only she hadn’t left that book with Spyder she could cross reference the two scenes. Then she found what she was looking for. A date. Today’s date!
Not only was there a date, but a time, too. Eleven o’clock. She checked her watch again. It was almost ten-thirty. She only had thirty minutes to do something.
She grabbed the phone and dialed Gate’s number. No answer. Of course not, she chided herself. It was Monday. He’d be at work. She called his office extension, but there was no answer there either. Finally the switchboard operator cut in and asked if she’d like to leave a message.
Blaize groaned in frustration. There wasn’t time for that. There had to be someone…
“Connect me with Connie Ferguson,” she blurted out. At least there was someone who might help. Blaize sent up a silent prayer of thanks when Connie answered her phone.
“Connie, this is Blaize Donovan.”
“Blaize, hi.” Connie said. “Did the book—”
“Listen Connie,” Blaize interrupted. “This is going to sound crazy, but just do as I say.” She hadn’t meant to shout, but it came out that way just the same. “Get everyone out of the building. I think there’s a bomb—”
“What? You think there’s a bomb?”
“Please. There isn’t time to explain. Just trust me. Get everyone out as quick as you can. Have you seen Gate?”
“No, but I thought I saw Joyce a little while ago in his office. Maybe I was wrong. There’s no one there now.”
“Joyce?” Hope flared in Blaize for a moment, blotting out all else. Then came a quick rush of fear. Joyce was there? Where had she been all this time? Realizing that Joyce might be in the building galvanized her. There wasn’t time to waste.
Before Connie could reply, Blaize hung up and called 911. Her fingers shook as she punched in the number. Desperation made her voice sound foreign to her own ears. The operator at the other end asked too many questions, wasted too much time. Blaize knew she wasn’t making sense. Most likely they thought it was a crank call.
“Just send a bomb squad,” she screamed into the receiver. “And ambulances. Lots of ambulances.”
She hung up and grabbed her car keys. The building was only ten minutes away. It would take her longer than that to convince anyone to listen to her. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes. She could make it.
Driving at breakneck speed, she got to the building in less than ten minutes. A few people straggled outside, but there was no sign of fire trucks or emergency vehicles. Dammit, where was everyone? There had to be more people than this inside the building.
One wheel jumped the curb as she screeched to a halt in front of the building. She glared up at the gargoyles. They seemed to taunt her with their concrete stares. “Up yours,” she hissed to the silent sentinels. It was a useless gesture, but satisfying nonetheless.
She jumped out of the car and charged into the building. For a moment she stood frozen in the lobby, unsure what to do. She looked around, not sure what she was looking for until she saw it. Near the exit was a red fire alarm pull station. Without a second thought she reached up and jerked the handle, sounding the alarm.
Horns blared throughout the building. Strobe lights flashed. She heard the whine of elevators descending. People stepped out of offices blinking.
“Get out,” she shouted over the alarm’s shriek, waving her arms toward the exits. “Fire! Evacuate!”
Soon a swarm of people surrounded her, jostling toward the doors. She grabbed someone’s arm and asked if they’d seen either Connie or Gate. No one had.
Five minutes…
Outside on the sidewalk she screamed for people to get as far away from the building as they could. When she mentioned a bomb, they scrambled. A few looked at her as if she was crazy, but they hustled. Sirens could be heard in the distance, but Blaize realized they wouldn’t arrive in time.
Four minutes…
Connie and Gate might still be inside. She hadn’t seen either of them in the crowd leaving the building. They could have taken another exit, but something told her they hadn’t. And if Connie was right, Joyce might be inside, too. Blaize ran back into the lobby. She screamed up the stairway, calling first Connie, then Gate. Her voice echoed and bounced off the concrete stairwell, mocking her.
Three minutes…
Then someone tugged on her arm, pulling and screaming to be heard over the alarm. It was Gate. Thank God. She could barely hear him over the alarms and sirens. “What are you doing in here?” he yelled.
“Is Connie with you? Did you see Joyce?”
He shook his head. “No. Why?”
Blaize felt her blood run cold. “They might still be inside.”
“Come on,” he screamed, pulling her arm. “There’s a fire, for Christ’s sake, we have to get out.”
She let him lead her outside. “No,” she said. “Not a fire. A bomb. I pulled the alarm to get people out of the building. There’s a bomb set to go off in,” she checked her watch, “two minutes.”
He frowned. “You did this?”
“Yes.” She gripped his shoulders, shaking him hard to get him to listen. “Connie brought me an advance reading copy of Pierce’s next book. I fell asleep.” She knew she was rambling, but couldn’t help herself. “The gargoyles. I knew it was this building and I called you but you weren’t in your office, so I talked to Connie.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he snorted. “I can’t believe you evacuated a whole building because of something you read in a book. Blaize, this obsession of yours is getting out of control.”
“Please,” she begged. “Please, you have to believe me. This building is going to explode and Joyce may be inside.”
“Yeah, and I’m…”
He didn’t get to finish. There was a muffled roar. Then they were thrown, slammed by a blast of hot air. Two more blasts followed in quick succession. She could feel Gate’s weight on top of her, shielding her from the worst of the explosion. Her ears rang. Her eyes stung. Concrete and gravel bit her cheek. But all she could think of was Joyce. What if she was still inside?
Time, which had been hurtling forward at breakneck speed, suddenly slowed with a hushed stillness. Blaize was aware of her own breathing, the trip-hammer beat of her heart. All around people were running, screaming, sirens howling. But within her all Blaize felt was a deadly calm.
Gate helped her to her feet, wiping dirt and debris from her hair. She heard someone calling her name far away.
“Blaize! Gate! Are you all right?” It was Connie, looking pale and rumpled. A smudge of dirt creased her cheek and there was a run in her stockings, but other than that she seemed fine.
Blaize gripped her arms. “Did you see Joyce? Did you see her?”
Connie shook her head. “No. But I’m not even sure it was her. Maybe she wasn’t inside after all.”
“What if she was?”
“That doesn’t mean she’s still inside,” Connie said. “When I went back into Gate’s office, it was empty. If it was Joyce, she’s probably long gone by now.”
If not, Blaize realized, it was her own fault. She blamed herself for not saving Joyce. She should have read further. She should have finished the passage. She’d put two and two together, but hadn’t read beyond four. Guilt ripped through her. If she hadn’t spent the night with Spyder, if she hadn’t fallen asleep, there might have been more time. If she’d only figured it out sooner. Maybe she could have done more. Maybe she could have warned Joyce before it was too late.
But she’d only been looking for proof in the first book, not premonitions. If she hadn’t read the second book until it hit the stands, she’d have been too late. By giving her an advanced reading copy, Connie had actually saved her own life and the lives of her co-workers. They might not be so lucky next time.
“Are you all right?” Gate asked, his face ashen.
The acrid sting of smoke burned her lungs. She had to force herself to look at the devastation behind her. It was too much to comprehend. Joyce might be somewhere back there, buried under the crushing weight of shattered concrete.
Without warning, Blaize turned her guilt and anger toward Gate. She pushed her palms against his chest, tears streaming down her face. “I told you! Why wouldn’t you believe me? Joyce believed me. Connie believed me.”
“I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” He held her, letting her cry and rail against him, taking the full weight of her blame and anger. “What can I do?”
Blaize looked up into his face. “Take me to him.”
“What? Who?”
“Take me to Pierce. He’s at the bottom of all of this. Joyce suspected that from the beginning. She was right.”
Gate nodded. “Okay. I’ll take you to him. First—”
“No.” Blaize shook her head, desperation making her voice shrill. “Now. We have to go now. The police will be looking for me to find out why I called in this alarm, how I knew about the bombs. There’ll be questions that I don’t have any believable answers for.”
“Don’t worry,” Gate said. “I’ll take care of that. We’ll just tell them someone called in a bomb threat and—”
“Okay,” Blaize said. “But not now. It will only slow us down. We have to get to Pierce right now.”
For once, Gate had the good sense not to argue.
Spyder must have listened to Blaize’s recorded message a thousand times. It was the desperation in her voice that had made him reconsider. Whatever she believed, whatever she was fighting, he couldn’t let her do it alone. He’d spent the whole morning researching on the Internet, following links that led him deeper and deeper into inescapable conclusions.
He’d started with mass hysteria then read through Jungian theories of collective unconscious. The more he read, the less outrageous it all seemed.
He’d printed out pages and pages of evidence that seemed to endorse Blaize’s theory, including theological papers on the power of prayer, and scientific studies detailing the positive effect of focused thoughts on plant growth.
Somehow that was the one that had made it all seem plausible. According to the article, scientists had placed two groups of plants within two circles of volunteers. One circle was told to send encouraging thoughts to the plants, urging them to grow. Unbelievably, there was nothing unusual about the control group, while the experimental group, which was silently encouraged to grow, actually did grow bigger, fuller, taller over the course of the study.
He whistled. Imagine that. If just a room full of people could make a plant grow twice its size, imagine what a whole world full of people focusing their thoughts on the same belief could do?
He thought of the millions of people who read Algernon Pierce’s books, losing themselves completely in his fictional reality and investing it with the weight of their belief. Imagine the power of that combined thought and energy. Could it actually change reality?
Maybe it could.
The more Spyder read, the more he became convinced that Blaize was on the right track. He only hoped he’d have the chance to tell her.
Chapter Seventeen
By the time they arrived at the faded Victorian mansion, Blaize had channeled all her anger toward one person—Algernon Pierce. “He did this,” she told Gate. She didn’t mention Joyce again. Connie wasn’t even sure she’d seen Joyce in Gate’s office. But the fact remained that Joyce was still missing. In light of everything else, Pierce might be the only person who knew where to find her. “He did this to us. But why?”
“I don’t know,” Gate replied, his jaw clenched. “But we’re not leaving until we find out.”
Blaize took one look at the looming structure and shuddered. “Creepy.”
“Only on the outside,” Gate said. “The inside is a big let-down as far as creepiness is concerned. He even works on a computer, which surprised me.” He snorted. “I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe a feathered quill dipped in blood.”
“Don’t even joke about it,” Blaize said. “From what I can see, that’s not all that far from the truth.”
They reached the entrance and Gate banged the lion’s head door knocker three times. A muffled sound echoed from inside, but that was all they heard. He knocked again, brisk and impatient. Still no answer. He stepped back and surveyed the windows, cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled. “Pierce! Open up. We’re not leaving until you talk to us.”
While Gate was busy yelling, Blaize reached forward and jiggled the door knob. It turned and the door opened smoothly, without so much as a creak. “Gate?”
He looked from her to the door, raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.” He stepped over the threshold and called out into the empty room. “Pierce! If you’re here, answer me. We’re coming in.” His voice bounced back to him.
The phone rang just as he stepped into the bathtub. He hesitated, then climbed all the way in. Screw it. Whoever it was would call back.
His hands shook. His heart raced. The nightmare was winning. One or two he might be able to explain away, but not these regular nightly visitations. Recurrent dreams indicated emotional distress—or worse. He caught himself wringing the washcloth, squeezing and twisting and rolling it between his clenched fists.
Shit, shit…SHIT!
He couldn’t let Blaize come back here. She was in danger as long as she was near him. There was no way he could stay awake forever, and there was no telling what might happen if he fell asleep and confused the dream with reality. No. He cared about her too much to risk her life. He had to let her go.
But the thought of never seeing Blaize again left him feeling empty and hollow inside. How could someone he didn’t even know existed a few weeks ago suddenly be so important that he couldn’t imagine a life without her? It didn’t make any sense. He’d built a reputation writing songs about love, but he’d never really believed the words. Now all the lyrics made sense. Now he understood.
He leaned back and sank into the hot water. Things were changing. His life was taking turns he hadn’t anticipated. Maybe Blaize was right. Maybe their free will had been hijacked and manipulated by a master plotter with a macabre sense of humor.
Yeah, right. His laughter sounded forced as it bounced off the tile walls of the bathroom. Even the hot bath, which usually drained the tension from his muscles, did little to ease him today. With a defeated sigh he stepped out of the tub and dried off, pulled on a pair of Levi’s and finger combed his damp hair. On the way to the closet for a clean denim shirt, he noticed the light flashing on the answering machine. He hit the play button, unprepared for the rush of emotion he felt hearing Blaize’s voice.
“Spyder, I won’t be back over tonight. I, um…I’ve come across some new facts. I’ll tell you about it later. I don’t know when. I’ll call you.”
He waited through the electronic buzz, but that was it. No number. No explanation. He frowned and stared at the machine, as if it held an answer. There was something in her voice. Something guarded and afraid. He clenched his fists, a gut-wrenching ache in his belly. She was afraid and he couldn’t help her. He couldn’t comfort her.
Damn, he should have picked up the phone. He should have been there when she needed him. For a moment he forgot that he’d already come to the decision that he couldn’t see her anymore for her own safety.
He rewound the tape and played back the message, content to simply hear her voice again.
Chapter Sixteen
Blaize woke up hunched over the table, her face buried in the open book. Her back complained when she sat up, sending stabbing pains along her spine. A sharp red indentation from the page’s edge creased her cheek. She had a sudden urge to wash her face, as if Pierce’s words had left a vile tattoo across her skin, seeping toxins into her soul.
Damn, how could she have fallen asleep? It was almost as if Pierce had reached out from beyond the pages of the book and hypnotized her into sleep with his singsong, stream of consciousness passages.
There was a niggling at the edges of her memory, blurred with sleep but demanding her attention. Something she should know. Some connection she wasn’t making. She felt the weight of urgency and the pressure of time slipping away.
She blinked sleep from her eyes. What time was it? She checked her watch. Ten o’clock. Sunlight streamed in the window. She couldn’t believe she’d slept so long. She had to finish the book and get it back to Connie. And there was that strange sense of urgency pulling her. She tried to focus on the book, but the words blurred together. She rubbed her eyes and concentrated all her attention on reading.
…fierce creatures cast their stony gazes below on streets of fire. First one, then two, then three explosions rock the foundations, crumbling mortar sprays north, east, west and south. A noxious rain of ashes settles on upturned faces, turning skin the gray of moonlit mist hovering over a graveyard.
She didn’t get it the first time. She had to go back and read the passage over again. And then it hit her. Fierce creatures. Stony gaze. The gargoyles she’d seen outside the newspaper offices. Another clue was in Pierce’s odd configuration of directions. North, East, West, South. The first letter of each word spelled out NEWS. It couldn’t be any clearer. Pierce had literally spelled it out. This scene would take place at the very same building—Joyce and Gate’s offices.
With frantic urgency, Blaize flipped pages, reading more carefully. An explosion. No. Three explosions. Oh my God! When? She flipped back to the beginning of the chapter searching for a clue, a date. Nothing. It could be any time in the future, but for some reason she felt it was close. Too close.
She read through the passage again and finally realized that the scene was out of order. A flashback. She remembered reading the original passage in the first book, but it hadn’t clicked until now. Pierce had used the explosive scene as a cliffhanger at the end of Visions and Voices. If only she hadn’t left that book with Spyder she could cross reference the two scenes. Then she found what she was looking for. A date. Today’s date!
Not only was there a date, but a time, too. Eleven o’clock. She checked her watch again. It was almost ten-thirty. She only had thirty minutes to do something.
She grabbed the phone and dialed Gate’s number. No answer. Of course not, she chided herself. It was Monday. He’d be at work. She called his office extension, but there was no answer there either. Finally the switchboard operator cut in and asked if she’d like to leave a message.
Blaize groaned in frustration. There wasn’t time for that. There had to be someone…
“Connect me with Connie Ferguson,” she blurted out. At least there was someone who might help. Blaize sent up a silent prayer of thanks when Connie answered her phone.
“Connie, this is Blaize Donovan.”
“Blaize, hi.” Connie said. “Did the book—”
“Listen Connie,” Blaize interrupted. “This is going to sound crazy, but just do as I say.” She hadn’t meant to shout, but it came out that way just the same. “Get everyone out of the building. I think there’s a bomb—”
“What? You think there’s a bomb?”
“Please. There isn’t time to explain. Just trust me. Get everyone out as quick as you can. Have you seen Gate?”
“No, but I thought I saw Joyce a little while ago in his office. Maybe I was wrong. There’s no one there now.”
“Joyce?” Hope flared in Blaize for a moment, blotting out all else. Then came a quick rush of fear. Joyce was there? Where had she been all this time? Realizing that Joyce might be in the building galvanized her. There wasn’t time to waste.
Before Connie could reply, Blaize hung up and called 911. Her fingers shook as she punched in the number. Desperation made her voice sound foreign to her own ears. The operator at the other end asked too many questions, wasted too much time. Blaize knew she wasn’t making sense. Most likely they thought it was a crank call.
“Just send a bomb squad,” she screamed into the receiver. “And ambulances. Lots of ambulances.”
She hung up and grabbed her car keys. The building was only ten minutes away. It would take her longer than that to convince anyone to listen to her. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes. She could make it.
Driving at breakneck speed, she got to the building in less than ten minutes. A few people straggled outside, but there was no sign of fire trucks or emergency vehicles. Dammit, where was everyone? There had to be more people than this inside the building.
One wheel jumped the curb as she screeched to a halt in front of the building. She glared up at the gargoyles. They seemed to taunt her with their concrete stares. “Up yours,” she hissed to the silent sentinels. It was a useless gesture, but satisfying nonetheless.
She jumped out of the car and charged into the building. For a moment she stood frozen in the lobby, unsure what to do. She looked around, not sure what she was looking for until she saw it. Near the exit was a red fire alarm pull station. Without a second thought she reached up and jerked the handle, sounding the alarm.
Horns blared throughout the building. Strobe lights flashed. She heard the whine of elevators descending. People stepped out of offices blinking.
“Get out,” she shouted over the alarm’s shriek, waving her arms toward the exits. “Fire! Evacuate!”
Soon a swarm of people surrounded her, jostling toward the doors. She grabbed someone’s arm and asked if they’d seen either Connie or Gate. No one had.
Five minutes…
Outside on the sidewalk she screamed for people to get as far away from the building as they could. When she mentioned a bomb, they scrambled. A few looked at her as if she was crazy, but they hustled. Sirens could be heard in the distance, but Blaize realized they wouldn’t arrive in time.
Four minutes…
Connie and Gate might still be inside. She hadn’t seen either of them in the crowd leaving the building. They could have taken another exit, but something told her they hadn’t. And if Connie was right, Joyce might be inside, too. Blaize ran back into the lobby. She screamed up the stairway, calling first Connie, then Gate. Her voice echoed and bounced off the concrete stairwell, mocking her.
Three minutes…
Then someone tugged on her arm, pulling and screaming to be heard over the alarm. It was Gate. Thank God. She could barely hear him over the alarms and sirens. “What are you doing in here?” he yelled.
“Is Connie with you? Did you see Joyce?”
He shook his head. “No. Why?”
Blaize felt her blood run cold. “They might still be inside.”
“Come on,” he screamed, pulling her arm. “There’s a fire, for Christ’s sake, we have to get out.”
She let him lead her outside. “No,” she said. “Not a fire. A bomb. I pulled the alarm to get people out of the building. There’s a bomb set to go off in,” she checked her watch, “two minutes.”
He frowned. “You did this?”
“Yes.” She gripped his shoulders, shaking him hard to get him to listen. “Connie brought me an advance reading copy of Pierce’s next book. I fell asleep.” She knew she was rambling, but couldn’t help herself. “The gargoyles. I knew it was this building and I called you but you weren’t in your office, so I talked to Connie.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he snorted. “I can’t believe you evacuated a whole building because of something you read in a book. Blaize, this obsession of yours is getting out of control.”
“Please,” she begged. “Please, you have to believe me. This building is going to explode and Joyce may be inside.”
“Yeah, and I’m…”
He didn’t get to finish. There was a muffled roar. Then they were thrown, slammed by a blast of hot air. Two more blasts followed in quick succession. She could feel Gate’s weight on top of her, shielding her from the worst of the explosion. Her ears rang. Her eyes stung. Concrete and gravel bit her cheek. But all she could think of was Joyce. What if she was still inside?
Time, which had been hurtling forward at breakneck speed, suddenly slowed with a hushed stillness. Blaize was aware of her own breathing, the trip-hammer beat of her heart. All around people were running, screaming, sirens howling. But within her all Blaize felt was a deadly calm.
Gate helped her to her feet, wiping dirt and debris from her hair. She heard someone calling her name far away.
“Blaize! Gate! Are you all right?” It was Connie, looking pale and rumpled. A smudge of dirt creased her cheek and there was a run in her stockings, but other than that she seemed fine.
Blaize gripped her arms. “Did you see Joyce? Did you see her?”
Connie shook her head. “No. But I’m not even sure it was her. Maybe she wasn’t inside after all.”
“What if she was?”
“That doesn’t mean she’s still inside,” Connie said. “When I went back into Gate’s office, it was empty. If it was Joyce, she’s probably long gone by now.”
If not, Blaize realized, it was her own fault. She blamed herself for not saving Joyce. She should have read further. She should have finished the passage. She’d put two and two together, but hadn’t read beyond four. Guilt ripped through her. If she hadn’t spent the night with Spyder, if she hadn’t fallen asleep, there might have been more time. If she’d only figured it out sooner. Maybe she could have done more. Maybe she could have warned Joyce before it was too late.
But she’d only been looking for proof in the first book, not premonitions. If she hadn’t read the second book until it hit the stands, she’d have been too late. By giving her an advanced reading copy, Connie had actually saved her own life and the lives of her co-workers. They might not be so lucky next time.
“Are you all right?” Gate asked, his face ashen.
The acrid sting of smoke burned her lungs. She had to force herself to look at the devastation behind her. It was too much to comprehend. Joyce might be somewhere back there, buried under the crushing weight of shattered concrete.
Without warning, Blaize turned her guilt and anger toward Gate. She pushed her palms against his chest, tears streaming down her face. “I told you! Why wouldn’t you believe me? Joyce believed me. Connie believed me.”
“I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” He held her, letting her cry and rail against him, taking the full weight of her blame and anger. “What can I do?”
Blaize looked up into his face. “Take me to him.”
“What? Who?”
“Take me to Pierce. He’s at the bottom of all of this. Joyce suspected that from the beginning. She was right.”
Gate nodded. “Okay. I’ll take you to him. First—”
“No.” Blaize shook her head, desperation making her voice shrill. “Now. We have to go now. The police will be looking for me to find out why I called in this alarm, how I knew about the bombs. There’ll be questions that I don’t have any believable answers for.”
“Don’t worry,” Gate said. “I’ll take care of that. We’ll just tell them someone called in a bomb threat and—”
“Okay,” Blaize said. “But not now. It will only slow us down. We have to get to Pierce right now.”
For once, Gate had the good sense not to argue.
Spyder must have listened to Blaize’s recorded message a thousand times. It was the desperation in her voice that had made him reconsider. Whatever she believed, whatever she was fighting, he couldn’t let her do it alone. He’d spent the whole morning researching on the Internet, following links that led him deeper and deeper into inescapable conclusions.
He’d started with mass hysteria then read through Jungian theories of collective unconscious. The more he read, the less outrageous it all seemed.
He’d printed out pages and pages of evidence that seemed to endorse Blaize’s theory, including theological papers on the power of prayer, and scientific studies detailing the positive effect of focused thoughts on plant growth.
Somehow that was the one that had made it all seem plausible. According to the article, scientists had placed two groups of plants within two circles of volunteers. One circle was told to send encouraging thoughts to the plants, urging them to grow. Unbelievably, there was nothing unusual about the control group, while the experimental group, which was silently encouraged to grow, actually did grow bigger, fuller, taller over the course of the study.
He whistled. Imagine that. If just a room full of people could make a plant grow twice its size, imagine what a whole world full of people focusing their thoughts on the same belief could do?
He thought of the millions of people who read Algernon Pierce’s books, losing themselves completely in his fictional reality and investing it with the weight of their belief. Imagine the power of that combined thought and energy. Could it actually change reality?
Maybe it could.
The more Spyder read, the more he became convinced that Blaize was on the right track. He only hoped he’d have the chance to tell her.
Chapter Seventeen
By the time they arrived at the faded Victorian mansion, Blaize had channeled all her anger toward one person—Algernon Pierce. “He did this,” she told Gate. She didn’t mention Joyce again. Connie wasn’t even sure she’d seen Joyce in Gate’s office. But the fact remained that Joyce was still missing. In light of everything else, Pierce might be the only person who knew where to find her. “He did this to us. But why?”
“I don’t know,” Gate replied, his jaw clenched. “But we’re not leaving until we find out.”
Blaize took one look at the looming structure and shuddered. “Creepy.”
“Only on the outside,” Gate said. “The inside is a big let-down as far as creepiness is concerned. He even works on a computer, which surprised me.” He snorted. “I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe a feathered quill dipped in blood.”
“Don’t even joke about it,” Blaize said. “From what I can see, that’s not all that far from the truth.”
They reached the entrance and Gate banged the lion’s head door knocker three times. A muffled sound echoed from inside, but that was all they heard. He knocked again, brisk and impatient. Still no answer. He stepped back and surveyed the windows, cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled. “Pierce! Open up. We’re not leaving until you talk to us.”
While Gate was busy yelling, Blaize reached forward and jiggled the door knob. It turned and the door opened smoothly, without so much as a creak. “Gate?”
He looked from her to the door, raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.” He stepped over the threshold and called out into the empty room. “Pierce! If you’re here, answer me. We’re coming in.” His voice bounced back to him.
