Chosen (27 page)

Light spilled from the door of their taping room, a beacon guiding them from the parking lot. Michael Jenkins, Peter Martin, and Matthew Clark were sitting facing the doorway. All three were in various states of disarray, clothes hastily yanked on in their rush to get to the church. Michael, sitting in the middle, welcomed her with a warm smile; however, it faltered and died when he saw her face.

He tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his concern. Peter and Matthew didn’t even try to disguise their worry, having heard about her condition from Michael. Matthew was especially anxious. (He had never participated in a
Finding.
) Though Michael and Peter assured him that the more violent aspects of the
Joining
no longer occurred—and he could enjoy the spiritually uplifting part—he was still nervous. He was made still more anxious by the presence of a cameraman and four large FBI agents whose presence filled the small room to overflowing.

Thomas moved the lights around to account for the two extra men in front. When he was done, David, Phillipe, and Teddy drifted to the sides, sitting in chairs pushed against the wall.

Winters hovered close by Thomas’ left shoulder, avid curiosity written on his normally inexpressive face. Mariah knew he’d been warned about Thomas moving around a lot. Nevertheless, she knew he was not about to miss one single nuance if he could help it.

When Thomas was ready, he asked David to kill the overhead lights, more for Mariah’s sake than for filming purposes. Lately, her eyes were super-sensitive to bright lights. It gave the little room a theatrical look, with the audience in the dark and the actors illuminated on stage.

Thomas nodded. Mariah requested the three ministers join hands. She was suddenly frightened to let go of the gentle
hissss
of the white noise, and allow the painful clamor to surface into her consciousness.

Gripping Michael’s shoulders, she closed her eyes. Instantly the three ministers dropped their heads to their chests, their shoulders slumped. She sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly—and the white noise drifted away.

The screaming and screeching and pounding and babbling returned. This time Mariah was prepared, determined not to let it cripple her as it had before. Drenched in sweat, she fought the assault with all her strength.

She tensed, feeling a veil of blackness descend. Before losing consciousness, she abruptly envisioned a honeycomb with hexagonal cells. Into each cell, she isolated a single noise then soundproofed it by imagining a wax sealant. Somehow she was able to compartmentalize all the sounds, finally creating a welcomed silence.

Mariah unplugged one cell: it was the woman, pleading for help. She made contact with Geralyne Barrett who had not given up her entreaties, even though eight hours had passed.

Geralyne was in Miami, the prisoner of Gustavo Diaz, the wealthy drug lord known as C3 (the Cuban Cocaine Czar). He had hooked her on crack, the idea being for her to become a dealer. Being a television production assistant, she had powerful connections in Hollywood among the
Glitterati
. Diaz wanted access to these wealthy people and their businesses. However, he had a hard time accepting “no” for an answer when she refused. He was further incensed when she informed him that she was through with him and his drugs and was going to rehab to get straight.

His
soldado
terrorized Geralyne day and night, but she never broke. Her strength infuriated him. He thought her constant prayers were directed at the Lord. The beatific smile on her face an hour before the FBI took him prisoner worried him. He thought she had snapped before he was through with her.

Mariah provided Winters with the necessary information about Geralyne’s whereabouts; however, the three ministers remained entranced. Thomas wore a quizzical expression, but he kept the camera on her. Something unusual was about to happen.

She saw Agent Winters with the same puzzled expression on his face. It changed, his eyes widening when Mariah began to speak in the same gibberish they had heard on the Sophie Duval tape.

Mariah had never found more than one person at a time. Each
Finding
sapped her energy for many hours—sometimes days—afterwards.

She opened another cell, and the silence was shattered by the squealing of metal brakes. She muffled the penetrating screeches, finally hearing what she thought she previously imagined; the human cries of terror and pain.

Sweat rolled down her face and her legs trembled with fatigue. Ignoring her discomfort, she finally zeroed in on the location where she heard the sobbing. It was a garage behind a train depot station that housed several all-terrain trucks and material to repair tracks.

Benjamin Ringeisen lay on his side, his arms straight down, his body tied back to back with his twin brother, Joseph. It was Benny’s screams she heard amid the shrieking brakes.

Benjamin was in agony from a festering wound caused by a rat bite on his ankle. When they were first kidnapped, he and Joey whispered together to keep up their morale, certain their father would pay the ransom soon and come for them. But several hours ago, Joey stopped talking. Benny didn’t know if his brother had passed out—or was dead.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, sure that the lady who suddenly appeared before his eyes was just a dream. But when the apparition touched his ankle, the pain lessened. At least he thought it did.
Either that, or the rat finally chomped off the nerves, and there’s no foot there anymore
, he thought deliriously.

Heat began to move from the ankle up his leg, until it warmed his entire body. With a little effort, he found he could wiggle his toes. When she left him and started toward the door he panicked, crying for her to come back.

She hurried (
drifted
?
)
back, laying a hand on his head while she smiled at him.
She’s a real looker, that’s what dad would call her, a looker
, Benny observed through the haze of pain.

“I’m going to look out the door to see exactly where we are, Benny. I promise I’ll be right back. You’re not hallucinating. I’m going to get your dad and the police right away.”
Funny
, he thought,
I
can hear her voice, but her mouth ain’t moving
.

The cops arrived twenty minutes after David Paradise called the Langston, Missouri PD. They were amazed at what they found. Joseph was slowly coming out of shock, his body re-hydrating like he had been on a saline drip. The multiple wounds that covered his body where rats had bitten him were no longer ulcerated and gangrenous. The skin was red and raw, but healthy.

Benjamin looked like he’d been recuperating for days, at a rate far in advance of Joseph. There were lesions on his body, evidence of major wounds that might have healed months ago. He was flushed with a mild temperature, but his fluid level was twice that of his brother’s.

Bel “The Dragon” Muldur (nickname compliments of Louie The Lush from Louisiana who said, “One day, all dat gas in Beltram’s body gonna clump togedda in one mutha-fuckin’ stoo-pen-dee-us belch dat gonna come blastin’ up his gullet like a godamighty volcano and light de a’cohol fumes in his mouf and
flames
will come a’shootin’ outta him like he was a freakin’ dragon!”) was apprehended when he came flying out of the woods about two miles down the tracks, right into the arms of the waiting Feds. He gibbered madly about “...some ghost lordgodamighty, a goddamn female bugaboo scarin’ da crap right outta me wit dem pointy teef and flames a’shootin’ out dem eyes!” (The report noted an affirmative on the crap statement.)

Michael lifted his head, followed more slowly by Peter and Matthew. Mariah’s hands remained on Michael’s shoulders, her face once again expressionless. For just a moment, no one knew what to do; however, Thomas never stopped filming.

Her eyes narrowed and she smiled. Crossing her arms over her chest, her smile deepened, a glint in her eyes reflected from the lamp light. In a husky growl, she said, “Thanks, gentlemen. I won’t need your services any longer.”

The three clergymen stood. Matthew reached for his chair, bringing it to the left, setting it down before curiosity made him turn back. Peter brought his to the opposite side, but had not put it down when he turned toward her.

At the sound of her voice, Michael paused, never touching his chair. He straightened, turned around, and locked eyes with her—and his heart rate thudded in dismay.

Gabriel Winters took an inadvertent step backwards. Unconsciously, his hand moved up to his shoulder holster.

Thomas never took his eye from the lens piece as he tightly gripped the camera. For the first time in his association with Mariah Carpenter, he was frightened.

Without taking her eyes off Michael, she drawled, “Not necessary, Agent Winters. I have no intentions of hurting anyone ... here.”

The words were said quietly, but the deep, rumbling bass was, nonetheless, penetrating. It was the tone that Thomas heard the night he entered this room to film the
Finding
of Sophie Duval. It only enhanced the nasty gleam in her eyes, the diabolic smile on her lips. She was daunting—and ominous.

Michael appeared to be the only person in the room who was not afraid to speak. He reached out toward her and said, “Mariah ...”

“Michael ... back off. Please.” Her voice was a hoarse growl that issued from the back of her throat. The polite addition was an afterthought meant to minimize the insulting command.

Matthew Clark sat down heavily in his chair, his eyeballs bulging in their sockets as he gripped the armrests. When Michael hesitated, more afraid to leave her alone than he was of her hurting him, Peter instinctively moved slightly forward. The chair, still gripped in his hands, was now up against his chest like a shield.

Mariah’s eyes drifted away from Michael’s and stared into Peter’s. She slowly raised her hand, her finger pointing at his chair. Seemingly mesmerized, he lowered the chair and backed away.

Her gaze returned to Michael, her eyes boring into his eyes.

With a shake of his head, he complied. Picking up his chair, he brought it halfway down the room before he set it down gently. He then turned around to face her again, tears welling behind his eyelids.

The air suddenly became alive. Lavender light shimmered around her as the spotlights dimmed dramatically. Almost immediately the hair on everyone’s arms and heads sprang up as a chilling breeze whipped through the room.

Without warning, Anthony Santatoro was shoved backwards, falling hard on his backside. Before he had time to register the fact that he was supposed to be alone in the pitch black of this metal shed, a woman’s face, contorted by hatred and fury, appeared before him, surrounded by purple light. Terrified, he tried to scrabble backwards using his butt, his hands, his heels—but he didn’t get far before she spoke.

“Quit that pounding you asshole, you’re giving me a headache. Hey, waddya know? It’s Tony the Touch! So how’s it hanging, Wiseguy? Looks like your business associates ain’t too thrilled with you right about now.”

Anthony stared in horror at the face that hovered three feet before him, unaware his bladder had let go, ruining his five hundred dollar trousers. The voice issuing from the mouth of the head sounded like shoes crunching on shards of glass.

How the hell did she know his street name, given to him by his godfather when he was voted the best teenage pickpocket in Flatbush? So scared he couldn’t respond, he whimpered pathetically.
Oh shit oh hell Mother of God Almighty save me from whatever the fuck dis is
!

The apparition’s rough, guttural voice cooed repulsively, the smile on her face obscenely delighted. “Sorry,
goomba
. God’s mother ain’t about to come to your aid,” she hissed. “She doesn’t have time for excrement like you. But
I
have plenty of time.”

This hasta be some kind of fuckin’ joke
, Anthony thought frantically, trying to interject some sanity into the madness of the situation.
Dem assholes are just tryin’ to scare the shit outta me with this Hollywood freak head crap. They ain’t gonna let me rot in this shit box till the skin melts off my bones like they promised
.

“Ohhhh, yes they are,
paisan
. You’ve pissed off just about everybody you’ve ever done business with. And now, buddy boy,
I’m
pissed off.” Smoke swirled out of the face’s eye sockets, but the sight wasn’t nearly as terrifying as was the wet, depraved chuckle.

Please, please, I didn’t do nuthin’ I swear on my mother’s head pul-eez Jesus Chrrrrrisssssst!
Anthony pleaded with the ghoul, still unable to spit anything coherent out of his mouth.

The lips on the head leered obscenely. “Payback’s a bitch, Tony.
This
is for all the ladies you used as punching bags.” Suddenly his face, head, and neck felt like they were being clubbed with a baseball bat, the blows coming so fast and hard he couldn’t do anything but curl up and throw his arms over his head to protect himself.

The voice became louder, causing the shed to vibrate. “And
this
is for all the teenage runaways you forced into prostitution.” Pain erupted in his genitals like someone had set a match to his balls. Screaming at the top of his lungs, Anthony forgot about the blows to his head and grabbed his crotch with both hands, expecting to find his penis nothing more than a blackened stump.

“And
this
,” the head said, its voice dropping to nearly a whisper, “is for all the people you hooked on crack.” Anthony’s body began to shake with a violence that had his feet, butt, and head bouncing on the floor. The agony that roiled in his midsection felt like somebody was carving him up with a hot poker. As he thrashed about, white foam oozing out of his mouth, his sphincter muscles loosened and feces spread up his back and down his legs.

Even through the pain that encompassed his entire body, Anthony felt like the shack had caught fire, tremendous heat emanating from the phantom’s head. “
PHEW
! You smell bad, boy. Hey, get that? “Bad boy”? Anyway, it’s time for me to go. I’m sure you’re gonna miss me, but don’t worry, I won’t let you die in here. The NYPD should be here shortly. Wouldn’t want your rotten, stinking carcass to come up dead now, would we.”

The heat dissipated and the shack filled with dim light. Through the pain, Anthony Santatoro looked up and beheld the full form of a woman straddling him, her arms locked tightly across her chest.

The expression on her face was no longer evil, just sad. But the sadness was not for him. Just before her image faded, he thought he saw tears in her eyes.