Jesus Christ, he thought. What have I gotten myself into?
# # # # # #
The amphitheater wasn't big. Built into the hollow of a hill, it consisted of eight levels of stone-slab seats arranged concentrically around a sandy pit dotted with pinecones. Besides being lit by the ghostly light of the Head Tree, there were four halogen lights on poles focused on the center of the pit. About a dozen men and women sat on the bottom ring of stone slabs, completely encircling it. All of them had faces ravaged by rot and disease. It looked like a leper convention. Smelled like one, too.
But from this evil throng, three individuals stood out.
On the far side of the pit-which couldn't have been more than twenty feet in diameter-was a sort of stone throne. It was built into the top level of seats. In it sat a thin figure in a black robe. He had dark, curly hair, and his face was covered with bandages.
At his feet knelt the blonde.
Her hair fell over her downcast face; he couldn't see her eyes. But he could see how she shook. He could see that her hands were bound behind her back, and there was a bad gash on her shoulder. Once again, she'd been stripped to her bra.
The third figure was the most arresting of all. In the center of the pit was a stool. Sitting on it, motionless, backlit by the glare of the halogens, was the giant, tattooed Ojibwe.
Not good, Matt thought.
And that was before he noticed that the Ojibwe's wrists were wrapped in the weird wood-and-leather cuffs he'd seen hanging in the kitchen.
Not good at all.
A rustle of black robes; a raised hand.
"Matt Cahill… come on down!"
The muffled words, delivered in the jolly cadence of The Price Is Right's Bob Barker, came from the bandaged face of the man on the throne.
Matt had no intention of complying until he heard a soft pattering behind him and turned to see a half dozen more aides closing in on him. Now he could see clearly what they held, what had been glinting in the moonlight: knives. Not pocket knives, either, but the long, thin steak knives that he recognized from the wooden racks in the kitchen.
They backed him into the ring.
Once there, he turned quickly and started towards Annica.
But halfway across the pit he stopped in his tracks as every one of the rotting assembly drew out a similar knife with a soft rasp.
Matt slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees. There was nowhere to go. The encircling stone seats were fully occupied, elbow to elbow, by the rot-faced aides. And every single one of them was pointing a gleaming eight-inch blade towards his heart.
"Matt Cahill," came the muffled voice of the man on the throne. "We've been waiting for you." He gave a low chuckle.
"Likewise. And seeing as we're doing introductions," Matt said, taking a step towards the man on the throne, "it's nice to finally meet you, Jesse Weston."
Silence.
The bandaged, black-robed figure stood up. There was no sound but the soft hum of the halogens. There was no other movement but the play of light on steel.
"Jesse Weston is dead," the voice hissed. "My name is Rotting Jack."
CHAPTER TEN
Matt swallowed. He knew if he backed down now, it'd be all over. "Well, I don't mean to argue the point, but I saw a video of Jesse Weston sliding around the ceiling of Module Two like an air-hockey puck. And no offense? But you're a dead ringer for the guy. And if you took off those bandages, so I could see your face…"
"My face," came the muffled reply, "isn't under these bandages."
"Isn't…?" Matt didn't know what to make of that.
"No." The figure took hold of the lapels of his black robe and pulled them apart. "This is my face."
Matt stared, his mouth open. Jesse Weston had taken a knife to his bare chest. Dark scars showed where he had cut two large circles around each nipple, making them look like giant eyes. And beneath his navel a long, jagged set of jack-o'-lantern teeth had been carved into his belly. The effect looked like what a die-hard Packers fan might do to attract the attention of a game-day news camera. If that die-hard Packers fan worshipped an insane owl god.
Matt licked his lips. "You know, they have programs for people who cut. You just gotta ask."
"Rotting Jack does not ask, Matt Cahill. Rotting Jack commands. His servants fulfill his every desire. And right now, what he desires"-Weston brought his hands together in a loud clap-"is blood."
Immediately, three aides sitting behind the Ojibwe stood up and crossed to the silent giant. Two knelt on either side of him and lifted up his huge, tattooed arms. Then they pulled from their belts the two big butcher knives that Matt had seen in the kitchen. They slid the knife handles into the deep grooves built into the Ojibwe's leather cuffs, then tightened and buckled the straps. When they lowered his hands and stepped back, both of the Ojibwe's arms tapered off into twelve inches of tempered steel.
This, thought Matt, is going to be very bad.
The two aides backed up, leaving the third standing directly behind the motionless giant. He was holding something, too. He lifted it up, and there was a general murmur of excitement from the knife-wielding audience.
Matt couldn't tell what it was at first; it looked to be a triangular swatch of leather about eighteen inches by twelve, bound tightly to a wooden frame. Then he saw the single eye slit halfway up, and how, on the bottom, the tapered end was fringed with large, serrated shark's teeth.
It was the mask that he'd seen hanging from the FA's office wall.
As the two aides who'd attached the knives quickly returned to their seats, the third gingerly pulled back the elastic band behind the mask and laid it against the base of the Ojibwe's skull. Then-bracing himself for a quick retreat-he slid the shark-toothed, triangular mask over the big guy's face.
The effect was instantaneous.
As soon as the mask slid over his cross-eyed, jut-jawed features, the giant sprang off the stool as if electrified. The crowd roared as he swung his head searchingly to the right, then to the left, then looked straight ahead-caught sight of Matt-and shot forward.
Matt had seen a documentary once about alligators, and how their stumpy legs made them deceptively fast because, even though they could go only ten miles per hour, they didn't accelerate-they began at ten miles per hour. So if you weren't already retreating at top speed before they attacked, you probably weren't going to get the chance to do so.
In this, the Ojibwe resembled the alligator. His legs and arms were fantastically thick, but he didn't huff slowly into action like other big men Matt had known. Instead, he bounded for Matt with a roar, legs pumping, arms swinging, and the knives eagerly carving the air between them.
Matt turned to flee and saw a row of rot-faced aides behind him brandishing a dozen steak knives. He turned back just in time to leap away from a downwards blow that would have split him to the clavicle. But as he tried to shift his weight, the Ojibwe closed in, slinging the same arm in a furious backhand swipe. Matt misjudged the distance and lifted his hand just in time to avoid having the right side of his face sheered off.
But at a price: the huge butcher knife cracked into the bone of his forearm, releasing a spray of blood and making him careen backward across the pit.
The crowd screamed with bloodlust as Matt gasped, gripping his forearm, trying to staunch the blood. The pain was incredible. But before he knew it, before he could even get his bearings, the tattooed giant had lunged again.
Pounding across the sand, the giant gave a weird, high roar from behind his triangular mask. His flame-red arms pumped back and forth like pistons on an engine gone berserk.