They (51 page)

When it finally came it was in a single sentence, from the dark-haired doctor. “Time of death five minutes after five p.m., Pacific Time.”

With no clear destination in mind, Vince moved.

He headed down the hall, away from the triage room, not really knowing where he was going, only knowing that he had to get away.

YOU KNEW….TRACY…
.

Frank’s last words floated through his mind as Vince walked out to his car numbly, the scene in the hospital reverberating in his mind. With Mike Peterson dead, Frank was obviously frantic, worried about Tracy, worried about Vince, and he was confirming to Vince what he’d known all along. The Children of the Night were after him. He was important to them. What was the term Frank had used? The Red Opener? Like some kind of portal? Whatever it was, it was sick, it was dangerous, it was insane, and he had to get as far away from these people as possible. And he had to contact Tracy and get somewhere safe where they could never be found.

Vince’s cell phone rang as he approached his car. He answered it as he disarmed the vehicle and climbed in. “Yeah?”

“Vince?” Tracy’s voice. She sounded concerned. He could only guess what he sounded like to her. “Vince, you okay?”

“Frank’s dead,” Vince said. He sat in the front bucket seat of his car, staring out at the lot and its multitudes of cars shimmering in the July sun. “So is Mike. They’re both dead.”

For a moment there was silence on the other end of the line. Then, Tracy came back on the line. Her voice was calm, urging. “Vince, are you okay to drive?”

“I think so,” Vince said. He felt numb; detached, like he was in a waking nightmare. “It’s just…everything…it happened so fast.”

“You need to get out of there,” Tracy said. “Do you understand me, Vince?”

“Yeah. I understand.”

“I need you to come pick me up,” Tracy continued. “Only you’re not coming to the condo. I’m at Brian’s place. Can you pick me up there?”

“What are you doing there?” Vince asked. Brian Dennison lived in a large house in Laguna Hills.
They…took me…near Laguna Hills
…

“I told him what’s happening and he’s set us up. Everything is set up for our new lives, Vince. I acted on this the minute you dropped me off at the condo. I did it for us. We’re both going to be fine.”

“Everything’s…set up?”

“To escape,” Tracy said, her voice calm, soothing. “But we have to leave now. Come get me.”

“Okay.”

“You remember where Brian lives, right?”

“Yeah. I’m leaving now.”

“Drive carefully. I’ll see you soon.” And then Tracy hung up.

This played in his mind as he headed south on the 405 toward Irvine. The Lexus purred contentedly in rush hour traffic as Vince merged into the next lane, maneuvering to the left so he could get onto Interstate 5 where he would then get off on Mission Road. From there he would turn left, heading inland. Laguna Beach would lie behind him, a conclave of upper-middle class homes nestled in South Orange County. But further inland…

Laguna Hills.

Vince had been to Brian’s house a number of times. The neighborhood was made up primarily of high-level professionals: bankers, lawyers, doctors, CEOs. It was very plausible that Gladys Black and her husband lived within the general area.

As Vince drove, he thought about what Frank Black had told him in his drug-addled state. It was obvious
something
had happened to him; he’d looked gravely wounded. The attending ER physician did not want to discuss the specific nature of Frank’s more threatening injuries. Vince felt his stomach churn; he was nervous. It was still very difficult to believe the supernatural was at play here. He had a hard time believing what Frank had told him. Vince a half-human half-demon hybrid? It was absurd. The Children of the Night might believe it, but Vince didn’t, and that’s what made them so powerful. It was their belief that propelled them, what motivated them. Their devotion to this insane cause was as idiotic as those Christian nuts in Kansas with the god hates fags website and the Jihadists in the Middle East who blew themselves up in order to take down a few infidels.

The exit he was looking for came up and Vince took it, cruising effor
t-lessly onto Mission Viejo Road. He continued east, trying not to be both-ered by rush hour traffic. He drove on autopilot, his route already mapped out. He knew where he was going, and he would know the house when he saw it.

How had Frank wound up back in Fountain Valley? Did Gladys and the other Children of the Night dump him on some random street corner after doing whatever it was they did with him? For what purpose? Why not just kill him and make the body disappear? The more Vince thought about it, the more confused he got. Words and images swam in his conscious. The Red Opener. Hanbi. Father of Satan. Ancient and forbidden
books of black magic written by Assyrian priests. How could such a le
gend continue for untold thousands of years, known only by a select few?

Something came out….ripped me open…it ate me
…

Don’t believe a word she says…she did it…she orchestrated it…

The more Vince thought about it, the more the questions piled on. Mike Peterson’s wife, Carol, crying on TV. Gladys Black being furious with Frank, letting him be savaged by whatever thing they’d let loose on him before. Newport Road came up and Vince swung into the left-hand lane, making his turn at the light and continuing north.

Something Frank said bugged him.
They’ve been, like, onto you now, grooming you for the past ten years. Can you believe it
?

Ten years?

Vince’s brow furrowed as he thought about the past ten years. In 1989 he’d still been a student, heading to the top of his graduating class in the
MBA Program at UCI. He was dating a beautiful woman named Diana Ro
berts, whom he’d met at a party over the Christmas holidays in 1988, and next to his relationship with Laura, that liaison was the hottest affair he’d ever had. He remembered the relationship being fiery, hot with passion. There’d been something about Diana that had awoken such a lustful side of him that he couldn’t resist her. Normally, Vince had been attracted to conservative girls—preppy cheerleaders, studious types. Diana had been the exact opposite. She’d been a wild, heavy metal rocker chick with teased out hair, lithe features, legs to her neck, and a body
that wouldn’t quit. Unlike most of the party girls Vince had known, Di
ana had actually possessed a brain. They’d have these long conversations about everything from politics to music, to literature and films, to economics and current events. She was well educated yet had a wild side that had won Vince over. He’d been a little sad to see the relationship end.

He kept his eye peeled to the cliffs to his right. It was still light enough to make out the houses perched along the edge of the canyon. The houses that lined the cliff looked to be a good quarter of a mile away, and Vince swung into his right lane so he could cruise it.

He wondered what ever happened to Diana Roberts. About a month or so into their relationship, she’d suddenly stopped calling him or taking his phone calls. When Vince dropped by her apartment in Hunting-ton Beach to see if she was okay (he’d thought she’d been sick or something), he was shocked to find that she’d cleared out. Her apartment was vacant and she’d left no forwarding address.

A year later he was working at Corporate Financial, in a job that had seemingly landed at his feet. Brian Denison, one of the middle managers that interviewed him for the position, had become a good friend and in the three years that passed Vince had risen up the ladder quickly. By 1994 he was a Regional Division Manager in charge of all accounts. He was also dating Laura Palmer, who he’d met at a business function. Two years later he and Laura were married, and Vince thought life couldn’t get any better.

Only it had. There was another promotion, this one as V.P. in charge of International Accounts. Brian was grooming him for a Presidency position; Vince knew that, and his handling of overseas stocks and bonds was becoming impeccable. One of the firm’s clients, Azif Offshore Investments, was rapidly growing into one of the most lucrative firms that the company held and it had been Brian’s baby, which he’d passed on to Vince. “I’m gonna let you do your magic on this one, pal,” Brian had told him that day just a year ago when he’d been handed the account. “These guys are gonna bust out. They’re projected at grossing three hundred billion dollars in 1999. By 2000, they’re gonna be bigger than Microsoft.”

Vince had been riding high, on top of the world, and then it had all come crashing down when Laura lost control of her vehicle and flew off the 5, crashing into a stand of trees.

Eight months after he’d buried her he still grieved. And he tried to get on with his life. Tracy Harris had proven to be a godsend. Brian Denison had been a saint. He’d given Vince all the time he’d needed, had helped him out on his accounts. Vince didn’t know how he’d managed to get through it, but somehow he did.

He saw the gleam of light reflecting off the plate glass window of a home nestled on a jutting crag just as another thought spiked his brain. Tracy Harris…something about her was suddenly becoming déjà vu. He knew he’d never met her before that social mixer at the American Banking Association Convention this past winter, but all of a sudden she popped into his head with the uncanny feeling that they
had
met before. It was something about her speech, the way she spoke and carried herself that was creating those familiar feelings. Vince tried to focus on it as he made a right hand turn down Park Street, which would lead him up the hill to the neighborhood where Brian lived.

Vince made another right down Fir Street. Tracy Harris wouldn’t get out of his mind, either. The taste of her lips, the comforting warmth of her body pressed against his, it was all coming back to him now, like an old friend, someone he hadn’t seen in years, someone he’d forgotten but his subconscious hadn’t.

As he drew closer to the neighborhood, he felt a weight settle in his stomach. His fingers gripped the steering wheel and he dry swallowed. This was ridiculous. He would have known if he’d slept with Tracy Harris before. He’d only been with ten other women in his life, and Tracy Harris sure hadn’t been one of them. Christ, he could name all his past lovers by name. Susie, Brandy, Lori, Tonya, Susan, Vicki, Diana, Cathy—

The names and faces rushed by and none matched, but oh there was one that was familiar. This realization settled in him as he pulled up in front of Brian’s home, a very large red brick sprawling place, and turned off the ignition. The driveway was full of vehicles. The house was at the end of a cul-de-sac; other cars were parked along the curbs of the neighboring homes, as if somebody were hosting a party. A strange sense of calmness flooded over him; he no longer felt afraid or nervous. He
looked at Brian’s home, still trying to place where he might have possi
bly met up with Tracy Harris before, knowing he would make the connection soon. Then he got out of the car, closed the driver’s side door, and began walking up the driveway toward the house.

As he walked up the driveway, Diana Roberts came to his mind. There was something uncanny about Diana, something about her eyes…those green eyes of hers that had been so alluring, so entrancing. That and the way she had walked, the way she’d kissed him, the way she’d made love to him…it was all coming back now. And the more he thought about Diana Roberts, the more he thought about Tracy Harris and how opposite they were to each other. True, both of them were built similarly, but there the resemblances ended. Tracy was cultured, refined, classy. Diana Roberts was—

He mounted the concrete steps to the porch that led up to the large double oak doors and knocked.

And when the door was opened, a tall elderly man dressed in an immaculate black suit looked out at him and nodded. “Master Vincent,” the man said, his voice crisp and commanding. “We’ve been expecting you. Please, come in.” The man stepped aside, allowing Vince full view of the entry hall.

Vince blinked. Expecting him? He didn’t even know this old fuck. When did Brian get a butler? “Who…” be began.

“We’ve been waiting a long time for you to come home,” the man said, the barest hint of a smile playing along his lips. “Please. Come in.”

The man’s voice had a commanding tone. It propelled Vince up the step and through the threshold where he stood in the foyer, staring up at the vast high ceiling.

“This way, please.” The elderly man with the black suit began walking down the entry hall toward the rear of the house. Vince followed him.

Vince took everything in quickly; the polished mahogany of the woodwork, the stained glass windows, the furnishings; it was all the trappings of wealth and prestige. He’d been to Brian’s home numerous times in the past, but for some reason had never really paused to notice the details of Brian’s home. Had Vince taken Brian’s wealth for granted? Perhaps. But still—

The elderly man stepped aside just as they crested the entrance to the lavish den. Vince stepped through the doorway into the room and his eyes flew open, a gasp escaped him.

The den was large, with a cathedral ceiling. The rear of the room, which made up the rear wing of the home, was composed of plate glass that stretched to the ceiling. He was very familiar with this section of the home. These windows looked out onto the back deck, which, in turn, held a commanding view of south Orange County. The room was furnished with plush sofas and chairs, a cherry coffee table. A large marble hearth occupied a good portion of the south wall. Two large oil paintings hung in gold frames, flanking the hearth, their subjects dark and strange. Vince frowned; he’d never seen these paintings before.

The people gathered in the den turned to greet his entry.

The room was filled with two-dozen people dressed elegantly in suits, sport coats, blazers, vests, dresses, skirts, patent leather shoes and high heels, silk shirts and blouses. Most of them appeared to be older than Vince, in their forties and fifties, but there were a few elderly people as well. They were all looking at Vince, most of them smiling, as if watching a long lost loved one step off an airplane.