"And bless us oh Lord, with these, thy gifts which we are about to receive through Christ our Lord, Amen."
The hands holding him tightened, and his heart raced, the beat pounding in his ears. Any second, the hammer would fall.
"And yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death -"
A bolt of pain shot through his palm. When he could breathe again, he licked his lips and swallowed. Mark had lost his train of thought and began again with the first prayer that came to mind.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death -"
They held his feet, one over the other, distracting him. He raised his head to look down at them, feeling sick fear at the spike held over his left foot. He couldn't look any more and turned his head as acid burned the back of his throat. The drums increased the tempo, matching the staccato rhythm of his pulse. The chanting reached a frenzy while embers from the fire drifted in the air above him, like pieces of hell.
The last prayer was silent, his breathing too harsh to give it voice.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…
They drove the last spike home and mercifully, darkness claimed him. When Mark roused again, the cross was upright, and he hung above the cult members. He didn't know how long he had been there, but the room was dimmer. The drums still beat, but the tempo had changed. The earlier frenzy had been replaced by a slow erratic beat. Kern held up a staff and the cult members bowed to him.
The pain in his hands went beyond anything he had ever felt. His weight hung on them, only the ropes binding his arms helped ease the burden. He almost didn't notice his difficulty breathing until he had to consciously make an effort to take a breath. Mark could feel his throat closing, the abuse his neck had taken earlier taking its toll. Sweat dripped down his face, the stress causing him to shiver and perspire at the same time. Each chill that shook him increased his agony until finally, his mind shut down.
"No! Oh God!"
Jim started awake and shot out of the recliner. "Taylor?" He glanced around his living room. The voice had been so clear, as though spoken by someone in the room. Mark's voice. He was sure of it. He'd heard that panic once before when Taylor had been water-boarded. Had he flashed back to that interrogation? Why would he re-live it? While unpleasant, he'd never felt terror during them.
Grabbing the remote off the floor where it had fallen from the arm of the chair, he pointed it at the television and clicked off the infomercial that droned on about a miracle weight loss solution. It couldn't have been the source of the voice he'd heard.
His shoulders ached, and he grunted and rotated one as he made his way to the kitchen. He must have slept on it funny. Instead of the pain decreasing as he tried to work out the kink, it intensified, and he gasped and sank onto the nearest kitchen chair. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead. Was he having a heart attack? He was only 48 and in good shape. His heart thudded, resonating in his ears, the sound deafening in the silent house.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…
Jim staggered to his feet and spun in circle. "Mark? Where are the hell are you?"
The kitchen was lit by only the light from the oven clock. The green glow created a surreal atmosphere as the beating in his ears grew. After a moment, he realized it wasn't his heartbeat. It was a drum. No…drums. He checked the radio on his counter to make sure it was off.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…
Jim stumbled back, bumping into the counter. The kitchen dissolved and instead of his table, chairs, stove and refrigerator, he was in a room. A huge room. To the left, in front of him was a bonfire. The woodsmoke stung his nose, and he rubbed his eyes. Chanting kept time to the drums, but Jim couldn't decipher what was being said, and as he tried to filter it from the rhythmic pounding, he picked out the dark hooded people kneeling on the floor before him in a half-circle. A shadow crossed the floor between him and the worshipers, and he turned to see the source. Looming to his left rose a cross. Jim blinked. A cross? Holy shit.
Hanging from the cross, as real as the kitchen stove that should have been there, hung Mark Taylor.
Stunned, Jim stared. Was Taylor dead? The drums increased in volume, resonating through Jim's body. The sour taste of bile rose in throat. It was so vivid, so real but it couldn't be. He was in his kitchen, not standing in some warehouse. The hairs on his arms stood on end as a chill shook him.
He tried to rush towards Mark, but his feet seemed nailed to the floor. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reach the cross. While only appearing a scant ten feet away, it might as well have been an ocean that separated them.
The drums reached a crescendo, and stopped. The fire crackled and snapped, breaking the silence.
A man in a black robe lifted a staff, the others bowed to him. His mouth moved, but Jim had to strain to hear him as he mumbled, "Satanus, non sum dignus… sed tantum dic verbo."
For a moment, the black-clad figure seemed defeated, but then his head rose, and he boomed, "Levate. Evenit diabolus.
An instant later, the scene was gone. It didn't fade, it was just there one second and gone the next.
A sense of impending doom raced through him. It was a dream. It had to have been. He probably just hadn't quite woken all the way up before coming into the kitchen.
Despite his confidence that he'd just had the strangest, most realistic dream ever, a sense of urgency prodded him to action. As though released from a spell, his feet felt light, and his shoulders no longer ached as he sprinted to his bedroom and grabbed his cell phone. Flipping it open, he found Mark's number and called him.
Voice-mail picked up and Jim snapped the phone closed. He dialed again, hoping that Mark hadn't reached the phone in time. Still no answer. He plopped on the edge of the bed and glanced at the bedside clock. Two-thirty in the morning. Where would Mark be at this time?
His car keys and wallet sat on the night table. At this time of night, he could get to Taylor's place in less than fifteen minutes. By three, he'd be back home and in bed. He felt silly enough calling Taylor, but he couldn't shake the sense of urgency that screamed inside of him like a banshee from the Irish legends his grandma used to tell him.
Jim grabbed his keys, stuffed his wallet in his pocket, and headed for the door before he could convince himself he was acting irrationally.
CHAPTER NINE
Fifteen minutes later, Jim pulled up in front of the studio and then wondered how he'd get Taylor's attention. He hunched into his jacket and shuffled a path through the light snow to the front door of the studio, hoping to find a doorbell for the loft. Having only been to Taylor's apartment a couple of times, he wasn't sure of the layout. He thought there was probably a back entrance in the alley behind the building.
The alley was dark and Jim hesitated before rounding the corner. He quickly peeked around the building, relieved to see that the alley was empty. Still alert, Jim faced the back door and jumped back in surprise when the door swung open. "Taylor?" There was no answer, and in fact, taking a step closer, Jim realized that there was no one there. The wind must have blown the door. The hair on the back of Jim's neck prickled. Taylor might be a little odd, but he wasn't stupid. He'd never leave the back door to his business open all night.
Jim rapped on the door. "Hello?"
Nothing. A soft glow from an exit sign threw off just enough light to illuminate the entryway. Not seeing anything amiss down here, Jim cautiously climbed the steps, noting lots of little puddles scattered on the stairs, as though someone, or lots of someones had entered recently with wet feet. At the top, his stomach tightened when he saw the loft door gaping open. He paused outside it to listen. All was silent, and with a deep breath, he crept around the threshold wishing he'd thought to bring his weapon. He'd gotten out of the habit of carrying it since he spent the majority of his time behind a desk.