this.
She went into the bathroom and smeared cold cream on her face, letting it set for a spell, then removed it, wiping away the makeup and dark eyeliner encircling her eyes. With a through washing, she was ready. She rummaged through her closet, finding a Bob Dylan T-shirt and a pair of jeans, the most conservative clothes she had, and put them on.
She studied herself in the mirror. A little too plain. She dug through her drawer and found the right touch, some silver jewelry. She put it on and left her house and walked the short distance to the area, where Douglass lived.
As soon as she turned onto St. Louis Avenue, however, she saw someone in the parking lot behind the Full Moon who caused her to pause. The face looked familiar, though it didn’t quite fit the distorted image in her mind, like seeing someone through the peephole in her front door, an old customer perhaps. And then it came to her. This was the person she’d been with in the parking lot at Cymry’s. She had to do something. Such a meeting would have been too much to believe had she not realized it for what it was: a gift from the gods. She had no choice but to take the advantage and confront what had been laid in front of her. She strode forward, her coat billowing behind her like the cape of a countess, and when she came within a few feet she spoke, demanding to know why such a thing had been done to her.
When Brighid saw the eyes of the stranger, she paused, her courage draining from her, for they were not the eyes of a mortal, but those of the dark god, the never-ending veil of darkness who could take many forms and had done so in this guise of deception. It was then that Brighid heard the dark god’s voice, which was painful to her ears, and felt the deadly embrace, which was hot in her stomach, for the touch of the dark god is final.
Chapter Ten
Patricia Orwell opened the door to the building and held it, her right arm trembling slightly under the pressure. Elliot stepped inside. It was cold and shadowy, the only light coming through the tinted windows, and as Elliot watched the door ease shut, a feeling of insecurity crawled along his nerves.
No cars were driving past, no other visitors strolling the grounds. She started forward, walking deeper into the glass tomb, her conservative, low-heeled shoes crackling against the dirty concrete, the sound echoing in the expanse of unused space.
“I just need some information,” Elliot said, “about Douglass Wistrom, his connection to this place, and what you know about him.”
“We’ll get to that,” Ms. Orwell said. “I have a few issues with Mr. Wistrom myself, his giving out this address for one.”
Elliot ran his finger across a filing cabinet as he walked past, pushing a pile of dust to the floor. “Yeah,” he said, “that thought crossed my mind as well.”
Near a partial enclosure created by the intersection of two interior walls, Ms. Orwell stopped and turned to Elliot. “I suppose you want to know about Douglass?”
“That’s the general idea. Does he work for you?”
“He’s employed by Business Solutions.”
“Let me guess,” Elliot said. “That’s his office in the corner.”
She looked as if she wanted to find the comment humorous, but too much else was going on. “No, nothing like that.”
“What is this place, Ms. Orwell?”
She sighed. “It’s exactly what it appears to be.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Some pharmaceutical company out of Dallas wants to open an office in the area. They wanted to look at the place. I’m here to show it.” After a moment she added, “We specialize in commercial properties.”
Elliot noticed a partially open lateral file drawer. He walked over and glanced inside. Empty. “How does Mr. Wistrom fit in with all of this?”
“He’s a handyman. He cuts lawns, trims bushes, does minor repairs.”
“He told me he worked with computers. Why would he do that? And why would he give me a phony address?”
A
She went into the bathroom and smeared cold cream on her face, letting it set for a spell, then removed it, wiping away the makeup and dark eyeliner encircling her eyes. With a through washing, she was ready. She rummaged through her closet, finding a Bob Dylan T-shirt and a pair of jeans, the most conservative clothes she had, and put them on.
She studied herself in the mirror. A little too plain. She dug through her drawer and found the right touch, some silver jewelry. She put it on and left her house and walked the short distance to the area, where Douglass lived.
As soon as she turned onto St. Louis Avenue, however, she saw someone in the parking lot behind the Full Moon who caused her to pause. The face looked familiar, though it didn’t quite fit the distorted image in her mind, like seeing someone through the peephole in her front door, an old customer perhaps. And then it came to her. This was the person she’d been with in the parking lot at Cymry’s. She had to do something. Such a meeting would have been too much to believe had she not realized it for what it was: a gift from the gods. She had no choice but to take the advantage and confront what had been laid in front of her. She strode forward, her coat billowing behind her like the cape of a countess, and when she came within a few feet she spoke, demanding to know why such a thing had been done to her.
When Brighid saw the eyes of the stranger, she paused, her courage draining from her, for they were not the eyes of a mortal, but those of the dark god, the never-ending veil of darkness who could take many forms and had done so in this guise of deception. It was then that Brighid heard the dark god’s voice, which was painful to her ears, and felt the deadly embrace, which was hot in her stomach, for the touch of the dark god is final.
Chapter Ten
Patricia Orwell opened the door to the building and held it, her right arm trembling slightly under the pressure. Elliot stepped inside. It was cold and shadowy, the only light coming through the tinted windows, and as Elliot watched the door ease shut, a feeling of insecurity crawled along his nerves.
No cars were driving past, no other visitors strolling the grounds. She started forward, walking deeper into the glass tomb, her conservative, low-heeled shoes crackling against the dirty concrete, the sound echoing in the expanse of unused space.
“I just need some information,” Elliot said, “about Douglass Wistrom, his connection to this place, and what you know about him.”
“We’ll get to that,” Ms. Orwell said. “I have a few issues with Mr. Wistrom myself, his giving out this address for one.”
Elliot ran his finger across a filing cabinet as he walked past, pushing a pile of dust to the floor. “Yeah,” he said, “that thought crossed my mind as well.”
Near a partial enclosure created by the intersection of two interior walls, Ms. Orwell stopped and turned to Elliot. “I suppose you want to know about Douglass?”
“That’s the general idea. Does he work for you?”
“He’s employed by Business Solutions.”
“Let me guess,” Elliot said. “That’s his office in the corner.”
She looked as if she wanted to find the comment humorous, but too much else was going on. “No, nothing like that.”
“What is this place, Ms. Orwell?”
She sighed. “It’s exactly what it appears to be.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Some pharmaceutical company out of Dallas wants to open an office in the area. They wanted to look at the place. I’m here to show it.” After a moment she added, “We specialize in commercial properties.”
Elliot noticed a partially open lateral file drawer. He walked over and glanced inside. Empty. “How does Mr. Wistrom fit in with all of this?”
“He’s a handyman. He cuts lawns, trims bushes, does minor repairs.”
“He told me he worked with computers. Why would he do that? And why would he give me a phony address?”
A
Similar Books
