the responsibility for their deaths as surely as if you’d seen them
walking in front of a train and didn’t even bother to call out a warning
to them.
You threw away their lives as if they were nothing but garbage to you.”
A torrent of words spewed from Jack before he even realized he was going
to speak: “You fucking sleazy son of a bitch, you’d better not touch one
hair on them!
You’d better not-”
Lavelle had hung up.
Rebecca said, “Who-”
“Lavelle.”
“You mean . . . all of this?”
“You believe in black magic now? Sorcery? Voodoo? ”
“Oh, my God.”
“I sure as hell believe in it now.”
She looked around at the demolished room, shaking her head, trying
without success to deny the evidence before her eyes.
Jack remembered his own skepticism when Carver Hampton had told him
about the falling bottles and the black serpent. No skepticism now.
Only terror now.
He thought of the bodies he had seen this morning and this afternoon,
those hideously ravaged corpses.
His heart jackhammered. He was short of breath. He felt as if he might
vomit.
He still had the phone in his hand. He punched out a number.
Rebecca said, “Who’re you calling?”
“Faye. She’s got to get the kids out of there, fast.”
“But Lavelle can’t know where they are.”
“He couldn’t have known where I was, either. I didn’t tell anyone I was
coming to see you. I wasn’t followed here; I’m sure I wasn’t. He
couldn’t have known where to find me-and yet he knew. So he probably
knows where to find the kids, too. Damnit, why isn’t it ringing? ”
He rattled the telephone buttons, got another dial tone, tried Faye’s
number again. This time he got a recording telling him that her phone
was no longer in service. Not true, of course.
“Somehow, Lavelle’s screwed up Faye’s line,” he said, dropping the
receiver. “We’ve got to get over there right away. Jesus, we’ve got to
get the kids out! ”
Rebecca had stripped off her robe, had yanked a pair of jeans and a
pull-over sweater from the closet. She was already half dressed.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll be all right. We’ll get to them before
Lavelle does.”
But Jack had the sickening feeling that they were already too late.
CHAPTER FIVE
Again, sitting alone in his dark bedroom, with only the phosphoric light
of the snowstorm piercing the windows, Lavelle reached up with his mind
and tapped the psychic rivers of malignant energy that coursed through
the night above the city.
His sorceror’s power was not only depleted this time but utterly
exhausted. Calling forth a poltergeist and maintaining control over
it-as he had done in order to arrange the demonstration for Jack Dawson
a few minutes ago-was one of the most draining of all the rituals of
black magic.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to use a poltergeist to destroy one’s
enemies. Poltergeists were merely mischievous-at worst, nasty-spirits;
they were not evil. If a Bocor, having conjured up such an entity,
attempted to employ it to murder someorie, it would then be able to
break free of his controlling spell and turn its energies upon him.
However, when used only as a tool to exhibit a Bocor’s powers, a
poltergeist produced impressive results. Skeptics were transformed into
believers. The bold were made meek. After witnessing the work of a
poltergeist, those who were already believers in voodoo and the
supernatural were humbled, frightened, and reduced to obedient servants,
pitifully eager to do whatever a Bocor demanded of them.
Lavelle’s rocking chair creaked in the quiet room.
In the darkness, he smiled and smiled.
From the night sky, malignant energy poured down.
Lavelle, the vessel, was soon overflowing with power.
He sighed, for he was renewed.
Before long, the fun would begin.
The slaughter.
Penny sat on the edge of her bed, listening.
The sounds came again. Scraping, hissing. A soft thump, a faint clink,
and again a thump. A far-off, rattling, shuffling noise.
Far off-but getting closer.
She snapped on the bedside lamp. The small pool of light was warm and
welcome.
Davey remained asleep, undisturbed by the peculiar sounds. She decided