Richard Earl Garrett lay on his bunk, seething. His perfectly laid plans, his exquisite timing, trashed by Judge Westbrooke’s arrogance. And Reverend Billy’s conniving. And of course, the incompetence of Mark Levy, that worm of an attorney they had dumped on him.
Levy delivered the news. Just like room service. He walked right into the jail, peered through the bars, and told him his sentencing had been moved up to the day after tomorrow. Relief etched Levy’s face as he added that Garrett’s transfer would immediately follow. Whether he was going to death row or not would depend upon Westbrooke’s decision. Either way he was to be packed off to San Quentin by a waiting armed contingent.
He had counted on another week to complete his work, but now he had less than forty-eight hours. For some that would be good luck; for others, not so good. He would merely reprioritize. No more time for honing his skills, for terrorizing this pathetic little town, he must now concentrate on the important task of completing his union with Lucifer. Too bad. Things had been going so well.
But, was he prepared? Were his newfound powers strong enough? Could he draw Samantha to him? Make her come willingly? He couldn't shake the sensation that the time was not yet ripe. But, what choice did he have? It must be now or all his work would be for nothing.
He closed his eyes and called on each muscle to relax. His legs, chest, arms, neck unwound, releasing their tension. He felt weightless and warm. His breathing slowed as he entered that special realm available only to him. A place he had worked long and hard to attain. He eased from his being and rose high into the cool night air.
As he circled the perimeter of Mercer’s Corner, he marveled at the beauty beneath him. A landscape of soft blues, grays, and pastel greens stretched to each horizon. Everywhere, patches of brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows interrupted the muted palate. The thrill this carnival of colors brought to him was often overwhelming, exciting him to the point that at times he felt it would surely consume him. For it was these colors that released his powers and gave him mastery over all he saw. Not complete mastery. Not yet.
It hadn’t always been that way. His initial excursions into this world, soaring high above the landscape, had frightened him. It required total concentration for him to stay aloft and not plunge from the heights and find himself once again in the shabby garage apartment he had called home ever since coming here.
Hundreds of trials followed by hundreds of failures shredded his confidence. Yet, somewhere deep inside he knew he must persevere. His destiny demanded it, compelling him to try again and again.
His hard work and focus were rewarded. When was it? Six months ago? Eight months? Definitely, after his search for Satan drew him to this forgotten town on the fringe of the Mojave, to Devil’s Playground. He couldn’t recall the exact moment, but he possessed vivid memories of that night when he slipped the bonds of fear and soared endlessly, without failure, as if he had held the secret all along. It reminded him of learning to ride a bike at age five. That magic moment when everything jelled and balancing, turning, and braking were suddenly innate.
For months, he reveled in this newfound ability, soaring high above a world blanketed by monochromatic grays. But, he knew something wonderful and powerful existed beneath the dull blanket that covered and obscured the landscape. At times, he glimpsed faint reds and blues and greens that seeped upward through the drab fabric, revealing themselves briefly. He could taste the richness and strength of the colors, but like cotton candy, the sensations quickly evaporated as the colors sank from sight, leaving behind only frustration and anger.
He beseeched Satan, his prince and mentor, pleading for the ability to drink in the full flavor of the colors. For months, he received no answers, no instructions. Finally, Satan responded. He came to him in a dream as a fiery pentagram, telling him he must unlock the doors to Hades and drink from the River Styx. Only then could he become one with the Prince of Darkness.
“What must I do? Where will I find the key?” he asked.
“That is the trick, isn’t it?” Satan replied as the pentagram faded to blackness.
He frantically searched for the answer, reading books on Satanism and black magic, but found only frustration and confusion. He prayed to Satan, but received only silence.
Then, one night he awoke, sweating, writhing, gasping for breath, feeling as though the fires of the Hell he sought were coursing through his veins. Just when he felt he could endure no more, like a chilling breeze or a drink of cool spring water, the answer sprang into his mind: To drink from the River Styx and become one with Lucifer, he must drink the blood of the innocent.
He knew what must be done: three innocents, sacrificed in an exacting ritual, beneath a full moon.
That night, after the sacrifice of the three children, he soared high into the sky, basking in the creamy glow of the full moon. He rose so high that Mercer’s Corner appeared as a pinpoint of light. As he descended, the gray coverlet slid away, revealing a world of dazzling color.
He intuitively understood the power of the various hues. To his eyes, humans possessed distinctive auras, typically shades of yellow, orange, or red. Those with yellow or orange halos were easily manipulated, yellow being more compliant than orange. These people he quickly learned to manipulate, control. The trucker with his orange aura and Juan Rodriguez with his yellow halo, proved to be easy, requiring little effort. But, those with red auras, like Samantha, proved to be more difficult, as they possessed some resistance. Not complete immunity, but enough to prevent total control. He could invade their dreams, exploit certain thoughts and emotions, but could not direct their actions. Not yet, anyway.
But, he now knew what he needed, what sacrifice Lucifer required, what would clear the way for him to enter Lucifer's domain and join the battle against God and His army of fools. It became crystal clear two nights ago, during his first dream world union with Sam. It was then that he realized she was the one. The one that would complete his transformation, his bond with Lucifer.
He needed more time to complete his mastery over all the colors, to crack Samantha's red aura, to entwine himself so deeply into her soul, as he had with the children, that all her resistance would dissolve and she would give herself to him. But, time was running out and a sense of urgency invaded him. If he failed to complete his tasks, Lucifer would turn him away, leave him behind, and he would be consumed in the coming apocalypse. Exiled into nothingness for all eternity.
He had hoped for more time. Had expected more time. But now, he must find another way.
As he soared through the cool night air, a plan began to take shape. It was not without risk. Sam might be killed before she came to him, and if she were, he would be lost forever. Yet, he had to take the gamble. The ticking clock on the wall opposite his cell continued its forward march and he could neither slow nor stop its advance.
He circled south of town until he located what he sought. He descended and hovered a hundred feet above Sam’s house. It was quiet and dark, but he clearly sensed Sam’s red aura as she slept. His Sam. His key to the kingdom. At the far corner of the house, he felt the entwined orange auras of Penelope and Melissa.
Perfect, he thought.
Ascending once again and turning to the north, he passed over the empty streets of Mercer’s Corner, a two-mile stretch of open desert, and settled above Reverend Billy’s collection of buses and vans. He clearly saw Billy’s fat yellow body and, in the next bus, the block of orange that was Carl Angelo.
He dropped lower.