The Dead Man: Ring of Knives

'It's that stone circle they got, where they put on they plays, up the meditation path. C'mon!' She left the room, waving him to follow.

He did, his joints aching with every step. 'But what's going on there tonight? What are they going to do to her?'

'No idea, and I don't intend to find out.' They were in a dimly lit hallway. She opened a door marked 'Emergency Only' and led him up a short set of concrete steps to another door, which she pushed open.

Together they stepped out into the foggy night.

Matt looked around. They had come out of the lower level of Module Two. To their left, the meditation path led into the woods. Through the fog, Matt could see the faint glow of lights among the pines.

To their right was the Admin Building, and beyond it, the driveway leading to the highway: deliverance.

'We'll go round the loading-dock way,' she said, starting forward. 'Where we met before. Just stay close together, and— Hey! Where you goin'?'

But it was obvious where he was going. He was going to the Ring.

'Get back here! You crazy!'

'Go get your phone, Maloria,' he said without breaking stride. 'Call for help.'

'You ain't gonna need help, boy! You go up that path, all you gonna need is a pine box! Don't you understand yet? They is crazy ma'fuckahs!'

'So am I,' he said. And meant it.

# # # # # #

He left her. Found the path. Passed the birdbath. Felt the long, wet, unmowed grass give way to pine needles. Smelled the pines. Felt his heart thump in his chest.

He didn't want to go into the woods. When Maloria had pulled him towards Admin, he'd wanted to follow. But he couldn't.

Matt had mostly forgotten those moments with Janey on the bridge and in the hospital, until Hirotachi had shocked him. They were too painful to think about, so he hadn't. But now, for the first time in months, he had. And not just thought about them: relived them. He had seen Janey's face. Heard her voice. So real . . . it was like, for a few moments, she had been with him. He couldn't shake that feeling. Didn't even want to. But part of feeling close to her, feeling like she was standing just at his elbow, meant that he couldn't follow Maloria and leave the blonde with the night shift. What would Janey say about that? He knew what she would say. And if it was true—even a little true—that he still carried her with him, how could he face her—or even the idea of her—if he left a young girl in the hands of these monsters?

He couldn't. That was all there was to it.

He went up the path as fast as he could.

But even as Matt got closer to the amphitheater, things started to go south.

His plan—what little he had of one—was to creep up, unnoticed, and spy on whatever was going on at the end of the meditation path. Take them by surprise, if there was any threat to the girl.

But that wasn't how it fell out. To begin with, as soon as he hit the path, he glanced over his shoulder and saw two figures following him. He sped up, forcing his wobbly legs to carry him more quickly over the damp needles and pinecones. But from the corner of his eye he saw shadows pacing him, parallel to the path: on both sides of the path. Sometimes they'd pass through a shaft of moonlight, and he'd see something glinting in their hands. Whatever it was, they all seemed to have it.

By the time Matt got to the boulder covered in black moss, they began to converge behind him, driving him around the corner, past the glowing horror of the Head Tree and its many obscene ornaments.

Until at last, heart thundering, he stood at the lip of the stone amphitheater.

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.'