The two policemen stumbled from their car, the first of them running towards the burning vehicles but unable to get close because of the blistering heat from the leaping flames. The driver knelt and saw the body of Rick Landers lying beneath the car.
‘Oh Jesus God.” he murmured and straightened up, reaching inside the car for
his radio.
He called for an ambulance and some back-up, trying to explain briefly what had happened.
As he walked away he saw that he left sticky footprints behind him where he’d been standing in the pool of Rick’s blood. He dropped to his knees on the grass verge and threw up.
David Blake dropped his pen and yawned. He blinked myopically and scanned the pages which lay before him.
He’d been working flat out since ten that morning, pausing briefly at one o’clock to devour half a cheeseburger and some fries. Most of that now lay neglected on the table behind him.
His stomach growled noisily and he patted it gently. It was time he ate something more substantial.
Blake got to his feet and walked to the bathroom, turning the television on as he passed. A glance at his watch told him it was 5.58 p.m. The news would be on in a minute or two. He smiled to himself. It was time to find out what had been going on in the ‘real’ world. He’d been so immersed in his work for the past eight hours that New York could have disappeared and he wouldn’t have noticed. Once safely locked away, pen in hand, Blake was oblivious to all else.
He entered the bathroom, crossing to the wash basin where he splashed his face with cold water. As he wandered back into his room, a towel pressed to his face, the news was just beginning. Blake decided to hear the headlines then get something to eat. He dried his face off, the water mingling with the perspiration on his forehead.
‘… has promised a crackdown on some of the city’s illegal gambling establishments …’
The voice of the newsreader droned on as Blake opened his wardrobe and took out a clean shirt.
‘… and, as reported in our earlier bulletin, the son of Toni Landers, the actress who plays …’
Blake spun round to face the set.
‘… whose son, Rick, was tragically killed today when he was involved in a car accident.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Blake as a photo of first Rick and then Toni Landers was flashed on to the screen. The writer sat down on the edge of the bed, eyes riveted to the set as the newsreader continued.
‘Miss Landers, who was filming elsewhere in the city was unavailable for comment and it is believed that she is now at her home under sedation. Her son, Rick, is believed to have been killed at approximately 4.15 this afternoon after a stolen car crashed into an ice cream van outside his home.
Both passengers in the car and also the van driver were killed but, as yet, the other three victims have not been named. Police …’
Blake shook his head slowly, his eyes and ears focused on the TV but his mind back-tracking to the party at Toni Landers’ house.
To Mathias.
To the prophecy.
‘Her son is going to die.’ The psychic’s words echoed inside his mind.
‘Her son is going to die.’
Blake sat for a moment longer, then pulled on his shirt and hastily buttoned it up, tucking it into his jeans. He pulled on a pair of boots and, leaving the television set on, he left the room and scuttled across to the elevator at the end of the corridor. He rode it to the ground floor and ran through reception, out of the main doors and past the doorman who was enjoying a sly drag on a Marlboro.
The writer turned to his left and headed for the newsstand on the corner of the street. He fumbled in his pocket for change with one hand as he retrieved a late edition with the other. Halfway down the page was a photo of Rick Landers and, above it:
SON OF ACTRESS DIES IN ACCIDENT Blake handed the vendor some coins, not
waiting for his change, then he turned and made his way back to the hotel.
Once inside his room, Blake read the full story. The details didn’t matter.
The child was dead. That was enough. The writer folded the paper and dropped it on to the bed. He suddenly didn’t feel so hungry. For what seemed like an eternity he sat there, gazing at the TV screen and then at the photo of Rick Landers.
‘Her son is going to die.’ He spoke the words aloud.
Biake got to his feet and switched off the TV. He snatched up the leather jacket which was draped over the back of a nearby chair, pulling it on as he made for the door of his room.
Outside, the storm clouds which had been gathering for the past hour or so were split by the first soundless flash of lightning.
Blake paid the taxi driver, peered out through the rain splashed window then pushed open the door of the cab.
The deluge hit him like a palpable wave, the heavens continuing to dump their load without hint of a respite. The storm was raging, whiplash cracks of lightning punctuating the almost continual growl of thunder. It sounded as if somewhere, deep below the surface of the earth, a gigantic creature was clawing its way up. Rain hammered against the roads and buildings, bouncing off like tiny explosions. Even as Blake left the cab he felt the hair being plastered to the side of his face, the hot droplets penetrating the material of his shirt. He knew that the storm would not clear the air, it would merely make the humidity more acute. Beads of perspiration formed on the writer’s forehead, only to be washed away instantly by the driving rain.
The house of Jonathan Mathias stood before him, a large forbidding three storey building fronted by well-kept lawn and ringed by a high stone wall.
Blake noticed as he approached the wrought iron gates that there were closed-circuit television cameras mounted on each side of the gates. They watched him with their Cyclopean eyes as he walked up the short driveway towards the house itself.
The building was a curious mixture of the old and new. The main structure looked as if it had been built in mock Edwardian style whilst an extension made up of glass and concrete seemed to have been grafted on to the wrong house.
The windows were unlit and the glass reflected the lightning back at Blake, they lowered over him like some kind of malevolent spectre.
There were more closed-circuit cameras above the front door. He rang the bell, pressing it twice and, a moment later,
the door was opened by a man who Blake immediately recognised as Mathias’
chauffeur.
‘Mr Blake isn’t it?’ said the man, eyeing the writer who looked a sorry state with his brown hair dripping and his clothes soaked.
‘I’d like to see Mr Mathias if that’s possible,’ the writer said.
‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at home,’ the chauffeur began.
‘I’ll …’
‘Let him in, Harvey.’
Blake recognised the voice immediately and, a moment later, Mathias himself stepped into view.
‘Come in, David,’ he said, smiling. ‘You look as if you swam here.’
Blake stepped into the hallway.
‘Come through into the study,’ said the psychic.
Once inside the room, he poured himself a brandy and offered one to Blake who gratefully accepted, his eyes roving around the spacious room. He noted with bewilderment that there were no windows. The only light came from a desk lamp and two floor-standing spotlamps near the drink cabinet. On one wall there was a framed original sketch by Aleister Crowley depicting the Whore of Babylon.
Biake looked closely at it.
‘You knew Crowley?’ he, asked.
‘We met once or twice,’ said Mathias.
‘The Great Beast himself eh?’ murmured Blake, sipping his brandy. ‘A
