Stolen Souls

65

FRAGMENTS OF SHATTERED glass crunched under Lennon’s feet as he made his way across the darkened kitchen, his Glock 17 drawn and ready. His breath misted as heat left the house through the empty window frame.

As he moved into the hallway, a thin streak of light moved across the wall ahead of him. He tensed, brought his left hand up to support his right, pressure on the pistol’s trigger.

A door revealed a wooden staircase leading down to a cellar. Shadows shifted and twisted in the opening like demons wrestling over souls. He reached the top step and saw a torch beam moving in the black pit below.

A voice, low and hoarse, rose up to Lennon. He could make out only a few words among the rambling. “… your fault … will suffer … all lost … run.”

Another voice, soft, a girl’s voice, worked below the other, reciting the same few words over and over again, words Lennon did not understand.

Lennon peered into the darkness and saw the torch shone on a young woman, bloodied and semiconscious. Its halo revealed only a hint of the man who held it. The light weakened as it reached the top of the stairs where Lennon stood, but it was enough to show the switch. He hit it with his elbow and steadied his aim.

“Police!” he called.

The man stared up, wide-eyed, his mouth open like a hole torn in the pale disc of his face.

Lennon took it all in at once—the body of the Lithuanian he had questioned earlier, the blood pooling on the floor, the scattered tools, the pitiful form of the girl bound to the upended chair—and aimed the Glock.

“Edwin Paynter,” he said. “Move away from the girl.”

Paynter’s eyes widened further at the sound of his own name. He fell back, pulling the chair and the girl with him.

“Stay back,” he shouted, bringing something red to the girl’s throat.

For a moment, Lennon thought Paynter wore a shining glove. When the glove’s fabric dripped onto the girl, he knew it was not a glove, but the dead man’s blood coating Paynter’s hand, and the screwdriver it gripped.

He tried to steady the Glock’s aim on Paynter’s forehead, but neither his hand nor the crazy man below would stay still.

“Let her go,” Lennon said, taking a step down.

“Don’t come down here,” Paynter said.

“I’m coming down, Edwin,” Lennon said. “I’m going to come down and get the girl. You let her go and you won’t get hurt.”

The sane part of Lennon’s mind shrieked at him to get out of there, but the girl’s eyes fixed on his, and he knew he had no choice.

“You hear me, Edwin? Move away from her, and I promise you won’t get hurt.”

Paynter laughed and reached for something near the Lithuanian’s body.

Lennon’s reflexes understood before his consciousness did, and he dropped low as the cellar boomed with the discharge and the wall by his head exploded with red dust and brick fragments.

His balance gone, Lennon tumbled headfirst down the rest of the stairs, the wood slamming into his shoulders, his elbows, his knees as he turned end over end. The concrete floor struck his chin, and he tasted blood as his vision blackened.

The world skipped a beat, and he was on his back, staring at a bare lightbulb, his hands empty by his sides. A broad shape moved into his line of sight, blotting out the bulb’s painful glow. A moon face smiled down at him.

“When will you people ever learn?” Paynter asked.

Lennon blinked up at him, coughed as he swallowed his own blood.

Paynter hunkered down and pressed the pistol’s muzzle to Lennon’s forehead.

“You can’t beat me,” he said. “Not when I’ve got the Lord on my side.”