Beckon (19 page)

Chapter 34

Jack felt himself being half carried, half dragged through darkness as the world spun around him. His head and jaw throbbed from where Carson had belted him, and Jack dimly added a concussion to his mental list of injuries. Only vaguely aware of his surroundings, he could tell he was descending deeper into darkness as shadow and cold folded around him and a sickly familiar scent of damp earth and stone filled his head.

Fear swirled inside his chest, though he was too groggy and disoriented to realize just how afraid he should be. Far down in his consciousness, he knew they were taking him back into the caves. Back into the horror from which he had barely escaped.

He heard metallic sounds: the jingle of keys and some kind of latch and then the dull wooden creak of a door. And then he fell flat onto a cold, hard stone floor. Human voices wailed and moaned in the darkness.

Above them all, Carson's harsh voice muttered something, but Jack couldn't respond; then the sound of their footsteps quickly receded into the darkness. And as Jack lay on the floor, he felt an insurmountable sense that he was completely alone.

“Hello?”

A woman's voice echoed somewhere nearby. Jack wondered if he was dreaming. Then a male voice—also nearby—responded. Jack thought he was speaking Spanish.

Jack opened his eyes. He lifted himself off the ground and surveyed his surroundings. He could see the vague rocky surface of walls. Along one side, a pale beam of green light streamed in through an opening. Like a small window in a door. Jack squinted. A prison door.

He rubbed his head and jaw, which still throbbed, though less intensely now. Carson's punch had packed considerable wallop. He almost thought he had heard voices calling to him.

“Hey in there . . . can you hear me?” The woman's voice came again.

Jack felt his way to the door and peered out into what looked like some kind of tunnel. Across from him, he could see another wooden door with a small window cut into it. Iron bars were embedded in the wood. A sick feeling grew in the pit of his stomach.

“I . . . I can hear you,” he said.

There was a pause. Jack was both relieved and disconcerted to hear others down in the darkness. Obviously this was where Vale was stockpiling new victims for his monsters. Then the voice came back.

“My name is Elina Gutierrez. I'm . . . I used to be a police officer from Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles?” Jack said. “How did you get here?”

“I was looking for my cousin, Javier. He'd been kidnapped and brought here. I followed their van from California but they caught me, too.”

At that point Jack heard another male voice off in the darkness, speaking Spanish. Elina responded in Spanish as well.

“Who are they?” Jack said.

“That's Javier. They brought a whole vanload of workers—they said they had jobs in Las Vegas but then brought them here four weeks ago and locked them in this place. I think they've been doing this for a while.”

Jack grunted. “Huh . . . I guess that makes sense.”

“Why? What are they doing to them?”

Jack leaned his forehead against the bars. “You don't want to know.”

“They said there's something down in the caves. Do you know what they're talking about?”

Jack couldn't bring himself to tell them what he knew. He could barely stand to think of it himself.

After a moment Elina's voice came again. “What's your name?”

“Jack.”

“Jack . . . how did
you
get here?”

Jack closed his eyes for a second. He had lost track of time. It had been only a matter of days, yet it seemed like forever. “I was in the caves, trying to find some evidence of an old Indian legend. . . .”

He gave her all the details of his expedition. How he had discovered his father's papers and the article on the Caieche. He told her about the legends of the N'watu and the Soul Eater. He described how they had found the cave and the kiracs in the bone pit. His voice grew a little shaky as he described Rudy and Ben and how they died. He told her about his encounter with the N'watu remnant still living in the caves and his escape. And finally how he had been captured by the people in Beckon and everything he had learned about perilium and their dark history of human sacrifices to the Soul Eater.

Elina seemed particularly interested in that part. “Perilium? Well, that explains how Carson recovered from his gunshot wound.”

“Gunshot?” Jack said. “When did that happen?”

Then Jack listened as Elina told him about her own encounter—how she had followed the white van with the Nevada plates to Wyoming and how she had shot Carson nearly point-blank and he had appeared to recover.

“But the trouble is, they all have some kind of addiction to it,” Jack said. “If they ever stopped taking it, they would all die.”

“So they've been smuggling illegal immigrants for years,” Elina said. “Now I know why.”

“But they don't know how to actually
make
this stuff themselves,” Jack said. “So they've been forced to keep this bargain with the N'watu.”

“Well, you said they thought it was somehow connected to these creatures.”

“Yes, but they don't know how exactly,” Jack said, lowering his voice. “When we were inside the cave, we saw the N'watu performing some kind of ceremony where they pulled the hatchlings out of an egg sac and ate them. Then they poured the rest into a bowl and started mashing them up.”

“So you think they make perilium out of the . . . baby kiracs?”

“And that's what the Soul Eater legend says,” Jack said. “The queen kirac supposedly devours a human soul and then imparts its energy back through her nectar.”

“That's disgusting,” Elina grunted.

“Yeah, but it makes sense,” Jack said. “There must be something in the kiracs' physiology—some type of enzyme or something, maybe active just during that stage of their development—that causes the effect on the body.”

“There's one thing I don't get,” Elina said. “How has this tribe been able to survive for so long? You said you only saw the one female in the cave. That's not much of a gene pool.”

Jack shrugged. “I don't know. There must be more of them that we didn't see.”

“Or maybe they're just like those creatures,” Elina said. “Like you said, a group of hunters around a single queen.”

“Maybe.” Jack rubbed his eyes. “I don't care anymore. I just want to find a way out.”

Elina seemed to brighten. “There were two people who came down here earlier. I don't know who they are, but I don't think they're part of all this. They said they were guests or something. They were going to try to get help.”

“If they're guests
here
, I'm not so sure we can trust them,” Jack said. “I wouldn't trust anyone connected to Thomas Vale.”

“I don't think they knew what was going on here. They said they were going to try to contact the FBI.”

“I hope you're right.”

Although
hope
was not something he sensed much at the moment.

Chapter 35

George had watched Miriam sleep fitfully throughout the night. He had tossed and turned himself, as he found he couldn't get the vision of Amanda's agonizing death out of his mind. And Vale leering over her, playing mind games with him. The man was clearly used to manipulating his subordinates and circumstances, all to his own advantage.

George woke every time Miriam coughed or rolled over, afraid she would start having seizures during the night. And by the time morning came, he'd not slept more than a few minutes at a time and was still bleary-eyed when he heard voices outside the door.

George slipped out of bed to see what was going on just as Dwight Henderson entered with a tray of food. Through the doorway, George spotted Mulch still standing guard outside.

Henderson set the tray on the table and glanced into the bedroom. “How is she doing this morning?”

George glared at him. “As well as could be expected.”

Henderson was silent for a moment and then shook his head. “Why did you go nosing around? Why did you have to go down into the tunnels?”

“Why were
you
down there?” George said. “What does Vale have you doing? Checking on all his prisoners?”

“You don't know the whole story.”

George could see some kind of conflict in Henderson's eyes. Whatever was going on in this town, it looked like Henderson was more of an unwilling participant. Much like Amanda had been.

“Then why don't you tell me? You can start with how you got here.”

“It's not important.” Henderson looked away. “It was a long time ago.”

George sighed. “Vale lured you here the same way he did us, didn't he? To save someone you loved?”

Henderson didn't answer.

“Who was she?”

Henderson's gaze fell, and after a moment he took a long breath. “Her name was Julia. She was my wife. But she's been gone more than eighty years now.”

“From the perilium?”

“No . . .” Henderson sat down. “No, she hanged herself.”

“Suicide? What happened?”

Henderson's gaze shifted around the room. “I was a doctor in San Francisco when Julia became ill with leukemia. It was 1897 and we tried every treatment available to us, but she only got worse. And that's when Vale contacted me. I . . . I don't know how he found me, but Julia was quite literally on her deathbed and Vale said he had this medicine—an old Indian treatment that would heal her. But he said it would come at a cost. My family was quite wealthy, but he said he didn't only want our money. He just said the cure would require us to move to Beckon.”

“Sounds familiar,” George grunted.

Henderson shrugged. “We were desperate, and I would have done anything to save her. So, of course, I agreed. We were both in our fifties at the time and soon I found what you did. That perilium reverses the aging process and makes a person young again. Within days, Julia looked like she was thirty years younger.”

George nodded. “You thought it was a miracle.”

“Yes,” Henderson said. “He offered it to me as well, but he said he needed me to return to San Francisco for a few years. He said he had work for me to do.”

George frowned. “What kind of work?”

“Horrible work.” Henderson looked down and shuddered. “The devil's work.”

“What was it?”

“He said he needed . . .
specimens
, he called them—five or six every month. He gave me very detailed instructions on what to do and how to have them sent. He said I would find plenty of suitable subjects in San Francisco. People no one would miss. Vagrants, prostitutes, criminals. He said I would be doing the city a favor. All I had to do was sedate them and have them transported to Wyoming. Henry Mulch would arrive with a coach every month like clockwork. And Vale said if I missed a single deadline, the perilium would stop and Julia would die. If I told anyone or tried to send help, Julia would die.”

George recalled Vale's boasting about his negotiation skills. “So he found out what you needed most and exploited that to get what he wanted. He used your fear against you.”

“It's what he does best. It's how he has survived here for so long.”

“So what did he do with them? The . . . specimens?”

Henderson grew pale at George's question. “There's something down in the caves. The N'watu call it the Soul Eater—they worship it like some kind of god. And it's the source of the perilium.” He turned away. “The N'watu must supply it with a new offering—they . . .
feed
it a human soul in exchange for the perilium.”

“
Feed
it?” George couldn't believe what he was hearing. “What do you mean? What is this thing?”

“It's . . . some kind of animal.” Henderson seemed to struggle for words. “A creature that drinks the blood of its prey. The N'watu say it feeds on a human soul and in exchange provides that soul's energy back to them.”

“This is crazy!” George found his mind reeling again. He got up and paced the room. The more information he gained about this town, the more hideous and terrifying it became. “So then everyone's role here is somehow involved with finding new victims.”

“One way or another,” Henderson said. “If we don't provide the N'watu with a new sacrifice, the perilium will stop. And if the perilium stops, we'll all die. Just the way you saw Amanda die.”

“How many
specimens
did you send him?”

“I don't know.” Henderson rubbed his eyes. “I wouldn't keep count. You have to understand, I had to become another man altogether to do this work. Like Jekyll and Hyde. Sometimes I would find two or three at a time to send. I swear I didn't know what he was doing with them.”

George grew indignant. This man truly believed he had done nothing wrong. He had justified his role in the deaths of possibly hundreds of innocent human beings. “What did you think he was doing? You're a doctor. You're supposed to
save
lives!”

“I saved
Julia's
life. As long as Vale kept getting his specimens, she had enough perilium. Don't tell me you wouldn't sacrifice a stranger—or a thousand strangers—to save Miriam.”

George's indignation suddenly abated. He'd made just such a choice last night. Amanda's life had been in his hands and he'd sacrificed it for his wife's. He no longer had the moral high ground from which to judge Henderson.

He wondered how long Henderson had kept this secret bottled up inside him. His voice softened. “Then what happened? How did you end up here?”

Henderson sighed and sank onto the couch. “It got to be too dangerous for me to stay in San Francisco. I was getting old by then and in danger of getting caught. Vale said it was time and I could come to Beckon to stay. He said he would give me the perilium and he had additional work for me to do.”

George frowned. “You wanted the perilium too? Even after everything you knew about it?”

“For a chance to regain my youth? To live with my Julia forever? Yes, more than anything. I drank it too.”

“Despite all the people that had been killed.”

“These were vagrants, criminals. After a time I came to accept what had once been unacceptable.” His gaze turned cold. “Don't judge me too harshly. It's not as hard as you might think.”

“And what happened to Julia?”

Henderson turned away. He went to the window and hung his head. “She never knew the truth about her cure or the things I had done on her behalf. She only knew that perilium was a fountain of youth, and she was perfectly happy in her ignorance. Then one day she found my journals. She confronted me and I had to tell her everything. She hanged herself not long afterward.”

George didn't know whether to hate the man or pity him. Despite his complicit role in all this evil, George couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Because now he found himself in the same predicament.

Henderson left, and George woke Miriam to give her some breakfast. She ate quietly, not speaking much. George knew she must be preoccupied with thoughts of her own mortality. He tried to engage her in conversation but with little luck.

Vale kept them consigned to their room, and as the hours passed, George could see Miriam was growing more and more withdrawn. By noon she complained of a slight fever and a headache that grew worse as the day wore on.

George sat at the bedside, wiping the sweat from her forehead with a cool, damp washcloth. He still couldn't get the vision of Amanda's death out of his head. And now as he watched Miriam's condition worsen by the hour, he found his own resolve weakening.

He stood over her bed as she opened her eyes, shadowed by dark circles, and offered him a weak smile.

“I can't do this,” he said at last, his voice shaky. “I can't just stand around and watch you suffer.”

“George . . .” Her voice was soft and her breathing grew labored. “This place—this man—is evil. You need to be strong. You can't . . . give him what he wants.”

“I'm not going to let you die.”

“I'm . . . not afraid. You need to let me go. You'll never be free of him if you don't.”

George shook his head. He'd just gotten her back after four years, and he wasn't about to let her go again. He went to the door, where Mulch was standing guard.

“I need to see Vale—
now
.”

Mulch led him to the dining hall, where everyone was gathered eating. The Brownes, the Huxleys, the Dunhams, along with Carson and Henderson. George noticed that this evening there was little conversation and the general mood seemed more subdued. And no wonder, George thought. Vale had just killed off one of their own with about as much detachment as if he had traded in a used car for a newer model. He sat in his normal place at the head of the table and raised an eyebrow as George entered.

“Hello, George,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I've been expecting you. I assume you've had a change of heart?”

“Yes.” George tried to mask his contempt. “You win. I'll do whatever you want me to do. Just give her the perilium.”

“A wise choice,” Vale said. “I'm looking forward to integrating you into our group. And now that Amanda has left us, I think Miriam would fit this role perfectly.”

“I wouldn't be too sure of that.” Miriam's voice came from the doorway.

George turned. “What are you doing?”

Miriam's face was deathly pale and glistening with sweat. “I'm coming here to s-stop you from making . . . a mistake.”

“It's okay,” George said. “The money doesn't matter to me.”

“It's not about the
money
,” Miriam said, stepping gingerly into the room. “It's about your soul. I can't let you . . . get involved in what they're doing here. I won't do this.”

“Come now, Mrs. Wilcox, get off your high horse.” Vale gestured to the others at the table. “In Beckon, we have found an end to disease and suffering. And even time has no power to ravage your body. I've made you young and beautiful again.”

“On the lives of those people down there?” Miriam looked at the others. “Do they have to . . . die so you can live?”

“All species live at the expense of others,” Vale said. “That's the way it is in nature.”

“Perhaps that's the way of animals. Not us.”

“Criminals, indigents, and the dregs of modern society. Those are the types of people down there. We have made the world a better place by eliminating them.”

“Those are human beings. Created in God's image. You have no right—”

“God's image?” Vale laughed. “In a great house, there are vessels designed for noble purposes and others for ignoble, remember? God Himself creates the distinction. God Himself destined them for this purpose. To be given for us. We're simply ridding His house of the ignoble vessels. In our own way, we're doing His divine will.”

“You are not God . . . and this is not His will.” She looked at the others gathered around the table and sucked in a long breath. “He's played on your fears . . . and used them against you. You were all so d-desperate to save yourselves or your loved ones that you were willing to do anything.
Anything.
And now look at you. You're like slaves. You do whatever he tells you to, no matter how terrible. You think . . . you're immortal . . . but you've lost your souls long ago.”

“I don't care.” George grabbed her shoulders. “I can't lose you again.”

“Lose me?” Miriam touched his cheek and smiled. “After all these years you still don't . . . understand? Death isn't the end, George—not for me. I'm . . . just going home.”

“Are you so sure of that?” Vale pointed to the windows. “Death and disease rule out there. But I saved you from it. Here in this town,
I've
given you immortality.”

“You've made them prisoners,” Miriam countered. “They live in fear of you. Afraid that one day you'll take it all away from them.”

Vale's eyebrows went up. “And you would have them believe you're
not
afraid of dying?”

Miriam shook her head. “I may be . . . afraid of dying . . . but I don't fear death.”

Vale grunted. “And why is that?”

Miriam grimaced and doubled over, leaning on George for support. And then with all her strength, she straightened again, leveling her gaze at Vale and the others. But George saw in her eyes neither hate nor anger nor even defiance, but rather . . .

Compassion.

“Because . . . I know the Author of life.”

Vale scowled and looked away from her. “It's not too late, George.” His voice was even and confident. He got up from the table and slipped a glass vial from his pocket. “I can stop her suffering. I have it in my power.”