April screamed, "You fucker!" and ran off into the darkness.
"Get in the truck!" Matt told Ronnie and the others. "Go!"
He ran to the cab and jerked the door open. Rich was already sliding out from behind the wheel.
"I told them to get in the truck so we could get out of here, like you said for me to do, Mr. Cahill. But Dr. Dupre wouldn't come. Not without you."
Matt nodded as he laid the ax between them. It was sticky with Noel's guts and Sierra's blood and brains.
Such a cost. Such a horrible, tragic cost, because none of the people he had killed tonight actually deserved to die. They hadn't done anything wrong except for being there. Because of that, their blood was on his hands, along with the blood of far too many other people. It would never wash away, either. Only his own death would wipe out the stain.
If things went as he planned, that death might not be too long in coming.
"Everybody in back there?" he yelled.
"We're in!" Ronnie called back. "Go!"
Matt put the truck in gear and tromped the gas. The big truck barreled ahead.
"Where are we going now?" Rich asked.
"To Dr. Varley's excavation," Matt said. "We're going to put an end to this."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Matt wasn't halfway across the mesa when the sudden blaze of lights up ahead made him hit the brake.
"What's that?" Rich asked.
Matt bit back a curse. "Hammond's been busy. He must have used one of the pickups to haul those portable lights and the generator over to Dr. Varley's excavation."
"Why would he do that?"
Matt shook his head. "I don't know."
"Matt, what's wrong?" Ronnie asked from the back of the truck. "Why did we stop?"
"Hammond's got the altar lit up."
"Do you think he's going to have a . . . a sacrifice?"
Matt closed his eyes for a second and tried not to groan. He hadn't thought about that, but it made sense. That's what sacrificial altars were for, after all.
And even more worrisome, if he succeeded, what effect would it have on the altar's power? Was it possible the evil and the madness could get even stronger?
Matt moved his foot from the brake to the gas. At this point, all they could do was plow ahead and hope for the best.
Before he had gone another fifty yards, though, something roared up on the right and smashed against the fender on that side of the truck. Matt caught a glimpse of one of the pickups, running without lights, just before the collision. Then the impact jolted him and made him let go of the steering wheel.
The truck slewed across the ground. It weighed a lot more than the pickup, but the attack had taken Matt by surprise, and striking the truck at an angle like that, the pickup had forced it to veer to the left. The headlights suddenly played across one of those deep crevices that extended in from the edge of the mesa.
Matt grabbed the wheel and hauled hard on it. The pickup had backed off a little, but now it rammed into the truck again, trying to force the truck to plunge into that crevice.
Matt was ready this time. He managed to hold the truck on course . . . which was still going to take it much too close to the brink. He twisted the wheel some more, going on the attack.
With a furious grinding and clash of metal, the truck struck the pickup on the driver's side. In the backwash of lights, Matt saw Scott Conroy behind the wheel, his face contorted by insane hate. Scott struggled to control the pickup, but Matt sent the truck slamming against it again.
The pickup went over, flipping and rolling across the rugged, rocky ground.
Matt hoped it would catch fire and explode, but he didn't have time to see if that happened. He spun the wheel some more, turning away from the crevice just in time. The truck's left wheels missed the rim by less than a yard.
Flipping on the dome light, Matt glanced over at Rich and studied the young man's face. No sign of sores yet, but he knew he couldn't get much closer. If he did, he ran the risk of exposing the people with him to the altar's effect. If they were corrupted, too, the odds against him would be that much higher . . . not to mention the fact that even more innocent blood might wind up on his hands.
He braked. Rich asked, "Why are you stopping?"
"Everybody out!" Matt called by way of answer. He threw the door open as the truck shuddered to a halt.
Taking the ax with him, he climbed out and joined the others at the rear of the truck. He looked at them as closely as he could in the starlight. Everyone seemed to be all right.
"This is as close as you get," he told them. "Rich, the wheel is yours. Everybody else, stay ready for trouble."
"Matt, I don't like the sound of this," Ronnie said. "What are you going to do?"
He smiled and touched his shirt where the cylinder of explosive rested. "I've got a stick of Hammond's dynamite here. I'm going to use it to blow up the altar and see if that will put an end to this."
"You mean you're going to throw away your own life?"
"Not if I can help it," Matt lied. "I'll set the fuse and get the hell away from it before it blows."
What he said wasn't a complete lie. There was no fuse, but he didn't consider giving up his life for this cause to be throwing it away.
"Andrew will try to stop you," Ronnie argued. "We need to go along to give you a chance to set off the explosion."
Matt shook his head. "You can't do that. If you get any closer to the altar, you'll be changed, too."
"And you won't?"
"I was there when the damned thing was uncovered, remember?" he said. "For some reason, it doesn't affect me. This is the way it has to be, and we can't afford to waste any more time. I'm going. Take care of yourselves."
He turned to walk toward the lights.
Ronnie caught up with him, took hold of his sleeve to stop him. As Matt turned toward her, she leaned in and kissed him, the sort of urgent, passionate kiss that would have shaken him all the way down to his toes under other circumstances.
He was a little too scared for that right now . . . but the kiss helped. No doubt about that.
"I'll say a prayer for you," she whispered.
"Can't hurt," he said.
Then he strode forward again, the ax clutched in his right hand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The generator coughed and chattered as Matt approached, providing the power for the lights that threw their stark, brilliant glare down into the pit. He dropped to a knee before he reached that glowing circle and wished he could see what was going on down there without having to crawl right up to the edge.
That was the only way, though. He started forward on hands and knees. The rocky ground was hard on his palms, although his jeans protected his knees to a certain extent.
So far he hadn't been able to hear anything over the racket of the generator, but he began picking up voices now. Were they chanting something?
Matt edged closer, so he could see over the rim of the pit. He knew that what he saw shouldn't have shocked him—he should have been prepared for almost anything—but even so his guts clenched.
Jerry Schultz's body lay on the black altar. A crimson flower of blood stained the front of his shirt. Scott hadn't been killed when the pickup flipped, because he was back in the pit now, standing at Jerry's right while April was on the left. Andrew Hammond was at the foot of the altar, where the face of Mr. Dark was carved. He was facing away from Matt and had taken off his shirt, exposing his pale and somewhat chunky torso.
Hammond's hands were in the air above his head. He was chanting something that was gibberish as far as Matt was concerned, although he supposed it was probably the ancient Anasazi language. Scott and April looked like they were about to have orgasms from listening to Hammond. He held out a knife. "Spread his steaming guts around him and let the blood flow freely," he intoned in English this time.