Cassie tipped her head to one side and brushed a hand across her cheek. Was she crying? His desire to run away turned quickly to shame. This was a hole, but she was stuck here too, through no desire of her own. Cute or not, she needed his help. And, if he was honest, he needed hers. Perhaps she could help him learn more about his dad.
He crossed the street, making sure she would notice him coming and have a chance to gather herself.
“Hey,” he said simply as he entered the booth, sat down opposite her.
She gave him a broad smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Hey yourself.”
The waitress came over, took Grant's order of coffee, and raised an eyebrow at Cassie.
She shook her head. “That's all, thanks.”
The waitress gave them a wink and a knowing smile as she left.
Grant laughed. “Awkward.”
“Let 'em think whatever they like.” Cassie grinned and raised her eyebrows.
“I like that attitude.” And he did. Too often, she seemed beaten down, cowed even. When she showed a little spirit she was radiant.
They sat in silence for a while, Grant sipping his coffee, Cassie playing with her straw.
Eventually, Grant said, “So. Wanna tell me what's up?”
“Nice.” She smirked at him. “You make me go first? Some gentleman you are.”
“Okay, fine.” He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I found a creepy fucking book that looks like it's written in blood and bound in human skin, and while I was looking at it the pages came alive and moved and screamed.”
Cassie sat back in her seat, wide-eyed. He saw the panic in her, a trembling like a deer as it froze, trying to decide which way to bolt.
“You asked,” he said, before she could hightail it out of there. “And I'm pretty sure those Stallard boys are after the damn thing. Their mom came by, acting all neighborly with food and chit-chat while she stalked around the cabin looking for something. Didn't even try to hide it. Then she sent those idiot sons of hers around.”
“And you think they want the book?” Cassie’s voice was tissue-paper thin.
“Obviously. I don't know if there's anything else my dad might have left behind that they'd be after, but she did mention the book specifically.” He shrugged.
“Do they know for sure you have it?” She bit her lip, tension evident in her face.
“Not for sure, but I think they suspect. I didn't let on that I thought anything was up, and I think they don't take me seriously. Just a dumb city kid.”
Cassie nodded, said nothing. Silence descended again.
“So,” Grant said. “How about you tell me why that picture I was looking at spooked you so much?”
Cassie took a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. “I think I do things at night that I don't remember in the morning. I think I'm under some kind of control or something, like I'm acting out dreams or sleepwalking or who knows what. Carl always wants to stay over. He says he needs to look after me but I don't know if he's really helping or not. Some of the nights he's been there have been the worst. And when I saw that picture, it was like I was seeing one of my dreams or sleepwalks or whatever the hell they are.”
“You mean you dreamed a scene like that?” Grant remembered the three men, his father on one side, the ceremonial robes and all their hands on the big knife buried in the carcass of a goat.
Cassie lowered her voice. “This going to sound nuts, but I don't know if I dreamed it. It feels too real. I think I've been there, or somewhere like it. When I saw that picture it triggered a memory and I recall, I clearly recall, a dream where I was lying strapped to a wooden table and men like that, dressed that way, were all around me. Except it can't be a dream, Grant. The memory is too… real. I remember how rough the table top was, how the damp the air was, the little bit of breeze their robes made when they swished. That can't be a dream. I don't know how else to explain it.”
Grant pressed his lips together and kept his hands in his lap to control their trembling. After a moment, he said, “Can you remember any sounds?”
Cassie's face creased like she was about to cry. Grant reached out, took both her hands in his across the table.
“It's okay,” he said. “You can trust me. We can figure this stuff out.”
Cassie just nodded, face still scrunched up as tears trickled over her cheeks.
Grant took a deep breath. “There was a chant, wasn't there?” Cassie looked up sharply, so Grant carried on. “All the men and women, there were the voices of both, in a kind of repetitive, monotone chant. And over it all a deep, resounding drum, beating double hits like a giant heart.”
Cassie sobbed, gripped Grant's fingers so hard he thought they might break. She stared at him with haunted eyes. “How can you know that?”
“I had the same dream.”
A contemplative silence hung between them as Cassie took that in.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered.
“I don't know,” he admitted. “But there's something weird going on, and we need to understand what it is.”
Chapter 8
The Religious Studies department of Stuart College consisted of one very old man with wispy white hair and skin so pale it bordered on translucent. The plate on his office door named him Professor Charles McKenzie. His rheumy eyes regarded Grant with suspicion, but brightened when they saw Cassie. Grant did not miss how they roved up and down her body. Some guys never outgrew it, he supposed.
“I am sorry,” the professor rasped, “but I require students to make an appointment.”
“We aren't students,” Cassie began. “We are hoping you can answer some questions we have about a religion we read about in an old book.”
“Young lady, I might be old, but I do know how to use a telephone, and even email. Why would you drop by?” He looked like he was about to call security. Of course, if Grant or Cassie meant him ill, he'd never make it to the phone before they laid hands on him.
Grant figured that a career of outmaneuvering sneaky college students had sharpened the old man's wits to the point that trying to bullshit him would likely be futile, so he tried the truth. “We think my father might have been involved in a cult, but the name is one we've never heard before, and we can't find anything online about it. We found a couple of his books and, frankly, they're disturbing. We were in town and this is the only college for two hundred miles. We struck out at the library, but one of the ladies there suggested we speak to you.”
“What is the name?”
“We didn't get her name,” Grant said.
“No, young man. What is the name of the religion in which you suspect your father was involved?”
Grant and Cassie exchanged looks. He'd never said the word aloud and the thought filled him with an irrational dread.
“Kaletherex.”
McKenzie looked poleaxed. He blanched, his pallid face stunned.
“Do not say that word out loud,” he whispered in a harsh voice. “Wait here.” He wobbled over to his desk and, with a shaky hand, scribbled something onto a slip of paper. “Here.” He thrust it into Grant's hand. “This is my home address. Meet me there in two hours.”
And he closed the door in their faces.