"It wasn't necessary. I would have appeared to Mr. Moorehouse whether he was intoxicated with the drug or not. I come and go at the whim of my Master."

"Your master? Who is your master?"

"In due time, Mr. Cowl. In due time. Right now you only need to know you've been chosen."

"Chosen?"

"You've read the diary."

"Yes, but"

"Then you should be quite aware of what I mean."

"But Michael Moorehouse was chosen, too."

"Yes, and he failed. You will not."

"How do you know?"

"It's your destiny."

"But what about the riddle? I've read it over and over. It makes no sense. I can't figure it out."

"You will."

"But how? Will I have to drink the Soma?"

"You will do what ever you need to do."

"But I don't understand. If you're so sure I'm the onethat this is my destiny, as you put itthen why should I have to prove myself by solving the riddle?"

"Call it an initiation. A rite of pa.s.sage. The key to your 'someday'."

The word 'someday' resounded deep inside Cowl's soul. He felt dizzy, disoriented. He closed his eyes and his skin crawled as he recalled, in excruciating detail, the horror of being tied to the bed with the weight of Pastor Pete's naked, sweaty flesh pressing against him. "d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l, you f.u.c.king son of a b.i.t.c.h!" The sound of his own voice echoed throughout the mansion and snapped him out of his trance. He shook the vision out of his head, wiped the tears from his face and looked around. The visitor was gone.

Cowl sat still for several moments, dazed, wondering if the visitor had been real or some bizarre hallucination. No. It was real. It had to have been real.

He turned his eyes to the glossy black urn and then to the diary. He grabbed the diary and opened it to the page bearing the words of the riddle. I can do this, he thought with renewed conviction. I can f.u.c.king do this. If it takes me the rest of my life, I can do this.

CHAPTER 8.

Three Months Later...

Kane and the young detective, Mitch Wheeler, stood together in front of Kane's desk as they studied the crime scene photos of the latest victim in the string of mysterious deaths.

"Number five, right?" Wheeler asked.

"Yeah. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Who was he?"

"Name was Paul Hansen. A perfectly healthy 39-year-old pastor of a non-denominational community church. Next door neighbor discovered the body in the pastor's own back yard early this morning."

"What was the neighbor doing in the pastor's back yard?"

"He wasn't. He was in his own driveway, getting into his car. He happened to glance over the fence and saw the body on the ground."

Wheeler ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and gave Kane a sideways glance. "That FBI lady was right, wasn't she?"

"About what?"

Wheeler pointed to the time/date stamp on the photos. "Exactly nine days since the last one."

Kane nodded. "Yeah, I can count."

The phone on Kane's desk buzzed. He picked it up. "Kane. What? No s.h.i.t? Be right there." He hung up the phone and turned to Wheeler. "Looks like maybe we finally got a break. Come on."

They hurried out of the office and took the elevator to the photo lab two floors down.

CHAPTER 9.

Three Months Earlier...

Slouched in the chair behind the desk in the Inner Sanctum, Cowl awoke with a start. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep. Minutes? Hours? Was it day or night? It was impossible to know as there were no windows in the Inner Sanctum.

Groggy and emotionally drained from his encounter with the Messengerand from a taxing but unsuccessful attempt at solving the riddlehe rubbed his eyes fitfully and tried to stand. Half way up he stopped, his attention poised and focused on a faint scratching sound. The h.e.l.l is that? It seemed to be coming from the wall to the right of the desk. He lowered himself back into the chair and listened. Nothing. Then it came again, briefly, then it stopped.

He got up and crept across the floor in the direction of the noise. He put his ear to the wall and heard it again but realized it wasn't coming from inside the wall. He backed away, listening intently. It came again. He looked down. It was coming from under the floor, directly below the spot where he was standing. Son of a b.i.t.c.h. f.u.c.kin' rats. He stomped on the floor. "Get the h.e.l.l out of here you little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" He stomped the floor again and a portion of the carpet slipped loosely beneath his feet. What?

He crouched down for a closer look and saw the carpet had been neatly cut so a section of it could be moved.

He grabbed it, rolled the loose section back as far as it would go and found himself staring at a trapdoor. You gotta be f.u.c.king kidding me.

He gripped the recessed handle and gave it a tug. The old hinges squealed in pain as he lifted it higher. Silky cobwebs stretched like dusty strands of cotton candy until they separated. A rush of damp, cool air gushed up from the depths of the dark pit. A frightened rat spun on its hind feet and scurried back down into the darkness.

Startled, Cowl lost his grip on the handle. The trapdoor slammed shut and he tumbled backward. He stomped on the top of the trapdoor with his heel and hurled a series of curses at the rat.

He regained his composure, crawled back and lifted the door again, cautiously peeking under it before raising it all the way. The cool rush of pungent air hit him in the face again but the rats had skittered away to G.o.d knows where.

Just enough light was coming from the lamp on the desk so he could see part way into the void. A wooden ladder was firmly attached to the frame of the opening, leading down into the hole. It beckoned him with an invitation he couldn't resist.

He maneuvered himself into position and lowered his right leg into the cool damp darkness. His foot caught the first rung of the ladder. He tapped on it a couple times to test its strength. He brought his left leg down and found the footing equally stable. He stood, poised on the first rung, wondering if this was really such a good idea. He lowered himself down another rung then stopped abruptly. What was that? He listened intently. Nothing. He continued his descent. Finally, his foot touched a dirt floor.

The dim light from the lamp on the desk in the Inner Sanctum, now a good eight or nine feet above him, had no effect this deep into the hole. He could barely even see the ladder that he was clinging to.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his lighter and gave it a flick. The yellow glow from the small flame was enough to reveal that he was surrounded by four brick walls that were beginning to crumble from age.

The entire enclosure was small, about six feet square. On the wall directly across from the ladder was a wooden door. It had been painted a hideous shade of olive green, the paint now cracked and peeling like the decaying scales of some long dead serpent. The rats had gnawed a hole through the bottom panel. At least he a.s.sumed it was rats. Of course it was. What else could it be? For a moment, he conjured up an a.s.sortment of Lovecraftian creatures crouching on their haunches, waiting patiently in the dark just beyond the door, waiting to devour him like a side of fresh beef. He quickly held his imagination in check.

Hoping to find a light switch, he moved his lighter closer to the wall on his right. There it was, an old fashioned push-b.u.t.ton switch, the likes of which he'd never seen before. The two b.u.t.tons, one above the other, were color-coded although the colors, now, were faded and worn. The upper b.u.t.ton was green, the lower one, red. He pushed the green b.u.t.ton. A small, low-wattage light bulb on the ceiling of the enclosure flickered a couple times and came on. The bulb itself was yellowed with age. Its dim light flooded the room with an eerie, amber glow.

It was only when the light came on that he realized he'd barely breathed at all since the moment he began his descent. He relaxed a bit and examined his surroundings. Then a brief moment of panic set in. s.h.i.t. What if someone comes along and closes the trapdoor and locks me in? But the fear pa.s.sed quickly as reason prevailed. Don't be an idiot. Who's gonna close the f.u.c.kin' door?

Having talked himself into at least a temporary state of confidence, he turned his attention again to the old wooden door in front of him. He stood, staring at it for several moments, afraid to imagine what might be on the other side but equally unable to resist the temptation to find out.

He stepped forward and gingerly wrapped his fingers around the worn, bronzed doork.n.o.b. It was cold and smooth and slightly damp. He held his breath and gave the k.n.o.b a gentle twist.

Click.

He froze for a moment, then allowed himself to nudge the door open just an inch or so. Another gush of cool, earthy air pushed into his face. He winced, nudged the door another few inches and peered into the darkness.

Once again he flicked his lighter and extended it into the void, not yet daring to take the first step across the threshold. The small flame allowed him to get a vague glimpse of what was waiting for him.

From what he could see, it appeared to be nothing more than a narrow tunnel, maybe four feet wide and, like the small s.p.a.ce in which he was still standing, the walls appeared to be lined with crumbling red brick. Light. Gotta be a light. He waved the lighter around and finally spied another push-b.u.t.ton switch protruding from the wall of the tunnel just inches beyond the door.

He reached in and pressed the top b.u.t.ton but nothing happened. He pushed the lower b.u.t.ton and that caused the upper b.u.t.ton to pop out again. Once more he pushed the upper b.u.t.ton. The action caused a momentary crackling noise. In the next instant the tunnel was dimly aglow from the light of a long string of small bulbs, s.p.a.ced about six feet apart, trailing along a wire loosely hanging from wooden planks overhead. The wire ran the entire length of the tunnel, perhaps about fifty feet. He strained to see what was at the far end but there wasn't enough light. He was tempted to turn back but his sense of curiosity got the better of him. He sucked up one more ounce of his dwindling supply of courage and stepped across the threshold.

As he crept along, step by cautious step, a bizarre thought pa.s.sed through his mind. Could I be dreaming all of this? He let his hand brush along the cold, damp brick wall as he continued his slow pace. No. This is real. Surreal, but real. Real surreal. He gave a quiet chuckle as the musician in him took hold. Could be a song in that. As his hand continued to graze the side of the wall, a small chunk of the crumbling brick came loose and fell to the ground. He stopped for a moment, then continued on.

The end of the tunnel was now just ten feet ahead and he could clearly see what was waiting for him: Another wooden door.

The ratsagain, he hoped it was only ratshad managed to gnaw their way through a portion of the bottom panel of this door, too. Unlike the other door, this one was unpainted, warped and splitting from the dampness. He stood directly in front of it, shaking his head. How far can this thing go? He reached for the k.n.o.b and flung the door open. Another rush of cold air rolled in but it smelled fresher than he'd expected. He'd reached the end of the tunnel.

The lighting from the tunnel behind him filtered in through the open door just enough so he could see he was about to step into a small enclosure much like the one back at the other end where he'd started.

He entered the enclosure and found yet another push-b.u.t.ton switch. He pressed the b.u.t.ton but no light came on. He tried again but still nothing. He pulled out his lighter, gave it a flick and held the flame high. He looked up.

The ceiling of the enclosure was about eight or nine feet above and he could see the light fixture was missing a bulb. d.a.m.n. He moved the lighter around and found a ladder attached to one of the walls. He looked up. Must be another trapdoor. He climbed the ladder and gave the lighter a flick. Just as he suspected, it was another trapdoor. He braced himself on the rungs of the ladder, reached up and gave the trapdoor a nudge. The rusty hinges creaked. With another heave, he flipped it all the way and scrambled up the ladder into the opening.

Standing upright now, he flicked the lighter again and looked around. His eyes widened. What the? You gotta be kidding me.

CHAPTER 10.

Three Months Later...

Kane and Officer Wheeler stepped out of the elevator and hurried down the hall toward the photo lab. When they entered the lab Kane was surprised to find Ravenwood sitting at a table, sipping coffee and chatting with one of the technicians.

As she turned in her chair to greet Kane, her short black skirt slid up, revealing enough shapely thigh to spark Kane's imaginationmore so than he would ever admit.

She smiled. "Morning, Lieutenant. Glad you could join us."

"Hmph," Kane grunted. "I should have known. How the h.e.l.l did you? Never mind." He took a seat next to her and turned to Wheeler whose eyes seemed to be glued to Ravenwood's legs. "Well, don't just stand there gawking at the scenery, Wheeler. Grab a seat." Then he addressed Bob 'Mack' MacIntire, the lab tech. "So how did we get this, Mack? Have you seen it yet?"

MacIntire nodded. "It's an old style surveillance tape. One of the detectives noticed the camera hidden under the eves of the victim's home.

Kane glanced down at the report on the table. "Reverend Paul Hansen. Victim number five. The body that we found this morning."

MacIntire nodded. "There were two other cameras in different locations around the perimeter of the house but this is the only one that had anything on it. I'm the only one who's seen it so far. We were waiting for you to get here."

Kane looked surprised. "A preacher had a surveillance system? Pretty weird."

MacIntire shrugged. "I heard the guys saying something about the vic's house being burglarized a couple times in the past. Guess he just got paranoid, you know?"

Kane nodded. "Okay, Mack, run it. Do we have a good shot of the purp?"

"Not really. Whatever actually happened to the victim takes place just out of range of the camera. But what you can see is pretty weird. Take a look."

The grainy, black and white footage showed a small portion of the back yard and part of the side of the house. The camera had been situated so it would capture the image of anyone approaching the back door. For a minute there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. Then a dark figure in a hooded robe suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Kane's head jerked back. "Wait a minute! What the h.e.l.l? Run that again and slow it down."

MacIntire ran the footage again, back and forth several times, in slow motion.

Kane shot a puzzled look at MacIntire. "How can that be? Did you examine the tape? It looks like maybe it's been edited. Something spliced out. Or the image of the man spliced in. Something..."

MacIntire shook his head. "The tape's in perfect condition. Nothing's been done to it. I told you it was weird. But it gets weirder. Check it out."

MacIntire ran the tape from the point where the mysterious figure suddenly appeared. In a moment the back door opened and the pastor stepped out. He walked a few feet into the yard and simply stood, facing the hooded figure. The pastor's movements were slow, emotionless, robotic, and showed no signs of distress or panic. Then the head of the hooded figure tilted to the right as if motioning for the pastor to move in that direction. The pastor, with his arms hanging loosely at his side, turned as if in a trance and slowly moved to the right. The hooded figure glanced up toward the camera but his face was so shrouded in the shadow of the large hood that not a single identifying feature could be discerned. The hooded stranger turned and followed behind the pastor until they were both out of the frame.

Kane rubbed his forehead and grumbled. "That's it? That's all we get?"

"Hold on," MacIntire said. "There's more." He hit the fast-forward b.u.t.ton, absorbing about 15 minutes of elapsed time, then he cut it back to normal speed. "Watch this."

After a few moments the hooded figure moved back into the frame and glanced up toward the camera once again. Then he turned his back to the camera and slowly lowered the hood of his robe revealing not much more than the figure's shoulder-length hair, possibly black. Then the figure raised both arms straight out to the side in a deliberate and ritualistic manner. He remained motionless for a moment then lowered his head. An instant later he didn't exist, he simply vanished from the screen.