Then he got a look at Ms. Wickman.
An attractive woman in a way, but there was something oh so cold about her.
Still, he got into the Bentley and rode with her up the winding stretch of rural highway until they arrived at the place she called “The Master’s home.” She’d mentioned this person during each of her terse contributions to the en route conversation.
The Master.
Sheesh.
Mark shook his head. The term conjured images of counts in castles in old black-and-white movies. But the place could hardly be called imposing, at least from outside. It was big enough, the kind of home that would go for half a mill in the suburbs, but it hardly seemed the proper residence for a person whose employees addressed him as “The Master.”
He stopped scoffing the moment he was inside the house.
There were no bodies hanging from meat hooks. He hadn’t wandered onto the set of a Wes Craven movie. But there was something undeniably… off… in the house. The atmosphere inside was charged with a palpable sense of danger. He jumped at every flicker of shadow. When Ms. Wickman asked him if something was wrong, he tried not to notice the hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth.
She’d instructed him to have a seat in the den, perhaps pour himself a drink from the bar, and await The Master’s arrival. He’d feigned a lighthearted tone and asked for The Master’s real name, but she’d only stared at him with the stoniest expression this side of Mt. Rushmore.
So here he was.
Still waiting.
Flipping the Zippo top up and down.
Up and down.
Then, the hell with it, a flicker of flame, and the Marlboro wedged into the corner of his mouth flared to life. He sucked in a deep lungful of smoke, savored it for one very sweet moment, then slowly expelled it. He immediately felt better. But only a little. A grandfather clock ticked away in a corner. Click. Click. Like the tocking of a clock in the death chamber as it approached midnight.
He thought about this person, The Master.
Whatever else he was, he had to be one pompous son of a bitch.
He started to draw in another lungful of smoke as he heard the slap of loafers on the hardwood floor. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, wedged it into a notch of the ashtray, and stood up.
He frowned.
This was The Master?
He tried to suppress a smirk but didn’t altogether succeed. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this wasn’t it. He’d been prepared for someone imposing, maybe a combination of old-time plantation owner and present-day cracker businessman. But this guy wasn’t anything like that. Shit, this old duffer looked like his classics professor back at Southern Florida State.
Then he opened his mouth. “Mr. Cody, I presume?”
Mark extended a hand. “That’s me.” He made the smirk morph into a smile that oozed false sincerity. “Pleased to meet ya.”
The old man smiled. “Likewise.”
Mark cleared his throat. “Say… would I be out of line by asking your real name? Ms. Wickman wouldn’t tell me.”
The man pursed his lips and gave a professorial nod. “Ms. Wickman is a devoted … employee.”
Mark cranked the smile up another notch. “Yeah, well, we ain’t strangers here anymore, eh? Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, I mean.”
The man regarded him with a faintly bemused smile, started to say something, then inclined his head toward the doorway through which he’d entered. Mark frowned, glanced in the same direction, and saw nothing.
“Um…” Mark cleared his throat again. “As I was saying …”
The man shifted his gaze back to Mark. His smile was broader now, more genuinely amused-by what Mark didn’t know, but the expression was unnerving. “My name is irrelevant. You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it. It’s from a language with only one living practitioner.”
The old man laughed, a sound that was surprisingly hearty. Mark found it disturbing in the extreme. “Now, I have a question for you.”
Mark grunted. “Oookay…” He threw up his arms. “You didn’t answer my question, not really, just kind of in a doublespeak, politician kind of way, but what the hell, I guess I’m just a more gracious guy” His smile was completely sincere now. “So fire away, pops.”
Something flared in the old man’s eyes now. Something vaguely predatory. “You’re aware, aren’t you, that your country’s surgeon general has deemed smoking hazardous to your health?”
Mark laughed. “Sure.” He picked up the smoldering cigarette, puffed on it until the end flared back to life. “What about it?”
The old man indicated his cigarette with a nod. “A vice I rarely indulge these days, but I wonder if I might have one of yours?”
Mark shrugged in a magnanimous way, extracted the pack of Marlboros from his coat pocket, and tossed it over to the old man. “Have at ‘em, pops.”
The old man turned the pack over and over in his hands, studying it. Then he again fixed his gaze on Mark. The predatory gleam in his eyes burned brighter now. He extracted a single cigarette from the pack and approached Mark, who, thinking the old man wanted a light, extended the Zippo. The man swatted the lighter away with a flick of his wrist and it went flying over the sofa.
A wave of terror surged through Mark. The whole of his consciousness was occupied by a single concept: Get away from the crazy man right now!
He heard the front door open.
Then voices.
He lurched in that direction. But the old man seized him about the throat and pushed him down onto the sofa. Mark wheezed, struggled desperately for air. He felt like he was drowning. The old man showed him the package of cigarettes. The crinkled cellophane wrapping reflected the crackling light from the fireplace.
His nostrils flared. Something about his face seemed to be changing. Mark would have screamed had he been capable of it.
“These things will be the death of you, boy!” He showed Mark a death’s-head grin, a rictus of cruel humor. “Don’t you know that?”
The Master forced Mark’s mouth open.
And fed him the cigarette he’d removed from the package.
Then the rest of them, one after another.
Until he choked on them.
The Accord swooped around the curving exit ramp, and its passengers cried out in surprise. Dream experienced a flash of guilt, but scaring her warring friends seemed the only way to get them to cease hostilities. The Accord hugged the turn until the ramp straightened out. Then they were on a two-lane road even narrower and darker than the interstate. This stretch of road seemed devoid of streetlamps, which was worrisome, but it was the last thing Dream gave a damn about at the moment.
She pushed the brake pedal to the floor, brought the car to a stop on the road’s shoulder, wrenched the gear to neutral, and got out, slamming the door behind her. She stalked away from the car, came to a stop a few dozen feet away, turned her head to the sky, and let out a piercing cry of frustration. Then every muscle in her body went slack, and she sank to her knees. Warm asphalt scuffed her bare flesh, but she hardly noticed. She was too weary to feel pain. She crossed her legs beneath her, cupped her face in her hands, and finally shed the tears she’d been holding back.
A few moments passed while she sat there at the edge of the cone of light projected by the Accord’s headlights. Then a door opened. Someone got out. She heard the solid thunk of the door being thrown shut, followed by the slap of sandals on asphalt. Dream didn’t bother to peek through her fingers to see who it was.
There was no need.
Alicia Jackson sat down beside her on the asphalt, draped a slim brown arm around her friend’s shoulders, and said, “You okay, sweetheart?”