Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (33 page)

Sordi didn’t say anything. His concern was becoming a knot in his chest that was drawing tight. All he could do was nod his head.
 

After Angelina left, Mafalda walked over to the door and locked it. Then, to Sordi’s annoyance, she poured sand against the crack under the door. He sighed loudly.
 

"It is to keep the evil eye from your niece." Mafalda’s scorn scraped through her skinny, lined neck. She looked up at Sordi as she shuffled past him on her way to her chair. "It will be here tonight. We must be ready."
 

Sordi waved his hand. "Please. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense." His voice sounded loud in the small room.
 

For a while he paced the floor, occasionally drawing near the bed to peer closely at Francesca. She seemed to be hardly breathing. He checked his watch. It was after eight. Maybe the doctor was having dinner with his friend. He looked up and saw Mafalda sitting in her chair next to the bed, her head bent over a rosary as she counted her prayers aloud. He walked over to the table and started reading an old newspaper.
 

Half an hour later the lights went out.
 

The electric lamps went dead, leaving the house lit only by the three candies on the floor around the bed. Sordi went to the window. Except for a few blinking lights on the water and the regular flash from the beacon on the far cliff, the whole section was completely dark. He stared out through the glass. It was pitch black outside. He tried to make out his cousin’s house two hundred yards down the hill. Even when his eyes had become accustomed to the shadows, the house was obscured from his sight. He looked up toward the sky. No stars. He went back to his chair at the table.
 

He tried to relax but the sound of the old woman’s constant mumbling kept him edgy. He looked back at Francesca. He thought he saw her move. He got up and went close to the bed. He kept staring at the sleeping girl for a long time. She was very still and unmoving in the dim, waving fight. He went back to the table, the low candies sending out long shadows ahead of him.
 

He sat down and picked up the newspaper. He looked up. He thought he heard something. "Shh," he whispered. "What was that?" The old woman fell silent. Sordi listened. There was nothing. He went back to his paper.
 

There was a sharp sound outside. Like a twig cracking.
 

He got up quietly and went to the side of the window. It was dark and silent outside. He wondered how long it would take him to reach Nino’s house. Too long, he decided. Ten minutes at best. Maybe twenty. He didn’t even have a flashlight here. He’d just have to wait for Orient to get back. If the doctor didn’t get lost in the blackout. He heard a sound in the shadows and went over to the door.
 

"Be careful," Mafalda rasped behind him. "You’ll break the seal."
 

Sordi wheeled and strode back to his chair. "Nonsense," he said, glowering at the old woman. "Francesca should be on her way to the hospital."
 

But as he tried to read in the soft, flickering light, his eyes kept going to the door. He felt the air becoming stale in the room and his first impulse was to throw open the windows, but he remained at the table, listening. He loosened the scarf around his neck. His chest felt burdened by an oppressive weight. He longed for fresh air. But for some reason he didn’t want to disturb those thin lines of sand.
 

The oppression became a tingling alertness in all his senses. A feeling that there was someone standing just behind him. He turned slightly. Mafalda began to drone her prayers louder.
 

He tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. A brush of something against his hair caused him to duck his head. There was nothing.
 

He bent his head over the newspaper in an attempt to shut out the shadows in the corners of his vision, moving with the candle flames. The feeling that there was something in the room passed over him again, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
 

The electric lights came on again, erasing the shadows.
 

Sordi opened the paper in front of him and looked at the headlines. But the silent return of the lights did little to help his concentration. He still felt an echoing unreasonable sensation that someone else was close by. He went over to look at Francesca. She lay quiet and still. He put his hand out to feel her forehead, then drew it back as he turned around slowly.
 

There was nothing behind him.
 

When he went back to the table, it seemed to him that the air was less dense there than near Francesca’s bed. Perhaps he should insist that they open the windows, or something. A person couldn’t breathe with the house shut up this way. He didn’t say anything. He sat in his chair and watched the door. He felt the air becoming heavier in his lungs with each passing moment but he was reluctant to disturb Mafalda’s prayers. He began to sweat under his cashmere sweater and his face felt wet. He pulled off his silk scarf and wiped his face and neck.
 

Then the sweat froze on his body as heard a steady noise above Mafalda’s chanting drone. The measured tread of footsteps coming toward the house.

CHAPTER 18

As Orient cautiously drove the unwieldy car, he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. The man must not hesitate when he knows the object of his judgment, Ahmehmet had advised. The words of power to be used only when you know the object of your judgment...
 

Orient peered out at the unfamiliar terrain coming toward him, exposed by the glare of the headlights. The road looked completely different at night. He took a deep breath.
 

His mind was still gagging from the cloying vibration he had sensed around Sordi’s niece. The decadent fume of the mist. The old woman Mafalda could feel it. There is a cloud over Francesca, she’d said. She knew.
 

It seemed to be taking a long time to get to Forio. He stepped on the accelerator. Pola, Janice, Presto, and now, Francesca. Probably others. What was Doctor Six invoking with his experiments? He felt a stab of anxiety slash through his belly when he thought of Raga. She was alone with him. And Pia. A shower of realization drummed at him like cold rain. Pia was a potential. Extremely sensitive to vibrational energy. Being that close to an alien, chaotic presence could unbalance her mind. She might well be suffering even more than Raga.
 

Orient drove faster as he saw the lights of the town ahead. He knew what he had to do. He couldn’t afford to wait, do nothing except sign Francesca’s death certificate. He was certain now that his senses were absolutely accurate. Ahmehmet, Yousef, Mafalda, all of them had felt the influence. Ahmehmet had almost been prey for it on the Astral. And now it was up to him to pull the plug and drain this stagnant, unclean pool of predatory energy.
 

But as he rolled slowly through the crowded streets of Forio, he still didn’t know how he would do it. He increased his speed at the outskirts of the village. Only one more town to go.
 

It didn’t make any difference if Raga wanted to see him or not now. Orient had felt the suffocating scent around Francesca. He had to confront Six directly. For Raga’s sake as well. He leaned his head over the steering wheel, his face almost pressing against the windshield. He didn’t recognize any feature of the road.
 

As he swung the car around a descending S-curve, he could see a cluster of lights far below and knew he was approaching Lacco Ameno. He was almost there when his brain tasted the foulness nearby. His instincts screamed a warning as the car entered a busy square. The traffic was thick and slowed Orient down to a crawl. He winced at the sudden oppression that pushed at his chest. Outside on the street people dressed in glossy fantasies of resort wear strolled between the cars, unaware of anything except their pre-dinner promenade.
 

By the time he reached the end of town his thoughts were reeling from the stifling sensation in his lungs. He turned onto the street that led up the face of the mountain, away from the busy road along the sea.
 

The road was steep and curved continuously. Orient noticed that the streetlamps were spaced far apart and the houses were fewer in number. There was no traffic on the road. Then he saw the street-lamps and house lights suddenly go out, plunging the area into darkness. The light from his headlights was sufficient, but it was impossible to see anything beyond their range. He saw a flicker of light in the shadows off the road, the faint glow of candlelight. He stopped the Car.
 

He looked in the glove compartment and found a small flashlight. He switched it on and began walking toward the dim glow behind the trees.
 

The light was coming from a small house. When he reached the door, he pushed the bell button. There was no sound. The electricity was dead. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. The third time he knocked he used the butt of his flashlight.
 

"Chi e?" someone barked from behind the door.
 

"I wish to see Doctor Six," Orient said loudly in Italian.
 

"What?" The question was muffled.
 

"Doctor Six."
 

The door opened and a chubby, glowering man looked at him.
 

"Who?" He growled impatiently.
 

Orient repeated the question. The man shook his head. Then his face cleared. "Ah yes," he nodded his head vigorously and smiled. "Dottore Sei!" He held up six fingers.
 

"Yes, that’s him. Is he here?" The man pointed up the road. "Two houses from here. On the left." Orient thanked the man and went back to the car. When he switched on the headlights, the blood in his face drained into his throat. Raga was running down the empty road toward the car, her face contorted with terror. When she saw the headlights, she put one arm across her eyes and lifted her other hand as if trying to signal the car.
 

Orient gunned the motor and cut the distance between them, the tires squealing in protest as he brought the car to a lurching stop next to her.
 

"Please," she was sobbing Italian, "you must help me. Take me to Lacco. Please." She leaned toward him over the side of the car. Her face was tear-streaked and Orient could see that her eyes were glazed and still half-blinded from the headlights. "Raga, what’s wrong?" he yelled.
 

"Owen?" Raga’s face looked uncomprehending. "Owen, is it really you?" she peered through the darkness trying to see his face. "

"Tell me what’s wrong. Get in." Orient leaned over and opened the door. Raga slid across the front seat and put her face next to his, still unable to see clearly. Then she recognized him and she sighed, falling against him in a half faint. He held her close, the sudden warmth in his arms unloosing a flood of emotions that drowned out his questions.
 

She crooned his name and kissed his neck, her lips cool against his skin. Orient leaned back against the door and looked at her. "What’s wrong?" he asked softly. "What are you running from?"
 

Raga’s eyes widened as her memory returned. "It’s Pia. I think Alistar is going to kill her. He came after me but I ran out of the house. But she’s still in there with him. He’s out of his mind."
 

"Show me the way." Orient picked up the flashlight.
 

"Owen, don’t. He’s insane. You don’t know what he’s been doing to himself all these years." Raga clenched her fist.
 

"What has he been doing?"
 

"He’s been experimenting with youth drugs. Injecting them into himself. He’s become like a madman. His reason has snapped, Owen. He’ll kill you if you go in there. Let’s get the police before he hurts Pia."
 

"I’m going in there. Wait here."
 

"No." Raga’s voice was flat and determined. "I’ll go with you. The lights are out in the house. It’s difficult to see." She put her face against his cheek. "Be careful, Owen, please. I’ve been longing for you since we left Tangier." Her breath caressed his ear. "And now you’re here."
 

As she spoke, Orient felt a tug of fear at the base of his brain. A jumble of images tumbled into his mind, blurred and indistinct. He recognized Pia’s sensual pressure under the stricken urgency of the images.
 

"We’ve got to get to the house." Orient pulled away from Raga and opened the door.
 

As they got out of the car, the streetlights went on again and Orient saw the house a short distance ahead, through a row of trees. He started running toward it, disregarding Raga’s frantic cry to wait.
 

The front door was wide open. He rushed inside.
 

The living room was empty. He heard a noise and turned. Something heavy fell in the next room. Then he heard Pia yell. He went into the next room. It was empty.
 

Then he saw the door. Orient ran to it, hitting it with his shoulder as he turned the handle. It flew open and he stumbled into a small laboratory. Pia was in a corner of the room, on the other side of some long worktables neatly lined with row after row of small bottles, struggling desperately with Alistar Six.
 

The tall burly man had both her wrists in his big hands. He was holding Pia’s right arm against the wall with one hand and using the other to push her left hand back to her neck, forcing the point of the hypodermic needle she was holding back against her throat. She tried to open her hand and release the hypodermic, but his thick fingers gripped hers to the glass tube as he kept pressing his fist relentlessly back to her heaving throat.