Chapter One

Ashes to ashes...
Arlo Grimm finished cleaning, oiling and loading his gun, then set it on the kitchen table, giving it an easy spin. He watched the weapon revolve, his stare growing distant, his mind wandering.
The gun, a memento from his thirty years on the force, was an old fashioned snub-nosed .38. Upon retirement, two years ago, he had stuffed it in a drawer, thinking he'd never have to use it again.
He damn near laughed, though he sure as hell saw no humor in the situation.
Because now he had to use it again, didn't he? Because now his Bobby was dead and he needed to know why--the real reason why.
Dust to dust...
The minister's words drummed in his head and scattered images played in his mind: a bleak, mold-colored afternoon sky, the mist-shrouded cemetery, the sobering sight of a coffin being lowered into a hungry grave. He watched his Bobby, his youngest son, being laid to rest while blue-uniformed policemen stood by like grim-faced wooden soldiers.
"I'm sorry," said Chief Bradford, laying a hand on Arlo's shoulder. Bradford, a husky gray-haired man of about fifty, had been Chief for only six months; he hadn't really known Bobby, known what a good cop Arlo's son had been.
"He shouldn't be dead." Emotion tightened Arlo's throat. "I taught him better than that."
The chief frowned and for a moment Arlo saw a glint of--what? coldness? in the man's eyes. An uncaring expression that said being a cop was just a damn job and sometimes people lost their lives in the name of duty, even people you loved.
So what? that look said.
Arlo's belly tightened with a mounting dislike for the man.
"Look..." The chief tried to feign sympathy but missed the mark. "He was involved in a dangerous case. He got too close to something. Somewhere along the way he made a serious error in judgment and paid for it. You can't bring him back."
Arlo let out a disgusted sound. "You didn't lose a son, Bradford. Maybe I can't bring him back but I can't just let it go either. I've done that too many times in the past." Not waiting for an answer, Arlo turned and walked towards his car, a weight of sorrow crushing his soul. Nobody cared. Nobody gave a damn. Why had he ever bothered becoming a cop at all? What the hell was the use of it? You just lost people you loved and nothing was worth that price.
"Leave it alone, Grimm," he heard Bradford call out behind him. "You're not on the force anymore. Things have changed. It was a simple drug bust gone wrong. He's dead--live with it."
Arlo uttered a vapid laugh and said under his breath, "Bradford, you're a cold-hearted prick."
#
As the revolver stopped spinning, Arlo came out of his reverie.
Bobby was dead. But he'd be damned if he were just going to "live" with it. Even if it meant blowing away every junkie in New Salem, he'd find the person responsible.
Arlo ran a hand through his hair and felt tears well in his eyes. Bobby had been his pride. After Arlo's wife was killed--the result of his own "error in judgment"--his older son, David, had never forgiven him and had walked out of his life completely. He supposed he couldn't blame David entirely for that, because, hell, he had never forgiven himself either. Taking the coward's way out, he'd just retired and let it eat away his insides. He had let David--and himself--down. He'd be damned if he'd let Bobby down, too.
He had enough guilt to carry around.
Pushing himself away from the table, he stood. Dressed only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, he'd been sitting at the table for better than an hour, staring at his gun, wondering if ignoring Bradford and going after Bobby's killers was the right decision, finally deciding it was. He recalled a time when he would have let the police do their jobs and resigned himself to the inevitable: his son was gone and nothing on Earth would bring him back or ease the terrible sense of loss that would haunt him for the rest of his days. But not this time. Live with it? Like Hell he would!
Depression gripping him, he went to the living room and bent over an antique cedar chest that used to belong to his wife. Opening it, he pulled out an old bulletproof vest, another souvenir from his days on the force. He stared at it a moment, dragging his fingers over the rough material. The vest had saved his life once, stopping a bullet that would have gone through his heart. He'd survived with a broken rib and one hell of a bruise, but that was a small price to pay for life. He let out a humorless laugh. Funny, he had thought those days of getting shot at were over, nothing more than war stories he planned to someday tell his grandchildren. That wouldn't happen now, though. Bobby's killer had taken more than his son; he'd taken his future.
He straightened and strapped on the vest, its bulkiness vaguely uncomfortable and alien. For a moment standing in the dull lamplight, he took slow deep breaths, a ghost of doubt entering his mind.
You're too old for this Arlo. You'll only get yourself killed this time.
Hell, did it matter?
With a sigh, he went to the couch where he had laid out his clothes--khaki trousers and a large L.L. Bean pullover shirt that barely fit over the vest. A mild pounding took his heart as adrenaline trickled into his veins.
It all comes back, doesn't it, Arlo? It all comes back. You were a fool to think you could escape it.
He uttered a humorless laugh and headed back to the kitchen, first stopping at the VCR. A cold pepperoni and black olive pizza sat in an open box atop the recorder. Prying a piece off the cardboard, he took a bite, then tossed it back down and shut the box.
After wiping his hand on his pants, he programmed the VCR for his favorite show, "Dark Shadows". Tonight Julia was sewing Judah Zachary's head back on and he didn't want to miss it.
Arlo went to the kitchen and lifted his gun from the table. Swallowing at the emotion tightening his throat, he peered at the weapon a final time, then shoved it into his belt. For once, he hoped he had to use it.
#
The Red Lagoon was New Salem's only topless joint. Located near the waterfront, it'd become Arlo's favorite haunt since he retired and he made no apologies for it. He figured there were worse vices and it had been ages since he stepped foot in a church. He supposed he was too old to change and this was better than sitting at home every night or spending his days on a Florida tour bus worrying about which All-You-Can-Eat buffet he was going to attend. A guilty voice inside sometimes prayed it wouldn't keep him out of the Pearly Gates.
He shut the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. The place was nearly empty; only a few customers occupied the tables, but it was still early. Wisps of cigarette smoke clouded the air and the sour odor of cheap booze assailed his nostrils.
Old boards creaked as he headed toward the stage, which jutted out into the center of the room. His attention shifted to the shapely blonde dancer dressed in a skimpy cowboy outfit--halter, spangled short-shorts and a Stetson hat. She gyrated to some country tune he wasn't familiar with, swaying her hips in a figure 8. Her fingers slinked up her toned belly and untied the halter, revealing ample breasts. She let the halter drop to the stage and Arlo stared despite himself. With an alluring look, she drew her fingers up the outer curves of her bosoms, then cupped them. A smile filtered onto his lips and he leaned against the side of the stage.
You're a dirty old man, Arlo my boy, he scolded himself. But what the hell.
"Hi ya, Arly," said the girl, spotting him.
"What's shakin', Chloe?"
She grinned and winked. "Pair of 38s. Good enough?"
"You bet." Arlo's smile widened.
Chloe's face turned more serious and she scooched, eyes locking with his. "Gotta five?"
"Sure." Arlo pulled a Lincoln from his wallet and tucked it into the top of her spangled shorts. "What's up?"
"Guy's been in here asking after you. Some guy named Chuckles."
"Where is he?" Arlo wondered what this was leading to.
She shook her head. "He's not here, now. I told him you usually come in around eight. He mentioned your son. I heard you were looking for his killers. Maybe this will help." She gave him a warm smile that went beyond a simple favor rendered for money. Arlo knew she would have told him the information regardless.
"Word gets around fast in this town." He hadn't been particularly quiet about searching for Bobby's killers though, hoping it would give him a lead. Perhaps this was it. He glanced at his watch. "Twenty minutes to go. How will I know him?"
Her eyes narrowed and a shadow crossed her face. "They call him Chuckles 'cause he's got this nasty knife scar. Starts at one corner of his mouth and goes all the way to his ear."
"Lovely." Arlo started to walk away, an ominous feeling creeping over him. Who was this man and what did he know about Bobby? He felt certain he had never heard of anyone named Chuckles. All he could do was wait and see where it went.
"Hey!" Chloe smiled and indicated the five he'd given her. "Maybe I could buy you a pizza sometime...?"
She looked perfectly serious, even a bit tentative in asking, as if she were worried he'd say no. God knew she couldn't have gotten too many rejections from the men in her life. At least he assumed there were men. He didn't know her all that well, but she was the main reason he came here, though he hated to admit it. She was more than just some dancer; it was something in her eyes, some sense of loneliness and pain, maybe. Something he almost recognized. While her offer was more than tempting, he doubted he could ever let himself accept it. He was too old and too hardened for that.
"We'll see," he answered in a noncommittal tone, then turned away before she could press him on the matter.
Arlo moved up to the bar and pulled out a stool. "Bourbon and a hamburger," he told the bartender, seating himself
"Grill's closed," answered the bartender. "Sorry--damn food inspector again."
Arlo laughed. "In that case, make the bourbon a double." The bartender ambled off, then returned with his drink and set it in front of him.
"Got today's paper?" Arlo asked.
"Sure." The bartender pulled a copy of the New Salem Gazette from beneath the counter and handed it to him.
Arlo flipped the paper open. He scanned the headlines and stopped at one in particular: Girl Disappears--Third in Six Months. Link Feared to Cult Activity.
A shiver worked down his spine as he started reading the article. He remembered Bobby mentioning something about that case, thinking it might somehow be tied in with the recent increase in drug traffic. But he'd been unable to find proof or make an arrest. So far, no bodies had shown up; the girls might just as well have stepped off the face of the earth.
"You Grimm?" The voice startled Arlo and he turned to see a man standing behind him. A scar lashed from the man's mouth to his ear, a hideous snake of a thing that gave him a peculiar half-grin. Arlo instantly disliked the man, not just because of the scar, but for the cocky air with which he carried himself. He'd seen that attitude on criminals far too many times in his years on the force: a callous disregard for everything but their own interests, the hell with whomever it hurt. It never ceased to disgust him.
"Who's asking?" Arlo said in a flat voice.
The man gave him a vapid stare, a stare utterly devoid of compassion, clouded by drugs. "You wanna freakin' give me crap or you wanna know about Bobby?"
Arlo suppressed the urge to pop him one. "Chuckles, I take it." He turned and took a swig of his bourbon. The alcohol seared his throat, chasing away the pang of emotion that had rushed up inside him at the mention of his son's name. "So talk."
The man crowded close and jabbed a finger at the newspaper spread out on the bar, pointing to the disappearing girl headline. Chuckles stank like two-day-old catpiss and Arlo fought the urge to pull back. His gaze locked on the pentagram tattoo etched into the man's stubby hand. The junkie, as if suddenly noticing Arlo's interest, pulled his hand back and shoved it into a pocket.
"The cult..." Chuckles nodded to the paper. "They're responsible for your son's gettin' his."
Arlo's body went rigid, and he tried to conceal his shock. "He was killed in a botched drug bust. He had no more interest in the cult than anybody else."
"Then I guess I'm wastin' my time, ain't I?" Chuckles made a move to walk away, but Arlo grabbed his arm. The man winced as Arlo's fingers dug in.
"I'm not real long on patience so you'd better just say what you came to say."
Chuckles grinned but the expression had a touch of anxiousness to it. "Ain't a helluva lot to tell. Bobby-boy stuck his nose where it didn't belong and got it cut off."
Arlo felt rage boil in his veins. He suppressed the urge to throttle the man, knowing he'd get nothing if he pushed too hard. Chuckles had a reason for wanting to talk to him and at this point Arlo had no idea what it was. He felt suspicion rise but if there was a chance the man knew something he wanted to see it through. "If you know who--"
"Hey, I dunno that," Chuckles cut Arlo off. "But I can put you in touch with someone who does."
"Who?" Arlo suspected the man was lying, but he couldn't afford to overlook any bets. He let go of the man's arm and Chuckles rubbed at the spot where Grimm's fingers had dug in.
"There's this youth gang. They got this place down on the waterfront, a few blocks from here. Kid named Repo dug himself a hole and now he wants a ladder. He can tell you."
Arlo felt suspicion grow, setting his nerves on edge. He studied the man but it was impossible to tell if he were lying. "What do you get out of this?"
"I done some favors for the cops, for money, you know. Bobby, he was sort of a friend, treated me right. I owe him one."
It didn't matter whether he believed the man; it was a lead and he had to take it. "Where and when?" asked Arlo.
#
A serpentine fog slithered along the ground. A dank wind blew in from the sea. Arlo felt a shiver work through him as he walked along the waterfront. Perhaps it was just his nerves getting the better of him. Or perhaps it was fate whispering in his ear.
A lead. To Bobby. To the past. Maybe, maybe not. It didn't matter. He would go through with it anyway and if Chuckles were lying...
He took a deep breath; the salty tang of the ocean spiced the air. He glanced out at the bay, seeing the lights of the fishing boats dancing within the fog. A buoy clanged. His nerves tightened.
Walking another two blocks, he stopped, glancing at the canyon of brick and beam rising to either side of the street: warehouses, factories, canneries, a few bars and shoppes. A single street light coated the mist with mother-of-pearl and fell in shivering patterns across the pavement.
"The alley across from Gibson's Antiques," Arlo mumbled. Chuckles had told him Repo would be waiting there at 8:45, but the street looked deserted. His suspicions strengthened, along with a dull anger. His heart beat a step faster.
He's lying, Arlo, old boy. There's something wrong here...
It was more a feeling than anything else, but the years had taught him to listen to those feelings. They had saved his life more than once.
Arlo touched the comforting bulge of his .38 at his waist and turned, starting into the alley. Twenty feet in, he stopped, icy apprehension raising the hair on the back of his neck. A rustling reached his ears, then a muffled step.
He began to turn, ready to go for his revolver, when something crashed into the side of his head. Something goddamn hard.
A blaze of stars exploded before his eyes. He stumbled forward, off-balance, arms out-stretched, his head ringing with pain and his senses threatening to desert him. He'd caught the faint swish of cloth behind him, jerked his head sideways by reflex, but the glancing blow had still sent his mind reeling.
Dizzy, he spun, struggling to regain his composure. For an instant, he thought he had passed out anyway; the only thing before his vision was blackness streaked with red. As his eyes focused, he realized his attackers, two of them, were garbed in red robes, faces masked with red hoods.
Something about it struck him as almost ghostly, the way they had just seemed to materialize behind him when he would have sworn the street was empty only moments before.
The robed figure on the left lunged, slashing in a wide arc with a stiletto. Arlo's left arm thrust out, swept in, locked about the assailant's arm and twisted. He heard the man grunt in pain; the knife clattered on the alley floor.
He wasted no time following up. His right arm pistoned upward; the heel of his palm cracked against the figure's hooded chin, sending him sprawling.
The other figure charged from behind. Arlo heard a swoosh of cloth as the robed attacker raised his club for a second swipe at his head.
He thrust all of his 193 pounds backwards, crashing into the figure. The club whizzed over Arlo's shoulder and he whirled, swinging his fist in a short arc. The figure's head rocked and Arlo followed through with a short chopping punch, dropping him.
Breath beating out, Arlo's attention went back the other figure, who was crawling on all fours towards the stiletto. Arlo kicked him in the teeth; the man went over onto his back and lay still.
"One of you damn well better know something," he said, panting, heart pounding.
"Sorry," came a voice from behind him. "You ain't never gonna find out."
Arlo turned to see Chuckles leveling a revolver at his chest. The informant grinned, then squeezed the trigger.
The shot was deafening. The bullet took Arlo square in the heart. The impact propelled him backwards and sent him crashing into a row of trash cans. The cans scattered, Arlo falling in a heap between them.
A hushed silence followed the shot. The muffled pounding of his heart, the thrumming of his blood rushing through his veins, the ringing of pain in his skull. Waiting. Just waiting.
Chuckles crept closer and peered at Arlo's sprawled body. He laughed, a half-insane sound, then shoved the gun forward, intending to take another shot.
Arlo's hand jabbed out, caught Chuckles's wrist and twisted. Chuckles bleated, a sound as close to a woman's scream as he'd ever heard any man make. He squeezed; Chuckles dropped the gun.
Arlo gained his feet. With his free hand, he grabbed a fistful of Chuckles's coat and yanked him close.
"You should have used a higher caliber, you goddamned weasel." Arlo brought his knee up in a sharp thrust into Chuckles's groin. The informant's face blanched, eyes turning up, and Arlo hurled him sideways. He fell to the ground, sputtering.
Arlo took a step towards the fallen junkie, silently blessing his bulletproof vest. It had stopped the slug, though he would have a bitch of a bruise and his whole chest ached.
Reaching down, he grabbed Chuckles by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He hurled him into the trash cans, then leaned in and grabbed the informant's face, jerking it up.
"You got no right!" Chuckles blurted, blood spraying from his lips. "I want a goddamned lawyer!"
"I got every right, you bastard. Bobby was my son. That gives me the right! And you won't need any goddamned lawyer by the time I get through with you if you don't start talking right now."
"I didn't waste him, man--I swear I didn't!"
Arlo's grip tightened, forcing the man's head backward. "Then you tell me who did and don't take your time thinking about it."
"I-I can't. They'll kill me."
"I'll kill you." Arlo twisted the man's head back still farther.
"H-Hackett!" he blurted. "Hackett killed him!"
"Bobby's partner?" Shock welded onto Arlo's face. He felt rage ignite in his veins. "What else? Tell me!"
"The-the stripper," stammered Chuckles.
"Chloe? What about her?"
"She knows who I am, now. She knows I was talking to you about Bobby. They're gonna use her as the next sacrifice."
"Where? Who? Tell me, you sonofabitch!"
"I dunno--oh, Jesus, I dunno!"
Arlo glared at the informant, eyes flashing with unbridled fury. For a moment, the man's hideous scar repulsed him, infuriated him; he wanted to tear it from his face.
Your control's slipping...
So?
"You won't tell anybody about our little talk, will you?" Arlo's tone darkened.
"No, no, I promise--oh, Christ!"
"That's good, but I don't trust you." Arlo thrust Chuckles's head sharply back. It collided against the brick wall with a sickening crunch. The informant slumped, blood bubbling from his lips, eyes staring sightlessly ahead.
Arlo didn't bother to check whether he was dead.
#
Someone's been here...
Arlo took one look at the shattered lock of Detective Hackett's apartment door and drew his .38. So Chuckles was right; the cop was involved somehow. The forced entry proved it. And perhaps whoever was behind this wasn't leaving any loose ends.
He eased the door inward, stepping quietly inside. He cautiously went from room to room, careful to make as little noise as possible. The place was a shambles: furniture had been over-turned, the TV smashed, the bedroom door kicked in, clothes strewn about. Contents of drawers littered the floors; cushions had been slashed. But he found nothing else, no clue that would help him find Bobby's killers.
The apartment was empty. Whoever had done this was long gone. Hackett was nowhere in sight. He had half expected to find the man's body, but there was no sign of blood or foul play. He wondered what that meant. Had Hackett been here when whoever did this arrived? Probably not. But if that were the case, where was he now? And was he still alive?
#
As Arlo Grimm walked the empty street, heading towards his cottage home, a sense of strangling sorrow gripped his heart. The rolling mist and deserted street drove the feeling home. He remembered the good times they'd had together while Bobby was growing up: ballgames at school, frosty Halloweens with candied apples, the day his son graduated from the Police Academy.
A door had shut on the past, a door to which Arlo had no key. And his Bobby was behind that door, forever locked away. Arlo had to face the fact that he'd now lost his wife and both of his sons. Lost everything that really mattered to him.
God, he missed Bobby.
He missed everything. Too damn much. And wished for just a moment he could go back to better times, relive what was.
Arlo stopped, jarred from his reverie, for a moment not sure why.
A sound?
Yes, a sound, the thin scraping of a shoe on asphalt. Deep in thought, he'd barely heard it.
A shiver went down his back. He scanned the street, gaze sweeping back and forth, into every doorway and behind every lamppost, but he saw nothing. That bothered him because he knew he had heard something and the sudden appearance of those red-robed attackers tonight had set him on edge. Someone was near by; someone had made that sound. But who?
He started forward, walking slowly, ears pricked. Instinct born of thirty years' experience tingled the hairs on the back of his neck.
He was being followed; he felt it. By someone or ones used to keeping out of sight, used to shadowing.
He fought to keep himself calm and walked nonchalantly up the pathway to his house, then thrust the key into the lock. Casting a backward glance, he again scan-searched the foggy street.
Had a shadow moved? He wasn't sure.
Closing the door, he turned. He tensed and began to go for his gun, suddenly aware that someone sat at his kitchen table. His hand stopped in mid-motion as he caught sight of a gun aimed at his chest.
"Turn on the light," said the shadowy figure. "Slowly."
The voice was familiar. Arlo reached out and flicked the wall switch.
"Well, Detective Hackett. Thanks for saving me the trouble of finding you." Arlo struggled to control his rage. He wanted to charge Hackett, strangle him for what he had done to Bobby. But Hackett had shifted the gun's aim to Arlo's head. He had to wait, take him off guard.
"Your apartment's a mess." Arlo took a step forward. "Maid's day off?"
"Tomb's looking for me." Hackett's face was drawn and his tone carried a strained flatness.
"Tomb?" Arlo cocked an eyebrow.
"The leader of the Eternity Cult. He wants me dead." Sweat dripped down Hackett's lined forehead. He had a nervous twitch ticking at the corner of his eye. The man was genuinely frightened, though what he was saying sounded vaguely like something out of an old pulp novel. But it explained why his apartment had been torn apart.
Arlo nodded. "You're a weak link, Hackett. They knew I'd find you and make you talk. They weren't about to take any chances with that."
"Yeah, yeah that's right." Hackett's lower lips began to tremble slightly. His gun hand quaked. Arlo studied him, knowing the man was even more scared than he first thought.
"So what do you want from me?" He kept his voice steady, calming. There might be a chance if he could just get closer...
Hackett uttered a nervous laugh, almost a cackle.
"I-I figured if I killed you they'd let me live. There'd be no reason to kill me then, right?"
"You're a fool if you think that, Hackett. You've been on the force long enough to know what they'll do. They'll still kill you. It doesn't matter what you do to me because someone else may come along and start looking into things and if there's no link..." Arlo edged a foot forward, hooking the table leg.
Hackett's eyes darted and he looked ready to fall apart. He knew Arlo was right, had known it before he came here. "Then help me, please. I'll tell you where they are. Anything, anything you want to know. Just don't let them find me. You don't know how big this thing is."
"You killed my son." Cold fury laced Arlo's voice. It was all he could do to keep from throwing himself at the man. "The only way I'll help you is by strapping you in the goddamned chair."
Arlo kicked out, an explosive motion, using all his strength. His shin connected with the underside of the table, propelling it upward. Hackett, taken off guard, tumbled backward. The gun hit the floor and slid across the room unfired.
The table went completely over with a loud crash and Hackett scrambled on all fours for the weapon.
Arlo wasted no time thinking about his next move. He jumped forward and his foot shot out again, stamping on Hackett's out-stretched fingers. Hackett shrieked. Arlo heard bones break as he stepped harder, then bent and grabbed the detective. Hauling him up, he pressed his face close.
"You have one chance, you sonofabitch."
"An-anything. Please don't let them kill me."
"Where do they have Chloe? Who's behind this?"
"T-tonight. Midnight...Blair House."
"Blair House?" Shock jumped onto Arlo's face. "You can't be serious?"
Hackett was nearly crying. "Tomb owns Blair House. He had me kill Bobby to keep him quiet--it was his fault."
Arlo shook him. "Then--"
A shot shattered the window. A shower of glass pelted Arlo's back. Hackett was torn from Arlo's grip and flung backward. He crumpled into a heap on the floor a few feet away.
Arlo dove sideways. His hand swept out, doused the lights. He didn't bother with Hackett; he'd seen the round bloodless hole that had appeared in the detective's forehead.
A hush fell in the kitchen and Arlo heard the sound of his heart pounding, his blood rushing. So there had been someone outside, following him. And this was why. They had guessed Hackett would come to him and planned accordingly.
Arlo crawled across the floor, careful not to cut himself on the broken glass. Drawing his gun, he propped himself up beside the window and listened.
Silence.
Then footsteps, receding. Arlo chanced a look and saw two robed figures run to a car. They wasted no time getting in. The car sped away, tires squealing as they rounded the corner at the end of the street.
He rose to his feet and flicked on the light. He shot a brief look at the dead detective but felt no remorse. The man had been involved in Bobby's murder and he deserved whatever he got. But he had told Arlo a lot before he died. And it didn't give him a good feeling inside. This thing was bigger than he had thought. Much bigger.
Going to the phone, he dialed the station. Waiting for an answer, he checked his watch: 11:00. He didn't have much time. If what Hackett said was true, Chloe would be sacrificed at midnight, and Arlo was going to need some help.
#
Seven detectives moved silently through the wrought-iron gates and surrounded the old Victorian mansion, Blair House.
The sky had cleared and the moon cast a ghostly sheen over the grounds, pearling the straggling wisps of fog and elongating shadows.
Arlo Grimm and Detective John Sturdevant bent double as they skulked across the lawn. They crouched beneath a darkened window.
"Cripes, Grimm," said Sturdevant in an excited whisper. "You know who owns this place?"
"Yeah, I know." Arlo's voice came flat. His gorge rose as he thought about it. Despite the overt silliness of sacrificing at midnight and robed figures out of some horror novel there was a deathly seriousness to this that drove cold spikes of dread deep into his belly. This thing was big, considering whom it involved, and how far up it went. Maybe it even went beyond that and Arlo shuddered to think what would happen if it did.
"If you're wrong about this..." The worry in Sturdevant's voice was as icy as no on a virgin.
Arlo nodded, hoping he didn't sound flippant when he said, "You'll lose your job. Don't worry, I'm not wrong."
Arlo edged up to the window and peered through the crack between the drawn black curtains. He felt a knot tighten in his belly as he witnessed the scene unfolding within the room. Any possibility of being wrong suddenly vanished.
It was a scene from an old horror movie. Rows of candles--the sole source of lighting--flickered, making jagged shadows jump on the velvet-draped walls. A huge pentagram had been painted onto the drape hanging on the far wall. An upside-down cross at least six feet in height lay against another. A robed figure stood in front of the drape. Arlo counted six other figures, all gathered around a makeshift altar. A nude blonde woman lay strapped to the altar, struggling furiously at her bonds.
The head figure--Tomb, Arlo guessed--slowly lifted a golden chalice into the air and held it up before his hooded face. A low muffled chanting reached Arlo's ears.
The eerie figure tipped the cup forward, letting the red fluid dribble out and splash across the girl's breasts. He could see the look of terror on her face and felt his blood rush with anger. Her chest rose and fell with clutched breaths. Tomb trickled the liquid in a straight line from her collarbone down her belly, then from side to side, fashioning a crude, upside-down cross on her flesh.
The cult leader set the chalice on a table and picked up a curved dagger, sliding his fingers over the flat of the glittering blade. Arlo edged away from the window; he'd seen enough.
Detective Sturdevant pulled himself up and looked in "Holy Christ, they got a girl in there..." The detective's face took on a shocked look.
"That's Chloe." Anxiousness had drawn Arlo's nerves tight. "She's...a friend. He'll kill her if we don't move now."
Sturdevant shook his head, something in his eyes saying he couldn't believe what he was seeing, that it had to be all some sort of early Halloween joke. "Let's stop talking about it, then." Sturdevant drew his gun.
"You positive you can trust these men?" He nudged his head behind him.
The detective nodded. "I know each one of them personally. That doesn't guarantee it but it's the best I can give you."
Arlo swallowed. He had no choice other than to take Sturdevant at his word. Arlo's eyes narrowed as he looked directly at the detective. "Whatever happens, I want the leader. He is just as responsible for what happened to my son as Hackett."
The detective nodded.
#
A bullet shattered the lock and Arlo crashed a shoulder into the door; it flew inward with a tremendous bang. Pushing through first, followed by three detectives, he heard a loud report and knew four more had burst in from the back.
In the huge drawing room, a muffled confusion was taking place. The killers had been taken by surprise and Arlo could only guess it came from over-confidence in their leader. They had made no attempt at subtlety, feeling totally protected. And the leader surely considered all links to him closed with Hackett's death. That gave Arlo and Sturdevant an advantage.
Robed figures tried to scatter, each making a mad run for an exit, only to be cut off and cornered by one of the detectives. Two of the figures drew weapons, police issue, but were quickly cut down before they could fire. Sturdevant had told his men who they would find here and told them to take no chances. They weren't. They were following orders to the tee and Arlo felt his confidence increase slightly.
As Arlo came into the room, the cult leader spotted him immediately and with a wild hurried throw hurled his dagger. Arlo barely made it out of the way. He jerked sideways and the knife thunked into the wall.
As Arlo started forward, the robed leader jumped from behind the altar. He threw over one of the tables holding the candles and scrambled for the draped alcove. Candle flames ignited the thick shag carpet. The fire started slowly, catching in numerous places, then began to creep towards the covered walls.
With a leap, Tomb hurled himself at the French windows. Glass shattered and the robed figure went sailing through. Arlo saw Tomb light on his feet, running, heading towards the woods. A detective made a move to go after him.
"No!" Arlo shouted. "I'll get him!"
Arlo reached the altar and quickly unstrapped Chloe. The girl, tears sliding down her cheeks, hugged him.
"Arly, oh, God--"
"I know, Chloe," he said in a comforting voice. "It's almost over." Removing his plaid coat, he wrapped it around her shoulders; the coat came to her knees and covered her thoroughly.
By now, the room was ablaze. Flames leaped across the thick carpet, devouring it. Fiery tongues licked the walls, crackling. Smoke filled the room. Arlo felt it stinging his eyes, making them water, and starting to burn his throat.
Arlo pushed Chloe towards a detective. "Get her out of here. I'm going after Tomb."
Arlo leaped through the broken window, hit the ground running. Moonlight outlined the yard and woods beyond; he heard the muffled crashing of Tomb's frantic steps through the underbrush. The robe had slowed the cult leader down.
Good.
Arlo ran along a winding path that led through the woods a hundred yards behind Blair House. He pumped his legs as hard as he could, lungs aching. Low hanging mist and slick pine needles made the going treacherous and numerous times he almost lost his balance, but he could tell from the sounds ahead he'd closed the distance.
You bastard...
A few hundred feet on, a sudden silence stopped Arlo in his tracks. His breath beat out in hot painful gasps. Sweat poured down his face. He could barely hear anything above the muffled roar of his own blood pulsing through his veins.
He drew his .38, peering around at the tangle of trees and bushes. Nothing moved, not even a shadow--
Something slammed into him, sending him tumbling to the soggy ground. His breath burst from his lungs and his gun flew from his hand, landing a few feet away.
Arlo scrambled to his knees, but a curtain of red descended upon him, forcing him down again. He twisted, trying to throw off his attacker. He could see nothing but cloth over his head and he struck out blindly, hoping to hit something, anything. They wrestled, rolling in the muck and slick pine needles.
The cloth pulled away from Arlo's face for an instant as the figure released its hold and tried to get to its feet. Arlo, seizing the window of opportunity, snapped out a vicious kick, half-catching Tomb in the face. It was enough. It sent him over backwards, sprawling.
Arlo rolled and dove for his gun, coming up with it. "Don't!" he yelled, spinning and aiming at the robed figure, who had gained his feet, poised to leap. The figure slowly straightened.
"Take off the hood." Arlo motioned with the .38. "Now!" Arlo pushed himself up, breath beating out, heart pounding.
Tomb complied, removing the mask to reveal the haggard features of Police Chief Bradford.
"Where are the bodies? What'd you do with them?" Their eyes locked and Arlo saw Bradford hesitate under his stare.
The Police Chief saw the deadly intent in Grimm's eyes.
There was so little stopping Arlo from squeezing that trigger. All the rage inside him was rushing up; his son's face flashed before his eyes.
"Out back--buried--parts of them." There was no remorse in the man's tone, only a coldness that said the man had no conscience, no guilt whatsoever.
"You disgust me, Bradford. You used your position. You were supposed to be protecting people."
"There's so much more to it than that, Grimm. So much more. You don't understand and you never will. You think you'll stop it here? You won't, you know. You'll never stop it. No one ever has and no one ever will."
"All I know is you set up my son, you sonofabitch." Arlo cocked his gun. His finger moved a fraction, the urge to pull the trigger almost overpowering. He saw his son's face, saw the funeral and Bradford's callous indifference. For an instant it occurred to him the man had gone quite insane, fallen into some distorted fantasy world. But that thought flashed by and Arlo knew he'd never leave that judgment to any court. He didn't care what the consequences were.
Bradford stared back, eyes filled with mocking. The expression made Arlo hesitate. The man should have shown more fear.
"The Dark One promised I'd be protected, Grimm," said Bradford. Arlo was surprised at the cold confidence in the man's voice. "You're just a used-up old man. This is too powerful for you. You'll die like your son."
"You, my friend, have made a serious error in judgment." The fury inside him took over then, but it never showed on his face. A cold expression pulled at Arlo's lips as his finger tightened on the trigger.