the incident in Kansas. But you knew that.”
“Yes. I was shown.”
Agent Clack blew a smoke ring. “And these other individuals. Gregor Blaylock and his entourage. The grad students…”
“Let me guess. Victims of a gruesome demise, identities stolen to perpetrate an elaborate charade.” Lancaster smiled; a brittle twitch.
“Not quite that dramatic. Guy’s nonexistent. So are his assistants. Our records show he, someone, corresponded with Christou over the years, but it’s a sham. There’s a real live prof named Greg Blaylock and my guess is whoever this other guy is, he simply assumed that identity as needed. It’s a popular con, black market brokers fixing illegals up with American citizens’ social security cards. Could be a dozen people using the same serial number, sharing parallel identities. Not too hard. Blaylock and Christou hadn’t actually met in person before that night. So.”
“Blaylock’s a cultist, a servitor. He was on the killing ground as a master of ceremonies. He…Blaylock coupled with Mrs. Cook while the nightmares fed on my companions, one by one.” Lancaster poured again, swallowed it quickly. Poured another, contemplated the glass as if it were a crystal ball. “Everybody was after Christou. The monsters liked his books. What about you and your cronies? Was he a revolutionary? Bomb an embassy back in the ‘60s?”
“That’s eyes only spy stuff, grandpa. I’ll tell you this: the geezer mixed with politically active people during his career. The kind of dudes on no fly lists. He was once a consultant for the intelligence services of our competitors. Quid pro quo. Those bodies we examined…That was beyond, man. Way, way beyond. All the blood and organs removed. Mutilation. Looked like the victims were burned, but the autopsies said, no. A brutal, sadistic, and apparently well-plotted crime. Yet the hostiles let you walk. There’s a mystery my superiors are eager to get solved. Help me, man. Would ya, could ya shed some light on the subject?”
A sort of hysterical joy bubbled into Lancaster’s throat. Yes, yes! To solve the ineffable mystery would be quite the trick. Certainly, Agent Clack despite his innocent face and schoolboy charm was cold and brutal, had surely seen and done the worst. Yet Lancaster easily imagined the younger man’s horrified comprehension as the most vile and forbidden knowledge entered his bloodstream, began to corrode his shrieking brain with its acid. His lips curled. “Mrs. Cook called, a horrible sound unlike anything I’d ever heard, and three of the…things that attacked Ms. Diamond in the road shambled from the darkness and dragged us away, far from the limo and into the fields. Mr. Rawat, Kara, and their bodyguard were alive when they were dumped into the center of the clearing. The bodyguard, Dedrick...despite his horrible wounds. All of them were alive, Agent Clack. Very much alive. Dr. Christou too, although I could hardly recognize him beneath the mask of blood he wore. The blood was caked an inch thick and the fresh stuff oozed around the edges.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I still don’t understand how we missed you out there. The wheat is only four feet tall.” Agent Clack sounded more fascinated than sorry.
“I don’t know how it was done. But it was. Black magic, worse.”
“So, what happened? Exactly.”
Lancaster hesitated for a long moment. “Eyes only, agent. My eyes only.”
“Now, now, codger. You don’t wanna fuck with the man with the shiny laminated picture I.D..”
“The others were drained. Drained, Agent Clack.”
Agent Clack dropped his cigarette butt on the carpet and ground it to bits under his heel. He lighted another and smoked it, expression obscured by the blue haze. Finally, he said, “Alrighty, then. The investigation is ongoing. You’ll talk, sooner or later. I’ve got time to kill.”
“There are unspeakable truths.” Lancaster closed his eyes for a long moment. “It pleased them to spare me in the name of a venerable cliché. Cliché’s contain all truth, of course. The purpose of my survival was to bear witness, to carry the tale. The thrill of spreading terror, of lurking in the night as bogeymen of legend, titillates them. They are beasts, horrid undreamt of marvels.”
“Gotta love those undreamt of marvels.”
“You couldn’t understand. After their masters fed, Blaylock and Mrs. Cook made Christou and the others join bloody hands and dance. The corpses danced. In a circle, jostling like marionettes. And Blaylock and Mrs. Cook laughed and plucked the strings.”
Agent Clack nodded and dragged on his cigarette then rose and regarded Lancaster with a kindly expression. “Sure. You take care. My