Nephilim: Genesis Of Evil Part 10

Manuel still had a blank expression, his pencil thin mustache twitching.

"We're not McDonald's," Joan said, piling dishes onto a tray.

"Oh," he nodded.

"But if I get my hands on Samuel..." she let the words trail off as she took the tray in front.

Behind her, she heard Manuel say, "He eez a dead man, no?"

You better believe it, Joan thought, her eyebrows furrowing together angrily.

CHAPTER 22.

As Rory's Jeep meandered its way up Boulder Canyon, Anna sat slumped in the pa.s.senger seat, her thoughts a jumbled mess. She hadn't meant to insult Rory by saying he was running from G.o.d, or that G.o.d would resort to injuring him to get his attention. She'd been thinking about his childhood when she said that there were things he couldn't escape from. Because they all had things from their past that they wished they could run from. Maybe that was why she'd gotten so upset, because she was running, too. She reflected on their dinner conversation.

Rory had been getting increasingly tense as he talked about whatever it was that he'd seen in New York, and that had been making her edgy. But that wasn't all of it. She had been surprised when he said he didn't believe in G.o.d. Since Rory delved into exposing paranormal hoaxes, she should've a.s.sumed that he would be skeptical of a higher power, only she hadn't. In truth, she hadn't thought that far ahead, but now she was forced to look at their differing beliefs.

Now neither one spoke, and the hum of the tires seeping through the floor was a monotonous signal of the tension inside the Jeep. After a few minutes of silence, Rory flipped the switch on the radio. It was playing an old seventies song, "Stuck In The Middle With You", by Stealers Wheel. So true, she thought.

She stared out the winds.h.i.+eld, but glanced sideways at Rory. One hand gripped the steering wheel, the other rested on his left leg. His face was impa.s.sive, but the muscles in his jaw periodically tensed. She flashed back to a time years ago. Funny, she and Paul had just had an argument, but she couldn't remember what it was about. But she'd been terribly mad at him. He'd been frustrated with her, and his jaw worked in the same way Rory's did now.

Anna sighed heavily. Paul. He was her soul mate. They had clicked instantly. She'd taken an English lit cla.s.s, not really her subject, and was sitting at the back of the room, talking with her friends, when he walked in. Their eyes had met, and he strolled purposefully to an empty chair in front of her. A tingling shot through her body, her attraction to him immediate. By the end of cla.s.s, she knew he was going to ask her out. By the second date, she knew she'd marry him. And almost a year later, they were husband and wife.

She loved him, his intense brown eyes, his smile that others might have found too wide and gaping, but she found adorable. They had so many of the same interests, and he was as pa.s.sionate about his faith as she was in hers. Everything had been going fine, until that one day out on the lake. What was her dad doing out there? she thought for the second time that day.

Rory cleared his throat, bringing her reeling back to the present. She glanced over but he was looking off to his left. Then his focus riveted back on the road. She almost said something, but stopped herself. She was so confused, like the darkness in the canyon was sucking her down.

But as she sat next to Rory, she felt that same intense attraction to him as she'd felt for Paul. She remembered sitting next to him in the theater earlier, how jittery she felt with him right there. He made her feel alive, feminine, wanted. She got excited thinking about it. All that heat and fire. Then her rational self questioned whether she should pursue something with a man who didn't believe the way she did. She'd always been told this was a dangerous path, and she could see that. She wanted to share her faith with those close to her, but what if she married someone who didn't believe at all? What would that be like?

Anna snickered. Look at me, she thought, I've moved this into marriage and I haven't even known the guy for more than a day. Rory eyed her but she didn't say anything. In truth, she was scared of her own feelings.

They pa.s.sed through Nederland. Barker Dam on the left was a murky mirror with the moon reflecting off its still surface like a white marble. He drove through the roundabout and they headed up the Peak-to-Peak Highway. The radio was now playing a Dwight Yoakam song, and she saw his fingers start tapping the steering wheel.

The lack of conversation was overpowering. She wanted to say something, anything, to make everything better. But she didn't.

They drove on, and in the blackness he almost missed the turn-off.

"There's the road," she pointed it out to him. Her voice cut through the stillness between them.

He nodded at her, signaling his thanks. The Jeep bounced down the dirt road, the headlights cutting through the night, pebbles occasionally popping the metallic underside. The trees at the edge of the light flew by in a staccato beat. She was relieved that she would soon be home, where she could think through this whole thing.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Rory blurted out, jerking the wheel.

Anna turned her head and saw a flash of dark blue, a red plaid s.h.i.+rt, and a pale face with a huge mustache on their left. For a brief second, she locked eyes with the man outside the car. She felt like she was gazing into the face of a dead person. Then the Jeep flew on by. They had come within inches of hitting him.

"That fool!" Rory hit the brakes and they skidded to a stop.

"That was Samuel Friedman," Anna said, twisting around and gazing out the rear window of the cab. But in the gloom, she couldn't see anything.

"What's he doing out here?" Rory asked. He opened his door and stepped out. "Samuel?" he called out. Darkness swallowed his voice. He called out again. "You're sure that was him?" he said, poking his head inside.

"Uh huh."

She heard the sound of Rory's footsteps fade as he drew away from the Jeep. The beep of the car signaling an open door grated on her. She heard him call out a third time, his voice far off as she leaned over to close the door to keep the bugs from seeking out the dome light.

Rory was so much like Paul, she thought. Stop it! she scolded herself. It's not fair to Paul, and it's not fair to Rory. Get your head screwed on right before you take this thing any further. She continued to admonish herself.

She peered out the rear window, but couldn't see anything. The radio droned on. She reached over and switched it off, sitting with the hum of the engine, waiting. Out in front of her, the headlights cut into the road, the beams dying a short distance ahead, leaving a stark black-and-white landscape.

"Rory, where are you?" she said to herself after a while. She craned her neck and looked out the driver's side window. The trees at the edge of the road seemed to leer at her as they walled off the woods.

She turned and gazed out her window at the canopy of tiny white dots covering the sky. An edge of fear crept into her veins. Where had Rory gone? Something moved just outside the halo of light in front of the car. She swirled but whatever it was had gone. She put her face to the window and squinted through the gla.s.s. Then she jumped as the driver side door suddenly opened.

Rory's face appeared. "If it was him, he's gone now. Thought I heard more people, too, but I guess not." He hopped in and put the Jeep into gear. "Don't know what Samuel would be doing out here, but I guess that's his business."

"I suppose so," Anna said, calming her racing heart with a few deep breaths. "Although it's a little odd, don't you think?"

He shrugged, concentrating on the road. She made a mental note to check with Joan Friedman tomorrow. They soon drove over the wooden bridge, much too fast for Anna's comfort, drove around the bend in the road and pulled the Jeep into the shelter.

"Look, tell me what happened back in Boulder," Rory finally said as they began walking back to her cabin.

Her stomach flipped. She didn't know what to say right now. She needed time to think, but would he understand this?

"What's going on there?" she asked abruptly, pointing up the road a ways. Lights were on at one of the summer cabins, and a sheriff's car was parked out in front. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know."

She heard the resignation in his voice, and she knew she'd blown it. But the sheriff's car was a distraction. They hardly ever had any excitement at the Crossing that would call for the authorities, and she was curious.

Rory walked her back to her cabin. They exchanged a few polite words, and she watched him until he disappeared in the night. She went inside, her thoughts jumbled. Thinking of Rory, thinking of her father. And that day when he went out on the lake.

CHAPTER 23.

"Look, I want to know what you're going to do about this!"

In the crowded kitchen of the D'Angelo cabin, Gino D'Angelo tried to stare down Clinton Truitt, the Boulder County sheriff. Gino, a bear of a man, his thick eyebrows bunched in fury, was barely able to cross his arms over his barrel chest. But he did anyway, trying to look as intimidating as possible.

Clinton Truitt had seen it all before. He recognized Gino's New York accent and his tough guy stance because Clinton had started his career on the same mean streets where he was sure Gino had grown up on. Clinton himself had grown into a man of over six feet, four inches, and he'd run into tougher men than Gino and survived.

Clinton had gotten the report about the missing teenagers an hour earlier. He had covered this part of the county for years and was familiar with Taylor Crossing, so he'd decided to respond to the call himself. It wasn't that uncommon for people to go missing in the mountains, and it didn't surprise him that it was some of the tourist kids. When he'd come into the D'Angelo cabin, the story unraveled quickly. Once Mick didn't show up for dinner, his parents had made the logical a.s.sumption that their son might be at his friend's cabin. But after a phone call, Mick's parents had quickly established that the two boys were not around. The parents had walked through Taylor Crossing, checking at the stores and the cafe, but to no avail. They had hiked as far as they could around the lake, but still didn't find the kids. Finally, they waited a while for them to return, until Gino D'Angelo decided to call the sheriff.

"Mr. D'Angelo, I'm not trying to discount your concern, but I can't send out a volunteer posse until it gets light." Clinton held his hat in his hands, and he rubbed at the brim while he talked. "Tomorrow morning, if they haven't come back, we'll send out a posse, and we'll get a helicopter up as well. I'm sorry, but there isn't anything we can do until then."

Clinton turned to the others in the room. Trish and Kenneth Hull, Mick's parents, leaned against the kitchen counter. Two half-full cups sat on the counter behind them. Mrs. D'Angelo Clinton noted that Gino had introduced her without giving a first name carefully watched her husband from the doorway to the small living room. She was heavyset, and even though she was impeccably dressed in designer jeans, a silk blouse, and flawless makeup, she disappeared into the background, almost unnoticed. In the brief moment he saw her eyes, the cliche of a cornered deer leapt into Clinton's mind. She was a rich, trapped animal, too petrified to move, large dark eyes perpetually wide with fear.

"My son knows better than to not come home for dinner," Gino said through clenched teeth. "He wouldn't just not come home."

"Mick, too." Trish Hull's red face had wet streaks down both cheeks. "Mick and Ellie are good kids." She was obviously upset, but everyone in the room could hear her attempt to defend her son. It wasn't like him not to come home either, and she wasn't going to let the hulking idiot standing before her imply that his kid was better or more obedient than hers. And she didn't have to intimidate her children to get them to mind her.

"He knows I mean it when I say to be home for dinner," Gino went on. "Right, hon?" he said to his wife. She seemed to cringe at his forced use of a pet name but nodded her head mutely.

"Those boys have been spending a lot of time together," Trish said. "Maybe they got carried away with whatever they were doing and lost track of the time."

"And didn't head home when it got dark?" Gino snorted at her. "By then they'd know it was well past suppertime."

"It could happen," Kenneth Hull interjected. He was a fireman by trade, familiar with tense situations. He straightened his shoulders against Gino's menacing demeanor.

"Does Ellie know where he went?" Clinton asked. "Does she keep tabs on her older brother?"

"She doesn't know anything," Trish said quietly, wiping her face with a tissue. "She tried to follow him, but he wouldn't let her."

"A little girl playing with them? Please," Gino derided her input. "Unless you're implying that my boy is up to no good."

"I'm not implying anything " Trish began, her voice rising.

"You think my son would've wanted to do anything to that girl?" Gino interrupted. "I didn't raise him that way."

"Folks," Clinton began, trying to use his easygoing manner to diffuse the situation.

"Just what are you trying to say?" Kenneth took a step toward Gino.

"This is insane," Trish said to Gino. "How did we get from our kids being missing to allegations of abuse? We're good parents. Do you think we'd raise our kids that way?"

"And I would, Trish?" Gino drew the name out. "I may be from h.e.l.l's Kitchen, but I worked my way out of it. We live in a better place than you do, don't we?" He looked over at his wife, who stared at the floor.

The strain was showing on everyone. Strain from missing their kids, and strain from dealing with Gino D'Angelo, unless Clinton missed his guess. He'd spent less than five minutes with Gino and Clinton wished he could strangle Gino. Clinton couldn't imagine what the last few hours must have been like for the Hulls. "I'm sure they all are great kids," he said quickly.

Kenneth breathed heavily through his nose, staring at Gino. Finally, he put his arm around his wife's shoulder, unconsciously comforting her.

"Where's Ellie now?" Clinton asked.

"She's staying with some friends at the cabin next to ours," Trish said, glowering at Gino.

"Good," Clinton said. He didn't like the ugly way the anxiety had escalated. He also didn't like the way Gino D'Angelo seemed to be more concerned with his reputation as a disciplinarian than for what might have happened to his son. "Most likely they got lost out in the woods. Not the most pleasant way to spend the night, but since the weather's been so nice the last day or two, they shouldn't have to worry about the cold." Although it would still get plenty cold right before dawn, he thought, and found himself hoping they would find some shelter, or that they might have matches to build a fire. "If those boys are smart," Clinton eyed all the parents cautiously, "and I'm sure they are, they'll hunker down somewhere and wait for us to find them."

"They'll do that," Kenneth said. "They'll take care of themselves." He glared poisonously at Gino.

"They're probably at one of the mines," Gino's wife murmured.

They all looked at her.

"I told Nicholas not to go there," Gino said quickly. "He knows better." His tone defied them to contradict him.

Trish was not going to be bullied. She pulled away from her husband's arm. "This isn't about what we did or did not tell our kids. You should know as well as I do that they'll still do things behind our backs." She turned to Clinton. "I overheard Mick talking about the mines with Nicholas the other day. We've all told them that it's dangerous to play around them, but they may have gone there anyway."

"There's a ton of old mines scattered all over these hills," Clinton said.

"They said something about one with a shack and a big flume on the side of it."

Clinton raked a hand through his closely cropped hair. "You mean the Luckless Lady or the John Dandy? They're near each other."

Trish nodded. "Luckless Lady sounds familiar."

Clinton looked into the face of each parent. He saw the concern. And underlying that, not very well hidden, the fear, looks that would stay long past the time when they had answers.

"Should we go look there?" Kenneth asked.

Clinton knew it would be crazy to go out to the mines now. To go now would be setting themselves up for an accident. But their faces. Trish, eyes red-rimmed, the tense expression that would only get worse as the night grew longer. And Mrs. D'Angelo, hiding behind her mask of stone. Even she couldn't hide her fear. He saw it in the way she wrung her hands. And the men, fathers trying to be strong, but not succeeding. Their eyes lied, too.

Clinton knew some of what they must have been going through. He had two grown daughters, and once you realize how truly vulnerable your kids are, of how little power you actually have to control what happened to them, not only did you feel violated, you held onto the fear. It was like a talisman to guide all your future acts with your offspring. And he knew what it felt like to try to protect them. He could guess at how he'd feel if something happened to them. If the parents standing before him felt one-tenth of what he thought he'd feel...he couldn't find the words. You would do anything. Even go out into the woods at night.

"All right." He let a long breath out through his teeth. "Does everyone have good flashlights? Really powerful ones?" He received a chorus of nods. And he noticed the desperation on their faces ease just slightly. Hope, however small, had a way of doing that. "Then let's hike up to The Luckless Lady and see if we can find them there. But," he held up a hand, "we're not going in any of the mineshafts. We'll call out, see if we can hear them."

Gino started to protest, puffing out his chest. Clinton glared at him. "I'm not going to put anybody else in danger." He pointed at Gino. "That's final."

Kenneth went with his wife toward the door. "We'll meet you all back here in ten minutes," he called over his shoulder.

Clinton could hear them chattering softly as they went out the door. He knew that the adrenaline would be flowing for them all, but adrenaline helped with the tension. It would be good for them to be doing something. Anything.

"I must be crazy," he muttered to himself. If this turned out badly, there'd be h.e.l.l to pay.

"That boy's going to be in big trouble," Gino said. He set his gaze on his wife. She shrank back a little.

Clinton found himself wondering if the D'Angelo boy had run away. Given what he'd witnessed between the parents, he wouldn't be surprised. He had seen enough to know that things weren't rosy in the D'Angelo home. He put his hat back on, thinking that if his gut feeling was true, he didn't relish returning the boy to his father. "Get ready," he said to Gino. "I'll meet you outside."

He turned and went past Mrs. D'Angelo. She was still rubbing her hands together, staring down at the floor.

"What about animals?" she whispered.

"Huh?" He stopped beside her. He could feel Gino's eyes drilling into his back.

"Will any animals harm them?" She glanced at Clinton, then focused back on the floor.