Chapter Twelve

 

 

I

 

Jane poured the pizza sauce liberally into the center of the uncooked trust, then handed Kevin the rubber spatula. Try to spread it as evenly as you can, honey," she said. "You don't want too much in one place and not enough someplace else."

"I know, Mom."

When he was done, Jennifer grated a lump of fresh mozzarella over the pizza. While she did this, Kevin's eyes lost their luster and he wandered to the table and sat down. He looked dejected.

"But, Mom," Jennifer was saying. "You know, you are sort of, aren't you?"

Oh, Lord, Jane thought. "What, honey?"

"Aren't you sort of, like, dating him?"

"Steve? Of course not, honey!" Of all the questions! she thought. Kids were so precocious. It was something Jennifer had been edging at lately. "He's just a friend, so I invited him over for dinner, that's all. I don't even know him that well."

"Yeah, but you like him, don't you?"

"Just do the cheese, honey?

"I think he's cool. I think you should date him."

Jane frowned. "And when you're done with the cheese, you can start on the pepperoni. I'll start chopping up the onions and peppers." She glanced over her shoulder, looked at Kevin, who was still sitting sullenly at the table, chin in hand.

"I wonder when he's gonna snap out of it," Jennifer whispered.

"He's upset, honey. He loved that little toad."

"Sure, Mom. I loved Mel too, but it's not the end of the world. How long is he gonna mope like that?"

"It takes time to get over things. And it will take Kevin longer because he's younger than you are."

Such things were difficult to explain. Failing at it, she knew, was just another element of motherhood. "Make sure the oven's on," she said, trying to change the subject. "It needs to be preheated. And grab that bottle of oregano." They'd busied themselves a few minutes more, Jane chopping the onions and peppers, when the doorbell rang.

"That's him!" Jennifer exclaimed.

"It might not be, honey. I'm not even sure if he's coming. He might be too busy-he's a policeman." Jane hoped that it was him, though, but-With my luck, it'll be the people from The Watchtower. She set down the knife and was about to go to the door, but her daughter was already racing for it.

"I'll get it!" Jennifer said, and scurried away.

Jane rolled her eyes. Never a dull moment. Then Steve walked in with a big smile and a white cardboard box.

"Hi, everybody. Boy, something sure smells good in here."

What's in the box? Jane thought. It looks like something from a Chinese carryout. I told him we were making pizza!

Everybody said their hellos, save for Kevin, who remained gloomy. Then Steve placed the box on the table in front of him.

"How are you today, Kevin?"

Kevin shrugged, saying nothing.

"Kevin!" Jane complained. "Where are your manners? Say hello to Chief Higgins."

"Hi, Chief Higgins," he droned. Slowly, though, his eyes drifted to the box. "What's in there?"

"Well, I'm not sure, Kevin," Steve said, "but I think it's for you."

"For me?"

"Yeah. Why don't you go ahead and look inside."

Curiosity dragged Kevin out of the funk. He picked up the box and carefully opened the lid.

Then his face lit up. "Wow! Look, Mom!"

A baby horned toad meandered about in the bottom of the box.

"It looks just like Mel, only smaller!"

"He's only a few weeks old," Steve said.

"Steve," Jane said, "you shouldn't have. That was sweet of you."

Kevin was bubbling over with excitement. "Wow, thanks, Chief Higgins!" Then, to Jane: "Mom, I'll eat later, okay? I'm not hungry right now. I'm gonna go play with him."

"All right, honey".

"I'm gonna name him Mel, Junior!"

Kevin cradled the box in his hands and tromped to the next room.

"That really did the trick," Jennifer said.

It sure did, Jane thought. What a nice guy. After all he's had to do today, he took time out to do that. "That was very nice, Steve. Kevin was really getting down in the dumps."

"It was nothing," Steve told her. "The Pet Smart was on the way anyhow."

"Let me pay you for the toad."

"Forget it. Let's eat some pizza; I'm starving."

Dinner was a smashing success. They all traded talk back and forth while they ate. Steve spent a lot of time asking Jennifer about school, her favorite subjects and future plans. Jane could tell that her daughter liked him a lot. The cop side of Steve always seemed very businesslike and by the book, but tonight he'd left that all behind. Don't get your hopes up too high, Jane warned herself. This didn't really qualify as a first date; she didn't even know if he wanted to date. Take it a step at a time. Even if this never happens again, we all had a nice time.

"I'll never order out again," Steve said, pushing his plate away. "That was the best pizza I've ever had."

"Jennifer did it all," Jane said. "It's her recipe."

"Jen, you should go into business for yourself. You'd make a fortune."

"Thank you, Chief Higgins."

"It's Steve."

"Thank you, Chief Steve."

Everybody had a laugh, then Jennifer rushed up. "I'll clear the table and do the dishes, Mom. Why don't you and Chief Steve go watch TV? There's Simpson reruns on. And, you know, you can go back into the den and watch it."

Jane blushed outright. Jennifer, you're impossible.

Steve smiled to himself, but played it off as innocent, knowing that Jane had been put on the spot in a big way. "That sounds like a perfect idea to me. It's my favorite show."

He followed her out of the kitchen. "Sorry," she whispered. "I don't know what to say."

"It's fine," he laughed. "Kids are kids."

They stopped in the family room to quickly check on Kevin. He was totally preoccupied with the new toad, cautiously letting it roam the couch.

"Kevin, make sure Mel Junior doesn't make a mistake."

"You mean poop on the couch?"

"Why mince words?" Steve said.

Yeah, kids are kids, she thought. They left him be and went to the den. Jane tried to act nonchalant but there were some serious butterflies in her stomach. Nothing was going to happen, of course, and there were no expectations. It was simply the awkward situation.

She felt relieved, though, when they were inside and she closed the door.

More small talk as they sat on the couch. "Are you really a Simpsons fan?"

"To be honest, I haven't seen it in years 'cuz I'm always at work. Put on whatever you like, just so long as it's not a cop show."

The casualness about him put her even more at ease. They continued chatting, nothing heavy at all, just each talking in little bits about themselves, their likes and dislikes, where they'd been and where they'd like to go someday. He made it so nice and easy. Her nervousness flew away without her even realizing it; it was as though she hadn't been nervous at all. When he took her hand and held it, it seemed like they'd known each other a long time.

Next, their eyes were finding each other's. If anything, it was more deliberate for her than for him. They were sitting closer, and soon the small talk wasn't making it anymore, their faces closer as they spoke, their words growing softer. It was all too natural when they began to kiss.

The kisses were light, gentle. He seemed very delicate and caring. God, I can't believe how fast this happened, Jane thought, but it's just...so...nice...

She hadn't even thought about things like this for so long; she felt like an eighteen-year-old on prom night. With her job, the house, the bills, and the kids, sometimes she'd wondered if she'd ever have time again for a romance, and that's what she knew now: that that's what she wanted. She was almost afraid to ask herself how much she wanted tonight...

They started to embrace, then. They started to kiss harder.

A distant voice floated into the room: "Dhevic, an expert in the field..."

Must be some dumbass documentary, Jane thought. They hadn't even been paying attention to it. Jane and Steve kept kissing.

"...an alarming proliferation of what we think of as cult-motivated activity" came another voice now, in a slight European accent.

The words shattered Jane's concentration. Did some guy on TV just say Steve pulled back from the kiss, not alarmed but clearly diverted. He looked at the television with interest. Damn it, Jane thought. What is that?

"Sorry, but this sounds like it might be important," Steve said, sitting up on the edge of the couch seat.

Jane went lax, trying not to sigh out loud. She frowned at the television screen and saw a tall man in a dark suit. A camera was following him from behind as he seemed to be leading it through a well decorated house. Long dark hair threaded with some gray hung over his shoulders. His footsteps echoed on the floorboards.

"From East Coast to West Coast, from north to south." The European accent again. "America is steeped in a history of demonological activity. This house right here, Suit Manor, proves a prime example."

Tacky as it was-like some overdone cable show about haunted houses or UFOs-it wasn't a documentary. It was the local news station, which often ran features like this toward the end of the hour. The scene cut to a dusty floor, where multiple human outlines lay. The outlines seemed to be formed from old, dried blood.

"The Suits were recluse millionaires, twin brothers. They invited a plethora of guests to what they referred to as a 'celebration of the vernal equinox. An orgy ensued, which quickly transformed. The Suits murdered eleven people in the effort to incarnate the demon Baalzephon."

Jane couldn't have been more perturbed. What business did this schlock have on the local news? She crossed her arms, smirking. Steve seemed intent on the program.

She still hadn't seen the face of the long-haired man on TV; the camera kept following him from behind. Now the clatter of his footfalls on the wood floors changed over to crunching: he was walking through a forest. Let me guess, Jane thought. Now it's a haunted forest. Jeez. Eventually he emerged into a clearing and Jane saw what the area really was. A graveyard. But clearly it was nowhere in Florida.

"Prospect Hill, Rhode Island," came the voice-over as the camera panned across old granite tombstones. "The summer of 1987. Jacobi Mather, a direct descendent of the pre-Revolutionary witch hunter Cotton Mather, on this very ground, held a Black Mass on the Feast of Sahmain, and allegedly summoned the Morning Star himself, the Lord of the Air and the Deceiver of Souls-also known as Lucifer."

Even Jane gasped at the program's next cut, and Steve hitched up an inch on the couch. Now the camera was roving across a very familiar sight: a school. The voice-over continued, "The quiet town of Danelleton, in Central Florida. The time-a few days ago..."

Jane leaned closer, next to Steve. "Wait a minute. That looks just like."

"It is," Steve said. "How do you like this stuff? On the local news."

Now the footage showed the long-haired man, still from behind, walking in front of a pillared dormitory building. "The Seaton School for Christian Girls," said the accented monotone. "Just days ago, demented postal worker Carlton Spence went berserk and murdered a nun, a teacher, and a half-a-dozen religious students. He crucified them, and then, before he took his  own life, he left this sign."

The camera cut to a shocking close-up. On the shower wall, drawn in blood, was the bell-shaped symbol with the star.

Another voice cut in, somebody else overdubbing. "Here is wisdom. Let he who hath understanding count the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man, and that number is six-hundred, three score, and six."

The long-haired man was facing the camera now. He looked intense, if a bit wild, with the hair and a long gray-streaked beard. A final cut showed the ambulances loading body bags in front of the school.

Steve's eyes were wide. He seemed miles away.

"You," he said. "My God, it's you."

Jane peered at him. "Steve, you know this man?"

"Oh, I know him, all right, the evil son of a bitch."

"Who is he?"

"His name's Dhevic." He held his hand out to the television. "And get of load of this crap. They took some footage from one of his old documentaries and spliced it up with a new interview about the murders here. They're putting it on the local news, for God's sake. Yeah, that's just what people need to see. Talk about hokey."

"I don't understand. What's the deal with this man?"

Steve dismissed it with a smirk. "It's a long story. I won't bother you with it."

Now Jane was genuinely flustered. At first she thought he was going to get up and leave, but then she saw that he was reaching for the remote control.

He flicked the TV off.

"What-"she began to say.

He was kissing her again, more intently this time. Jane responded with the same intensity. Something about the TV clip had wound him up-at least she thought that's what it must be. Steve was more intense now, more deliberate and focused on her. Jane felt exhilarated but behind that an unmistakable feeling of alarm wavered. She was almost afraid.

But of what?

His arms slipped around her more tightly. Now his kisses were nearly desperate. Jane didn't know what to do. I can't go to bed with this man. Or... I can, but I know I shouldn't. It wasn't her style. And what would he think of her afterward? These points made sense to her but when they collided with the sudden surge of her desire.

She wasn't sure.

One hand was on her side now, and it began to inch upward. Here was her opportunity to say no.

A rap sounded on the door. Jane and Steve flinched, tried to haphazardly right themselves. "Yes?" Jane said in a rush.

Jennifer stuck her head in, smiling. "I just wanted to let you know that we're going to bed now. Good night, Mom. Good night, Chief Steve."

Jane hoped her face wasn't flushed. "Good night, honey."

"Good night, Jen," Steve said.

Jennifer's smile retreated back out, and the door closed with a click.

"Talk about bad timing," Jane said.

Steve laughed. "At least my beeper or cell phone hasn't gone off."

He took her hand again, leaned close. "Look, I'm sorry. I know I'm making this too fast for you. I didn't mean to do that."

That's when Jane knew.

"It's not too fast for me. Let's go to my bedroom."

 

 

II

 

Yeah, smooth as fuckin’ silk, Martin thought sourly. He took two good hits off the flask in the bathroom, popped a mint strip, and nodded. He was deceiving himself, telling himself that he felt better now than he had yesterday. The booze never really helped anything, though. Sometimes it would make him forget, but later the memories would return and they'd be worse.

His hatred raged.

Martin was disappointed in himself, and he knew that someone else was, too. He wasn't sure who that other person was yet, but he would soon enough.

God, I was all ready. I was ready to do it, and I know it's what I'm supposed to do. But-

Last night Martin had simply chickened out.

That other thing-or other person-that was coming in and out of his heart for the past day began to rage along with Martin's own hatred.

What's wrong with my head?

Yes. Last night. He'd been right there. After work, he'd had a couple of shots at Jill's Thrills, his favorite strip joint. The way Martin saw it, the lower in class the better, 'cuz that's what it was really all about. Lot of the chicks in there tricked. Fifty bucks and they'd come in the car with you for a fast one. A hundred and they'd give you an hour in a motel room. Martin had done it before-plenty of times-but he knew something was changing in him now.

Some other thing, or some other person, was directing him, showing him his real purpose. More and more he felt as though he were becoming stronger through this other voice that had found its way into his soul. He felt comforted. He felt as though he had a true meaning for the first time in his life.

He understood now that there were messages to be delivered, and he was to help deliver them.

The girl from the bar was one of his favorites, an urchin-like little stick of a thing named Cindy. She was pale and lean, with inordinately pink nipples. Tattoos looked like branding marks on her white skin, and her eyes were huge and empty. Martin liked the look-it turned him on-that hollow soul-dead cast of resigned desperation. Crack or crystal meth, Martin wasn't sure what her jones was, but she was always happy to come out to the car with him for a few minutes after her dance set. She was fast and effective, her talent-he was sure-honed by sheer experience. When they'd finished, Martin was all ready, all ready to send the message. Under the seat he'd stashed his old K-Bar knife from the Marine Corps, and when she was putting her top back on, her face momentarily covered, he knew that was the perfect time. They'd taught him how to do it in the Corps: just ram the knife's tip right into the little hollow below the Adam's apple. It severed the larynx so they couldn't scream.

Now. Now! the other voice was telling him.

But Martin lost his nerve. Cinny pulled her top back on, smiled wanly and said "Thanks. See ya next time," and she was out of the car and scurrying back into the bar.

He'd been thinking too much. They know me here, they saw me leave with her, they see me leave with dancers all the time. When she didn't come back, they'd know it was me.

Don't you understand?, the other voice asked him.

"No!" Martin sobbed.

It doesn't matter. The message is all that matters.

Martin drove off, greedy for the opportunity to redeem himself to his new guide. But, no, more failure. First, the girl at the massage parlor, a pretty Korean woman. He got so far as to actually grip the knife hidden in the bag he'd brought, but then he remembered that several other guys had been sitting in the waiting room beside the door with the bell on it. They'd be able to give the police a description maybe...

It doesn't matter, the voice inside scolded him.

One more try, this time with the hooker he'd picked up on the main drag. No one had seen him, and no one could've possibly seen her get in the car. Martin was gunned up by now. He knew he could do it. Cut her vocal cords and then peel her like a banana. She was even wobbly in the car seat, eyelids drooping, half whacked out on dope. Too easy.

But Martin simply lost his nerve.

He could sense his guide's disappointment. One more chance, one more chance, he begged, hitting on his flask as he drove. Please, give me one more chance and I'll prove to you that I'm worthy. Tell me where to go and I'll do it. Guide me.

Next thing Martin knew, he was parked at a corner behind some hedges. Nice suburban neighborhood. Quiet. Still. A little after midnight and not a sound could be heard. He was getting out, stalking through backyards, before he even realized exactly where the Messenger had taken him.

A back bedroom. A window.

Dark inside but he could see enough.

A man and woman lay naked together, cuddling. Moonlight painted the edges of their bodies like some surreal erotic art. They were having a little quiet time in between rounds, he guessed. The window was open; he couldn't hear exactly what they were saying but they were talking, whispering, pillow talk in the afterglow. Martin's eyes felt pasted to the woman's body like an image in seedy pornography. Her skin and contours looked gritty in the tinseled darkness. He could see the details of her nipples, her navel, and her pubis too, when the pillow talk faltered and she dragged the sheets off her lower body. The dude was all over her again in a heartbeat, licking lines with his tongue from her nipples, down her flat stomach, to her.

Martin spent the next half hour, watching in utter silence, engrossed and aroused. He relieved what he could of his own sexual angst right there on the side of the house, almost blowing it, almost gasping aloud, in which case he surely would've been heard and then he would've screwed up again, wouldn't he? He would've disappointed the Messenger yet again. If he charged in there right now, though-easy because the window was open-he might be able to take them both out. The guy looked pretty fit, and Martin himself wasn't fit at all, but he'd have the darkness and the element of surprise on his side, wouldn't he? Go in there and just go caveman on them. Go for the guy first, get some lower-body stabs with the knife before he knew what hit him, and then start to work on the woman. But...

No. It's better this way, my son, he was told. Just...wait.

Martin waited as instructed. It was as though his guide had known what would happen next. Inside, the dude and woman had gone at it like banshees, a real down-and-dirty show. Then they were lying on the bed, talking. They talked for a long time. And then...

Perfect. Here's my best chance of the night, Martin thought.

The guy was leaving. Put on his duds, gave her a long last kiss, and was out of there. In a moment, Martin could hear a car start around front and drive away.

And now the woman was in there all alone. She was sitting naked on the edge of the bed. What a brick shit house, Martin thought. She was lying down again, spread-eagled on top of the sheets. Martin drunk up the sight of that body and thought that she'd look even better after he cut her up. The Messenger would like that, the Messenger expected it. For a minute, Martin thought she was going to masturbate, the way she was lying there on the sheets with her legs wide open. It looked like she'd actually brought her hands close to her groin ... but then she rolled over. Yeah, perfect. She's going back to sleep. That was great and there was something he'd just noticed-when he could see her face for the first time-that made it all even more perfect.

I just can't believe it. Nobody gets this lucky. Maybe it was the Messenger himself who'd effected this situation; he'd brought Martin here, hadn't he? He must know. Martin got out the K-Bar. Oh, what he would do to her with it. Now his hatred was all sparked up by the most irresistible lust. Because in those last few minutes when she'd been lying there on her back, Martin had finally been able to see the woman's face oh so clearly.

It was Jane Ryan.

Martin prepared to go in.

"Hey, peeping tom!" a voice rang out like a gunshot from behind.

Martin nearly had a coronary.

"I'm calling the cops, you pervert!"

Martin couldn't move. He'd been seen! Impulse flooded him: the impulse to run away as fast as he could, but...

Be still.

Martin stood and stared.

My son, your redemption is upon you. Take it.

Martin knew what the Messenger meant, because he'd actually said it before, hadn't he? In Martin's head?

The guide had told him, It doesn't matter. The message is all that matters.

Martin, as drunk and as unsophisticated as he might have been, understood the implication. The act was all that mattered. It didn't matter that he'd be caught. It didn't matter that he'd be tried and sentenced to death. Death was eternal, and Martin welcomed that new eternity in the domain of the Messenger.

Go in there now, my son. And deliver my message.

Martin trembled. He tried and tried and tried, but he couldn't force himself to go in that window. Inside, the light had switched on; the bitch, no doubt, had heard the neighbor yelling. She'd pulled on a robe, was putting down the phone, and now she was coming to the window, and if Martin stayed even for another few seconds, Jane Ryan would see him.

Martin ran away.

The Messenger had stopped talking to him after that. The memory of last night's unmitigated failure reminded him of his entire life. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It you spend your whole life never taking a risk, you never really have a life because you never get anything, and Martin knew this: without the Messenger, he had nothing. For the last day he'd felt absolutely alive. Martin needed that feeling back.

Please come back into my heart, he pleaded.

He had the knife in a sheath in his belt. He was wearing his shirttail out so no one could see it. Martin was going to prove himself to the Messenger. Today. Right here in the post office.

He'd wait until lunch. The carriers, who were mostly men, would all be on the road, and half the clerks and handlers would be gone. He'd go office to office, carving up as many as he could, and then he'd gut himself and let the Messenger send him on to a better place where he would finally be rewarded for something.

And he knew which office he'd be starting at-Jane Ryan's.

"Martin-there you are." The stern tone assailed him the second he stepped out of the bathroom. It was Jane Ryan, in her tight top and postal shorts, frowning at him in the hall. "Are you finished with the two-foot trays and the Jacksonville drop?"

"Yes," Martin said.

"Good. I'll give you one more chance. You can still have the promotion to DPS foreman if you want it."

Martin stood still. The hall was empty; he could do it now, couldn't he? One hard thwack with the K-Bar and he could have her head half off. He'd cut her clothes off right there on the floor while she gargled blood. His rage seethed. I don't need one more chance from you, you big-tit bitch. I need it from someone else, and I'm gonna get it. Look for me around lunchtime.

"No, Ms. Ryan, I don't."

"Okay." She turned around, pointed to the foot of her office door where two small boxes sat. "See those two boxes? It's a maintenance delivery, spare parts for the new collators, pinion replacement rods or something."

"What about them?" Martin asked.

"Take them down to the basement, will you?" Then she turned and walked off to the front service cove.

Martin smiled. Sure, Ms. Ryan. I'll take 'em down. And then at lunch, I'll take YOU down.

"Oh, and Martin?" She'd stopped at the door. "Put your shirttail in. It's against post-office policy. They call it a uniform for a reason. So that all staff look uniform." Then she was through the door and gone.

Martin didn't put his shirttail in. He was excited already, sexually. Oh, yeah. This is gonna be sweet.

He picked up the boxes and took them down into the basement. There was no one else down there. It was nice and cool and quiet. He took a hit off the flask and relaxed. No one to bother him here. Martin could think.

He could think about what he was going to do for the Messenger.

"How come your shirttail's out?"

Martin jumped. Who the hell is down here?

She'd been standing right there all along. Sarah Something-Woolery, Willoughby, something like that. Martin had seen her around, didn't like her. Of course, he didn't like anybody he worked with, or anybody at all for that matter, but this bitch he disliked more than most. She was young, mid-twenties, blond, a looker. Another snooty Florida beach ditz who thought she was better than everyone else just because she'd been born attractive. Always turning her nose up at me, Martin reminded himself. He'd like to strangle her. He'd like to whip out his K-Bar right now and start cutting chunks off.

"Then why don't you?" she said.

Martin stared.

"I know about you," she said. "The Messenger told me about you."

"He...did?"

"The Messenger told me that you're taking his blessing for granted. You're selfish and afraid. You're not strong enough to make the sacrifice."

Martin was suddenly sweating. "That's not true! I've got everything planned!"

"You're weak. You must prove your strength."

"I will! I'm going to kill her during the lunch break."

Her eyes fluttered. "You're going to kill her now. Don't be weak anymore. Don't put things off. You know that it's a very special time and that some very important messages must be delivered." She stood feet apart, hip cocked. Her work blouse was unbuttoned a few notches, showing cleavage. She licked her lips. Her hands briefly caressed her breasts.

"Do it and you can have me."

Martin didn't want her. He was jealous now. Who was she to the Messenger? Martin wanted to be the priority but here she was telling him what to do. He didn't like it. He knew that he had to get back into the good graces of his guide.

"Now's your chance, Martin," she cooed.

"What?"

"She's coming."

"What, down here?"

She nodded slyly, ran her tongue over her lower lip. "Um-hmm."

"Right now?"

"Um-hmm."

This is bullshit. How can she predict something like that? but then the upstairs door clicked open and footsteps were heard coming down.

Sarah quickly picked up some boxes, to appear busy. Jane Ryan stepped in.

"I think that's it for those boxes of replacement parts, Jane," Sarah said. She set the boxes back down. "Martin and I brought them all down."

"Thanks." Jane seemed distracted. "Where is Martin, by the way?"

"Right here," Martin said.

Jane immediately frowned. "Martin, I thought I told you to tuck your shirttail in, and-" She leaned forward, squinting in disbelief. "Is that a flask in your hand?"

Fuck! Martin was caught cold. He was still holding the flask full of whiskey. He wilted. He didn't even bother responding.

"Jesus, Martin!" Sarah exclaimed. "Is that what you've been doing down here?" She turned to Jane. "Jane, I swear, I didn't know he was down here drinking."

"I understand," Jane replied. "It's been an ongoing problem." To Martin, she said, "I've given you every chance in the book but it's just not working out. I've got no choice but to suspend you, pending a termination hearing. Do you understand?"

All Martin understood was that he was being screwed over by another

woman. It was always a woman. Treacherous. Back-stabbing. Self-serving. He was seething now. He was shaking. He wanted to reach under his shirt and grab the knife.

But he couldn't.

"Go home, Martin," Jane ordered. "I'll let you know when your hearing will be. But you'd make things a lot easier for yourself if you just quit and move on."

Martin couldn't speak. He just kept shaking.

"And I sincerely hope it wasn't you who was peeping in my window last night."

Martin's mouth opened, then closed.

Jane went back upstairs.

"You're a failure, Martin," Sarah said in the silence. "That was your last chance. Why didn't you do it?"

"You should've grabbed her, you shouldn't have let her leave!" Martin babbled.

"Always an excuse, like your entire life."

Martin was getting damn tired of hearing women talk to him like he was a loser. Damn tired.

He pulled out the knife.

"You don't have the nerve."

"Don't I?" he challenged.

"The Messenger has abandoned you. You're not worthy of his grace. You're  waste of his time."

Martin lunged with the blade. Sarah swatted it out of his hand and slapped him in the face.

"You're a disgrace."

Next, Martin was grabbed by the hair and dragged across the basement floor. He was crying like a baby. Eventually she dropped him by the wall, in front of what appeared to be an old service crawlway or storage area.

"Look in there, Martin..." Sarah's voice scarcely sounded human anymore. Something was tainting her features, something atrocious. Her slender fingers looked twice as long as they should be, with long nail-like talons. Her eyes were huge and black.

She pointed to the opening of the crawlway.

When Martin looked in, he screamed so hard his heart stopped. Something in the crawlway-something with long, pale arms-grabbed him by the head and pulled him in.