The rams’ skulls were only that to me, no matter what they might be to others here, and I turned my back on them.
Twenty-seven
OUTSIDE, THE NIGHT LAY AS STILL AS IF THE WORLD had lost its atmosphere. A wind must have been ripping along at a higher altitude, because the clouds continued to tatter, unravel, and disintegrate before my eyes.
I rounded the church and stood looking at the house, wondering if security would be any better there than at the entrance to this property. I didn’t think it would be.
They knew that their fellow citizens, in this brave new century, chose to be unaware of them, to consign their master and them to the realm of myth. No one would come looking for them because no one believed in their existence. Who arms himself and goes hunting for the frumious Bandersnatch or leads an expedition to the North Pole with the serious intention of interviewing Santa Claus?
In addition, the cult might have cast a simple spell upon this property, a spell to blind people to its existence, as the shoppers in the produce section of the supermarket had been unable to see the silencered pistol with which the cowboy shot the cantaloupe. No self-respecting modern person would believe in the effectiveness of such a spell, but it worked just the same without their belief.
The Dobermans might be the extent of their precautions. And perhaps those creatures had been trained to patrol and kill less for security than for the pleasure that their trainer took in corrupting three dogs. Dogs are innocent by nature, and people such as these prized nothing more than the corruption—and destruction—of the innocent.
If the rhinestone cowboy thought I might be alive, perhaps guards would have been posted. But he believed that he had killed me in the Elsewhere version of Shower 5. I, too, thought he had killed me. It had sure felt like death, but then everything since had felt like life.
At the front of the house, lights had glowed behind uncurtained windows on all three floors. Back here, the third-floor rooms were dark. Even on the lower levels, fewer people were evident here than had been on the lake side of the building. In fact, on the ground floor, I could see no one anywhere but in the kitchen.
Pistol ready, I crossed the lawn. I sensed that I didn’t have time for excessive stealth, but I stayed away from the house until I was past the kitchen windows, through which I could see four people toiling.
Jessie, Jasmine, Jordan …
I passed French doors with lights beyond, went to a solid door, hesitated, tried it, opened it. Beyond lay a lighted mudroom: pegs on which to hang coats, benches on which to sit to take off or put on boots.
The mudroom offered two interior doors. I heard voices beyond one of them and figured it opened into the kitchen. The other door presented me with a set of softly lighted back stairs, one flight leading up to a landing, another flight leading down, no sound of footsteps above or below.
I felt drawn to the basement both by psychic magnetism and logic. If you’ve kidnapped seventeen children and are holding them for a series of human sacrifices that would give an Aztec priest second thoughts, the basement seemed the best place to lock away the little ones.
I descended two flights to a door, listened at the crack along the jamb, and liked what I heard, which was exactly nothing. Beyond lay a wide corridor leading the length of the building. On both sides were more doors, none of them open.
None of the doors was marked, either, not even with the universal language of clever symbols that, the world over, identify men’s and women’s bathrooms, first-aid stations, mail drops, and many other things. Most likely no symbol sign exists that means kidnapped children here.
Twenty feet ahead of me, a man stepped into the corridor from a room on the left, pulling the door shut behind him. He was reading a sheet of paper that he held in his right hand, and he didn’t at first register my presence.
I had nowhere to hide, no cloak of invisibility, only the pistol that I held down at my side, muzzle toward the floor, and for some reason I didn’t at once bring it on target. The Judeo-Christian ethic isn’t as easily cast off as we believe it is. Thou shalt not kill is a deeply programmed directive; if it were not, normal life would be virtually impossible, every trip to the 7-Eleven even more dangerous than it is now, and no one would survive a season as a judge on American Idol. Although self-defense allows an exception, we tend to hesitate nonetheless, especially when the guy we think will kill us appears to be unarmed.
He took two steps, laughed, became aware of me, and looked up from the item that he had been reading. He was florid-faced, with amusingly unruly white hair and sparkling blue eyes and a crooked smile that, as a package, made him one of those people who, upon first sight, you think you’d enjoy knowing.