Fire mask, p.13
Fire Mask, page 13
“What is all this?” Cliff demanded.
The firelight shifted, and the snakes in the floor seemed to crawl closer to him.
“Are you going to sacrifice us? Is that what all this stuff’s about?”
Nunn didn’t answer. Instead, he reached over to take the parcel from Gloria’s hand, but she released it too soon, and it slipped from her grasp, fell, and Nunn thundered at her as she dropped to her knees and unwrapped the cloth.
“It’s all right,” she said shakily.
The fire sighed.
“Are you crazy, or what?”
Nunn straightened, drew himself up, and said, “I’m not crazy, Mr. Abbott. And neither is my wife.”
Cliff stared at Mrs. Vallence, who nodded to him and stepped back away from the pit. He remembered the picture. 1949. And as he held that image, he looked at Nunn holding up the fire mask for him to see, his eyes widened momentarily.
The anchor.
The mask.
He looked at Nunn and said, “You can’t die.”
Kelvin Nunn nodded. “That’s right, Mr. Abbott. I can’t. But you can.”
TWENTY
The voice of the fire seemed trapped in the room. It had to be, he thought, or that roaring, that bellowing would have been heard for miles. He was glad now the girls had been drugged; he didn’t want them to have to see this, to hear this.
Think! he ordered. Dammit, Abbott, think!
The flames rose, slipping up the sides of the stone bridge, then fell and rose again while Nunn held out the gold fire mask as if handing it to him.
“There are people,” the tall man said, “who believe that you can live forever if you’re careful.”
Cliff moved to one side, keeping the girls on his right.
“What they forget, or choose not to consider, is that everything has a price, young man. Everything.” He stared, the light from below throwing shadows across his face. “You know that, don’t you? You know that better than most.”
In spite of himself, Cliff nodded reluctantly.
Nunn gave him a sympathetic smile that didn’t last very long. “My own … gift has its price as well.” He brought the mask to his face; it glowed in the firelight, sparks racing along its perfectly smooth surface. The mask lowered. “The difference between me and those others, however, is that I not only know what that price is, I am also willing to pay it.” A glance over his shoulder. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”
Mrs. Vallence nodded. Once.
The fire climbed again, and Cliff backed away, though he was at least ten feet from the edge.
Nunn snapped his fingers.
Stefan left, closing the door behind him.
“I am not a god, you understand,” the old man said as he settled the fire mask once again over his face. His dark eyes were barely visible, his lips not at all. “I am not invulnerable. If, for example, I am struck by an automobile, my bones will break; if I walk unprotected through a contaminated zone, I will become diseased.” The mask seemed to smile then. “But if I am careful, I will outlive the great-great grandsons of every child born this moment in Rushmore.”
Cliff didn’t understand. He looked at the woman, who met his gaze without blinking.
Nunn noticed it and nodded. “Yes, my wife is chosen. You seem to have guessed that.”
“Then how come she doesn’t look old?” he asked, the dryness in his throat nearly causing his voice to crack.
“Timing,” the woman answered as her hands burrowed into her voluminous sleeves. “You may look young, you may look old, you may look somewhere in between. It all depends on when you start.”
“Age,” added Nunn, “can be an advantage in my case, you see. Show the marks of experience and wisdom, and one gains immediate respect, people listen to you more readily, even in this time of youth worship and health fads.” He adjusted the mask slightly. “You may doubt, but think for a moment, young man. Whom do you trust more on first meeting, on instinct—the doctor who has a smattering of gray in his hair, or the one who doesn’t look any older than your brother?”
Cliff got the point.
What he didn’t get was a way out of here before Nunn explained how things were going to work. If he explained, that is; he might just get to the cutting part and forget to explain why.
He checked the room again for what seemed like the hundredth time. There were still no other doors except the one he’d been brought through. There were no windows. He doubted there were any secret passages here.
Mrs. Vallence blew him a kiss, and pulled a gun from her robe.
So much, he thought miserably, for making a run for it.
He lowered his gaze to his feet. Think, Abbott, think!
“So,” he said, looking up without raising his head, “you don’t … take over our bodies or anything, right?”
Nunn laughed heartily. “Whatever for?” He sobered. “It isn’t your bodies we need, my young friend. It’s your years.”
Cliff frowned, and then a terrible flat cold began to settle in his stomach. Somehow, they steal the years, the young years, to add to their own. Maybe the new time gives them vitality, more strength, the ability to fight off sickness and heal more rapidly than someone twice and three times as old; maybe some of those kids who disappear every year aren’t just runaways.
Maybe some of them, maybe a lot of them, just … vanish.
Nunn lifted his arms over his head.
The fire rose, rippling with vivid colors that bounced off the floor, off the walls.
Cliff couldn’t help watching him. He knew that something had to be done soon, but he felt as if he were hypnotized.
The fire roared.
The fire mask gleamed.
The light made the pit seem like an underwater cavern in some gold-and-red sea.
It occurred to him that he might be able to run straight at the old man. The fire pit wasn’t all that wide. He could tackle Nunn off the bridge; the fall would undoubtedly knock him out or at least render him momentarily helpless, then …
What?
Candy and Nora were still unconscious.
He couldn’t carry both of them and run for the door; he couldn’t even carry one of them and run for the door.
But he took a long step forward anyway, and a second one before a movement caught his eye and made him turn—to see Mrs. Vallence aim the gun at his head.
“You wouldn’t even get halfway there,” she said pleasantly. “I’m a very good shot.”
Suddenly it all seemed awfully silly, and he laughed.
The woman scowled.
Cliff grinned at her, knowing how she’d hate it. “C’mon,” he said. “God, you almost had me there for a minute, you really did.” He pointed at the old man still reaching for the ceiling. “You really think I believe this forever stuff? That you’re the same woman in that picture upstairs? That you’re what, a zillion years old or something?” He shook his head, scolding himself. “It’s … dumb.”
She didn’t get angry.
She only said, “Cliff, have you ever burned yourself?”
“Yeah, sure,” he answered, slipping one hand into a jacket pocket.
“It hurts.”
He looked at her as if she were crazy.
Her smile held, and so did the gun.
“If you burn yourself badly enough, you get a terrible blister. Ugly thing. Perhaps more than one, and horribly painful.” Her voice dropped then; the fire rose and slipped for a second over the edge of the stone. “And when it’s all healed, what’s left. Cliff? What do you see?”
The fire rose; it began to build a wall that rose above Nunn’s feet.
“New skin, my dear,” she answered for him. “New skin. Younger skin. None of the old skin is left; it’s been burned away. Forever.” Her free hand slithered down over her face, rested in a fist on her breast. “It’s a new you under there, Cliff, and the Mayan priests knew it. They learned what fire could do if it was tamed, if it was treated, if it was allowed to do just so much and no more.”
Horrified, Cliff looked at Nunn.
The fire had grown higher, licking and darting at the air, level with his waist.
The fire mask glowed a faint angry red.
“Time,” Nunn said.
“You killed that man,” Cliff said.
“He was very bad,” Mrs. Vallence answered. “He wanted the secret, even after we’d helped him, tsk, tsk. Just like a bad little boy, he tried to break what he couldn’t have.”
The fire rose, but its light grew darker.
In the jungle at his feet, things scurried, slithered.
“What do you mean, treated?” he asked.
She didn’t answer this time. She straightened her arm, and Cliff swallowed hard. If he tried to duck, fall, or charge, the bullet would get him anyway.
“Throw them in, Cliff,” she ordered.
He stared at her stupidly.
“Time,” Nunn said.
The fire rose.
The fire mask darkened.
“Do it, Cliff,” she said, slowly moving around the edge of the pit. “If you won’t, I will. I don’t think they’d like that.”
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The fire roared.
Feed them to the fire, and the fire consumes Nunn, and Mrs. Vallence puts the fire out, and Nunn, the same man, returns. A different man.
In his pocket, his fingers closed into a fist.
He looked at Nora, looked at Candy, and said, “No!”
Mrs. Vallence stopped not fifteen feet away, and pulled back the hammer.
“Time!” Nunn insisted.
The fire mask was deep red.
The fire neared his chest, and the flames writhed, spiraled, drew faces whose mouths were open in silent screaming, whose eyes were open in silent pleading.
All the faces were young.
The dreams.
As he watched the woman’s impatience grow, Cliff knew that there had to be some point when Nunn had to either finish the ceremony or leap from the bridge before he was killed. The man had been lying about deadlines; time was running out, the fire not as friendly.
“No,” he said again, quickly putting himself between the girls and the woman. “You’re not going to do it.”
“Honestly, Clifford,” she said in disgust. “Do you think that those two … children are special? Don’t be a fool. If they aren’t used, we’ll try again another time. With someone else.” She giggled. “Remember, we have all the time in the world.”
Suddenly she lowered the gun and fired. The explosion deafened him, and he yelped as the bullet took a chip from the wall behind him, not six inches from his waist.
“One way or another, you’re not leaving here,” she told him flatly. “Make up your mind.”
Dreams. Face of gold, faces in the fire, and someone screaming, someone running.
The gun swung around and aimed at his heart.
One chance, he thought. Just one chance.
“All right,” he said.
She laughed. “Liar.”
“No, no, really,” he said. “I’ll do it, okay?” and with one hand he grabbed Candy’s ankles, fumbled a bit, then tightened his grip. He looked at her, prayed silently that she’d forgive him, and began to drag her toward the pit.
Nunn laughed.
Mrs. Vallence watched him warily, the gun never wavering.
He felt the heat increase on the backs of his legs. Sweat made his fingers slippery, and her legs slipped away. The heels struck the floor loudly, and Candy moaned.
No, he pleaded; don’t wake up now, please don’t wake up!
“If you don’t use both hands,” the woman warned, “I’ll blow your head off and do it myself.”
Cliff nodded and straightened. He wiped his hand on his jacket, pulled the other one out of the pocket, and drew it across his brow.
Candy moaned, and her eyelids fluttered.
Someone running.
The fire was demanding.
Cliff bit down on his lower lip.
Someone, he whirled around, running.
He threw himself to one side as the gun fired and the latch pin flew and something hot and hard slammed into his shoulder and slammed him to the floor.
Mrs. Vallence screamed and fired again, this time at the door.
Cliff couldn’t move his arms or legs.
But he struggled to lift his head, and he thought he saw Del crawling frantically into the room, someone running in behind him and taking a bullet square in the chest, something green rush over Del’s head and streak over the pit.
He saw the heavy pin strike the fire mask just above the nose and bounce off it, knocking it askew and leaving behind a silver gap in the deep glowing red.
He heard Nunn scream;
he saw the fire engulf him;
he heard the woman scream;
he saw the fire die out, leaving nothing on the stone but a smoldering gold mask.
He heard his name. Nothing more, but he didn’t care. The dark was quiet.
TWENTY-ONE
Cliff didn’t budge at all when sirens began wailing on the far side of town. He was much too comfortable to even think about moving.
It was just possible, in fact, that this was the way he was going to spend the rest of his life.
He sighed, contented.
The night was cool, the mosquitos were still on vacation, and the moon was bright enough to lay silver patterns on the lawn.
Yes, he thought, I am definitely not moving until they carry me away.
Then he shifted in the hammock, and a touch of fire sparked in his shoulder. He shut his eyes and swallowed a groan and used his left hand to adjust the sling on his right arm.
On the other hand, he thought, maybe I’ll just let them wrap me up in this thing and bury me in the backyard.
In the living room, his father and Del watched a ball game. Del was trying to explain that the pitcher now on the mound was washed up, finished, and Mr. Abbott might as well throw in the towel and shut the television off. When he paused for a breath, Edward politely told him to shut up; there was a no-hitter going and the kid was going to jinx it.
Cliff smiled.
The screen door opened; footsteps on the floor.
“If you’re asleep, and you’re dreaming, you’d better be dreaming about me.”
He opened his eyes as Candy perched on the railing, one knee drawn to her chest, the other leg dangling.
“I thought you were in the kitchen helping Mom make pizza.”
She glared at the house. “Cliff, I am trying, really I am. But …” She shook her head in frustration.
“Wilmont, huh?”
She nodded.
“You’ll get used to it.”
She grabbed the hammock’s support rope by the hook on the wall. “One more time, Abbott,” she warned.
“Hey!” he yelled, and scrambled out as best he could, leaned against the wall and waited for the pain that, thankfully, didn’t come.
“You kids okay?” Edward called.
“Sure, Dad,” he said hastily. “No problem.”
Candy stuck out her tongue at him, then hopped off the railing and suggested they take a walk. Cliff told his father they were going around the block, they’d be back in a few minutes.
“What about the pizza?”
“Let Del eat it. He’s the hero.”
Del didn’t argue.
Then Candy took his hand and led him down to the pavement. Cliff nodded across the street, toward the park. He didn’t want to walk downtown. He might be tempted to pass the Nunn mansion, and he didn’t think he was up to it. Not yet. Not in the dark.
“How’s the shoulder?” she asked a half block later.
“Stiff,” he admitted. Being a stoic was dumb; when he was in pain, he wanted everyone to know it.
She kicked a pebble out of the way. “My father talked with the police today.”
“Again? It’s been over two weeks.”
She shrugged. “He just won’t believe that Mr. Nunn would leave town without warning, not without setting up some kind of operation to finish rebuilding the hotel. He even called Nunn’s office in New York.” She looked at him sideways. “He says Nunn must be involved with organized crime. Drugs, maybe, and the mob’s given him a vacation in the East River.”
Cliff didn’t laugh.
“I think,” she added, “he’s the only one in the world who doesn’t believe that his daughter killed him.”
“She was crazy,” he muttered.
She squeezed his hand but said nothing.
The bullet that had slipped through his shoulder without, miraculously, doing much damage to muscle or bone, was in a jar in his room, in the closet, behind his sweaters. He had insisted on keeping it when he’d regained consciousness in the hospital. His father had seen to it. His mother agreed, only on the condition that she never see or hear of it again.
It had all happened so fast that it wasn’t until much later that Del had filled him in on some of the details: how he’d hidden behind the barrels until the chauffeur had grabbed Cliff, then made his way back up the passage to the upstairs study. His first impulse had been to call the police, his second to warn the guests about what was going on.
He didn’t do the first because he’d panicked and hadn’t known what to tell them; he didn’t do the second because he’d panicked, not sure if any of them were in league with the Nunns.
So he had done the next thing that came to mind—he ran to the Abbott house, where Edward called the cops, then ran back with him to the mansion. Wilmont had come too.
“Should’ve seen those guys,” Del had said, grinning. “They thought we were terrorists or something. Wilmont pretended he was a dive bomber, though, and got them out of the way.”
Once in the basement, they overpowered Stefan, opened the door, and Del crawled in. The chauffeur, in the meantime, had gotten away from Edward; it was his misfortune that Mrs. Vallence had aimed high, not low.
Wilmont had taken the gun from her hand before she could shoot Cliff again, and the girls.
The fire was out.
