Michael lifted his head, followed more slowly by Peter and Matthew. Mariah’s hands remained on Michael’s shoulders, her face once again expressionless. For just a moment, no one knew what to do; however, Thomas never stopped filming.
Her eyes narrowed and she smiled. Crossing her arms over her chest, her smile deepened, a glint in her eyes reflected from the lamp light. In a husky growl, she said, “Thanks, gentlemen. I won’t need your services any longer.”
The three clergymen stood. Matthew reached for his chair, bringing it to the left, setting it down before curiosity made him turn back. Peter brought his to the opposite side, but had not put it down when he turned toward her.
At the sound of her voice, Michael paused, never touching his chair. He straightened, turned around, and locked eyes with her—and his heart rate thudded in dismay.
Gabriel Winters took an inadvertent step backwards. Unconsciously, his hand moved up to his shoulder holster.
Thomas never took his eye from the lens piece as he tightly gripped the camera. For the first time in his association with Mariah Carpenter, he was frightened.
Without taking her eyes off Michael, she drawled, “Not necessary, Agent Winters. I have no intentions of hurting anyone ... here.”
The words were said quietly, but the deep, rumbling bass was, nonetheless, penetrating. It was the tone that Thomas heard the night he entered this room to film the Finding of Sophie Duval. It only enhanced the nasty gleam in her eyes, the diabolic smile on her lips. She was daunting—and ominous.
Michael appeared to be the only person in the room who was not afraid to speak. He reached out toward her and said, “Mariah ...”
“Michael ... back off. Please.” Her voice was a hoarse growl that issued from the back of her throat. The polite addition was an afterthought meant to minimize the insulting command.
Matthew Clark sat down heavily in his chair, his eyeballs bulging in their sockets as he gripped the armrests. When Michael hesitated, more afraid to leave her alone than he was of her hurting him, Peter instinctively moved slightly forward. The chair, still gripped in his hands, was now up against his chest like a shield.
Mariah’s eyes drifted away from Michael’s and stared into Peter’s. She slowly raised her hand, her finger pointing at his chair. Seemingly mesmerized, he lowered the chair and backed away.
Her gaze returned to Michael, her eyes boring into his eyes.
With a shake of his head, he complied. Picking up his chair, he brought it halfway down the room before he set it down gently. He then turned around to face her again, tears welling behind his eyelids.
The air suddenly became alive. Lavender light shimmered around her as the spotlights dimmed dramatically. Almost immediately the hair on everyone’s arms and heads sprang up as a chilling breeze whipped through the room.
Without warning, Anthony Santatoro was shoved backwards, falling hard on his backside. Before he had time to register the fact that he was supposed to be alone in the pitch black of this metal shed, a woman’s face, contorted by hatred and fury, appeared before him, surrounded by purple light. Terrified, he tried to scrabble backwards using his butt, his hands, his heels—but he didn’t get far before she spoke.
“Quit that pounding you asshole, you’re giving me a headache. Hey, waddya know? It’s Tony the Touch! So how’s it hanging, Wiseguy? Looks like your business associates ain’t too thrilled with you right about now.”
Anthony stared in horror at the face that hovered three feet before him, unaware his bladder had let go, ruining his five hundred dollar trousers. The voice issuing from the mouth of the head sounded like shoes crunching on shards of glass.
How the hell did she know his street name, given to him by his godfather when he was voted the best teenage pickpocket in Flatbush? So scared he couldn’t respond, he whimpered pathetically. Oh shit oh hell Mother of God Almighty save me from whatever the fuck dis is!
The apparition’s rough, guttural voice cooed repulsively, the smile on her face obscenely delighted. “Sorry, goomba. God’s mother ain’t about to come to your aid,” she hissed. “She doesn’t have time for excrement like you. But I have plenty of time.”
This hasta be some kind of fuckin’ joke, Anthony thought frantically, trying to interject some sanity into the madness of the situation. Dem assholes are just tryin’ to scare the shit outta me with this Hollywood freak head crap. They ain’t gonna let me rot in this shit box till the skin melts off my bones like they promised.
“Ohhhh, yes they are, paisan. You’ve pissed off just about everybody you’ve ever done business with. And now, buddy boy, I’m pissed off.” Smoke swirled out of the face’s eye sockets, but the sight wasn’t nearly as terrifying as was the wet, depraved chuckle.
Please, please, I didn’t do nuthin’ I swear on my mother’s head pul-eez Jesus Chrrrrrisssssst! Anthony pleaded with the ghoul, still unable to spit anything coherent out of his mouth.
The lips on the head leered obscenely. “Payback’s a bitch, Tony. This is for all the ladies you used as punching bags.” Suddenly his face, head, and neck felt like they were being clubbed with a baseball bat, the blows coming so fast and hard he couldn’t do anything but curl up and throw his arms over his head to protect himself.
The voice became louder, causing the shed to vibrate. “And this is for all the teenage runaways you forced into prostitution.” Pain erupted in his genitals like someone had set a match to his balls. Screaming at the top of his lungs, Anthony forgot about the blows to his head and grabbed his crotch with both hands, expecting to find his penis nothing more than a blackened stump.
“And this,” the head said, its voice dropping to nearly a whisper, “is for all the people you hooked on crack.” Anthony’s body began to shake with a violence that had his feet, butt, and head bouncing on the floor. The agony that roiled in his midsection felt like somebody was carving him up with a hot poker. As he thrashed about, white foam oozing out of his mouth, his sphincter muscles loosened and feces spread up his back and down his legs.
Even through the pain that encompassed his entire body, Anthony felt like the shack had caught fire, tremendous heat emanating from the phantom’s head. “PHEW! You smell bad, boy. Hey, get that? “Bad boy”? Anyway, it’s time for me to go. I’m sure you’re gonna miss me, but don’t worry, I won’t let you die in here. The NYPD should be here shortly. Wouldn’t want your rotten, stinking carcass to come up dead now, would we.”
The heat dissipated and the shack filled with dim light. Through the pain, Anthony Santatoro looked up and beheld the full form of a woman straddling him, her arms locked tightly across her chest.
The expression on her face was no longer evil, just sad. But the sadness was not for him. Just before her image faded, he thought he saw tears in her eyes.