Hounds of Hell - Chapter 2

 

Hounds of Hell

                                       

Chapter 2

        Nearly an hour later, climbing the stairs that led up from the wine cellar, Lynch remained unconvinced. "Somebody has to be here, Francois. I don't know where they could be hiding, but I know somebody has to be here." He opened the door to the main floor of the chateau and headed up the hallway towards the formal dining room.
        "What makes you so sure, Monsieur Lynch? We have looked everywhere."
        Lynch stopped just short of the room where it all started and turned around. "I've done things, Francois. Things of which I'm not particularly proud that might give someone a reason to, uh, well, to try to get even."
        "What kind of things?" Delaflote asked, his expression revealed curiosity.
        "Never you mind," Lynch refused to take the bait.
        Lynch pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pressed the button to ring Bradley Herrington's home phone. Waiting for the call to be answered, it struck him that Pierson - Thompson recently published a novel entitled, Hounds of Hell, in which demons and saber-toothed mongrels from hell existed within the pages of an ancient book. The hounds devoured the souls of unrighteous individuals whose sins warranted damnation. Preposterous, he thought. Yet, try as he might to dismiss the idea that such a book might exist, and that it might be sitting on his table, the unsettling notion persisted and grew.
        "Bonjour," Herrington answered on the third ring, sounding profoundly British even when he spoke French.
        "Bradley, is that you?" Lynch asked.
        "Master Timothy? Yes, yes, of course it’s me. Is something wrong?"
        "This is your home phone, right? I mean the land-line, not your cell?"
        "Yes sir, why?"
        "Because there's a book on my dining room table that I think you know something about. I wanted to be sure you weren't still here, somewhere."
        "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." Herrington sounded confused. "Did you just say you wanted to be sure I'm at home and not still at work?"
        "Yeah, that's what I said. Where'd The Book come from, Bradley?"
        "Book?"
        "Yes, Bradley, The Book, B-double O-K, you know, one of those things we publish at Pierson - Thompson." Delaflote stood next to him with his arms crossed, listening intently.
        "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know. . ."
        "Oh for Christ's sake, Bradley, you know exactly what I'm talking about - The Book . I found it on the formal dining table, just as you intended, after everyone left. Ding, dong, ring any bells?"
        "That was a book?" Herrington paused, momentarily. "I wouldn't have thought that - rather heavy to be a book."
        "Oh, so now you admit to knowing what I'm talking about?"
        "Well, I laid a fairly large present at the end of the table, where you normally sit."
        "And then what?"
        "I went back to the kitchen to make sure —"
        "To make sure someone knew they needed to switch them?" Lynch interrupted. "Is that what you did? You made sure someone stayed behind and replaced the one with no writing in it for the one with a certain, incriminating title and a story that would put . . ." Remembering his security chief's presence, Lynch stopped in mid-sentence.
        Delaflote's eyebrows twitched upward.
        Sounding befuddled, Herrington complained, "Timothy, I'm an old man. I've been your employee for over forty years, and I worked for your parents before that. While I don't think I've completely lost my mind, I am not at all following you. Not at all."
        "Over the years I've paid you a lot of money for your loyalty, Bradley, and for your silence."
        "And I've never once complained or given you any reason to doubt my loyalty, have I, sir?"
        Lowering the phone, Lynch thought about that for a moment. Only eight years old when he inherited the estate, he recalled Herrington's promise to his mother and father. As they lay dying in a field near their smashed Bentley, Bradley swore he would look after young Master Timothy. Nodding, Lynch conceded that the butler lived up to his oath, albeit with significant compensation. Nonetheless, he concluded Herrington was either blackmailing him or punishing him. He raised the phone to his lips and replied, "Not until tonight."
        Herrington sighed heavily into the receiver and asked, "What time would you prefer me to arrive in the morning, sir? Perhaps we can reconcile our —"
        "No. No need for you to come in, at all, Bradley. You're fired, and unlike so many times before, I won't be changing my mind. I'll have legal draw up the papers.”
        “Sir, you don’t mean that. You mustn’t. You can’t do that, sir . . .”
        Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Lynch smiled thinly at Delaflote and said, "There, that should take care of that."
        "You fired Herrington? Mon dieu," Delaflote appeared shocked. "I thought he was like a father to you."
        "Hardly. He's been a thorn in my side for years. He worked for my parents, although not in his current capacity. I'm sure he's behind whatever is going on with that book. My guess is that he planned to spring some kind of blackmail scheme, looking for one big, final payoff before retirement."
        Just then, the other two guards returned and reported what Delaflote already knew. "No one else is here."
        Francois directed them to search the grounds of the estate. Once they were gone he turned to Lynch and said, "Now, what about that book?"
        Lynch sat down and scooted up to the table again, intending to offer proof of Herrington's treachery. He would claim the butler penned the accusatory title. The earlier shock having dissipated to no more than a distant memory, he explained, "I became intrigued by the engraved scroll work..." As he opened The Book the lights flickered and dimmed again.
        Delaflote peered up at the halogen bulb. "Allô, what is causing this?"
        Lighting problems were not what sent icy shivers down Timothy Lynch's spine. Instead of The Murder of Adele Badeau, the condemning title written in large, flowing script read, The Murders of Adele Badeau and Jennifer Bell Lynch.

     
      His features frozen by the shock of what he saw, Lynch cried, "It's not the same!" He felt a sudden tug at the ends of his fingers where they clutched The Book. The tug graduated into a strong, insistent pull as the skin on the tips of his fingers began to transform, turning white and disappearing within the pages.
        At the same time, instead of feeling invisible fingers tightening around his throat, he witnessed a dark head of hair exploding in a puff of red mist and recognized the back of his long-dead wife's head as seen through the sight on his favorite hunting rifle.
        As the vision faded, Lynch heard the growl of a beast, more frightening than any wolf, or jungle cat on the prowl. The healthy tan he worked so hard to maintain drained from his face along with the last vestiges of composure. “Get it off me!” he cried out. “It won’t let go! Get it off, get it off!”
        Reaching over his employer, Delaflote managed to break Lynch’s vise-like grip on The Book and push it aside. He grabbed Lynch’s shoulders, shook him to get his attention, and shouted, "What is happening, Monsieur?” Obviously unable to see the damning words that tortured his employer, he asked. “What is different?"       
        Lynch shuddered and cried out, "The title!" Attempting to regain his poise, Lynch gasped for breath while he rubbed his tingling hands and fingers together, trying to restore circulation. Realizing The Book remained open, he leaned forward and slammed it shut the way someone might slam a door to block a threatening intruder.       
        When he looked up at Delaflote, he explained. “It started pulling me in!" His voice husky with fear, he wheezed, "It wanted my soul. I could feel it!"
        Francois managed to get a shoulder under his employer's arm and got him up on his feet. "A hallucination," Francois declared. "You need rest, Monsieur. Très fatigué, you are exhausted."
        Drained of his vitality by the ravenous pages, Lynch stumbled down the hallway, mumbling, "Is The Book closed?" He couldn’t understand why he felt weary to the depths of his soul. Nearing the parlor, he insisted he could walk no further. Francois led him to a long sofa where he collapsed like a marionette with no strings to hold him up.
        "Perhaps I should take a closer look at this book," Francois muttered as he left the parlor. Headed back down the hallway, he saw Herrington hurrying towards him from the other end wearing what appeared to be a blue, flannel pajama top that hung, untucked, over black slacks. The butler moved as quickly as could be expected for a man on the verge of turning eighty.
        "Late for you to be up, is it not, Monsieur Herrington?" Francois glanced down. Bradley wore house-slippers rather than the polished wing-tips he normally sported.
        "Yes, it is," the butler responded. "Some things can be left to simmer while others need to be brought to a boil, you understand. Where is he?"
        "In the parlor, on the sofa," Delaflote replied. "He's been drinking, but I've never seen him like this. I stood next to him while you spoke to him on the phone. Monsieur Herrington, I heard him fire you."
        "Yes, well, this isn’t the first time that’s happened." Herrington seemed bothered to learn that Delaflote had overheard the conversation. "We've experienced our share of disagreements over the years. I'll let you know when we're done with our little chat, if he's even up to having one, that is. I shouldn't need more than half an hour. Hope you don't mind."
        Compassion appeared in the security chief's eyes. He nodded and replied, "I know how difficult Monsieur Lynch can be. I'll be out on the grounds with my men. When I return, we can examine this book that is causing Monsieur Lynch so much distress. Good luck." The two shook hands before Delaflote continued down the hallway and out the door.

                                                            ~      ~      ~

        Fifteen minutes later, panting from exertion, the butler gave a final tug on the rope he brought up from the cellar. Relatively certain his employer would be unable to escape, he stared down at the man who murdered Adele Badeau and Jennifer Bell Lynch, both of whom he knew and liked.
        Lynch forced him to bury the pregnant Adele Badeau, who hinted she would sue for child support. Herington recalled the options Lynch had offered - death if he went to the authorities, or wealth if he remained silent. He chose wealth, but felt as if he sold his soul to the devil.
        Years later, Herrington’s perjured testimony regarding the "unintentional" shooting death of Jennifer Bell Lynch in a hunting accident, saved Timothy from prison and further damned his own soul. Tormented by these incidents for years, he concluded that The Book offered his only chance for absolution. Rather than an act of revenge, this would be one of atonement, a chance to wash away his sins and administer justice.
        When Lynch stirred, Herrington spoke, "Read any good books lately, Timothy?" When Lynch failed to respond, the butler sighed, "Oh, come now, I've watched you sleep since you were a baby. I've always been able to tell if you were awake."
        Lynch opened his eyes and squinted up at his head manservant. "Is this really happening?” he asked, sounding groggy, but lucid.
        “Incredibly, yes,” Herrington replied. ”My goodness, look at you, Timothy, all trussed up, the way you bound those little animals when you were a boy." Herrington paused to see what, if anything, Lynch might say. When he didn't speak, Herrington continued, "When I discovered The Book, and God’s plan became clear to me, I thought, how very ironic that you would be killed by an exceptionally rare book — the very kind of thing you're famous for collecting? Actually, I hoped it would pull you in and finish the job for me. I almost feel as if I'm breaking my promise to your parents."
        "Where’d you get The Book, Bradley? I have to know."
        "From Japan. I purchased it from Tatsuo Takahashi, your best-selling author."
        "Ah yes, the horror story writer." Lynch strained to break free of his bonds. Evidently realizing he might not be able to, he began to shout.
        Confident that the superior soundproofing of the chateau would prevent anyone outside from hearing him, Bradley waited patiently, almost nonchalantly. When Lynch finally relaxed after a coughing spasm brought on by five minutes of uninterrupted screaming and struggling, Herrington said, “Where were we? Oh, yes, Takahashi's Hounds of Hell was so... so vivid I found myself compelled to contact him. He confided that although published as fiction, he actually possessed The Book. Did you read his novel?”
        "I scanned the liner notes," Lynch professed. "But I don't read that kind of trash. I am curious to know how much you paid Takahashi for that thing.”
        "Yes,” Bradley nodded. “You would be interested in that, wouldn't you? I paid fifty-thousand Euros. A price I can afford, thanks to you."
        "Fifty thousand, that's all?" Lynch seemed disappointed. “Did you open it?”
        “Yes, and I saw nothing.”
        Lynch shook his head. "The first time I opened it, neither did I. I only felt a strange numbness in my fingers. Bradley, you'll never —"
        "If you're about to tell me I'll never get away with it, you may well be right, dear boy. But I want you to know something. This isn’t an act of retribution. I’m far more interested in trying to save my miserable soul, than punishing yours. Now, if you’ll pardon me for a moment, I’ll go fetch The Book." Lynch’s verbal assault followed him down the hallway to the dining room.
        Less than three minutes later, Herrington held the instrument of dispatch above his prisoner, whose steady string of hurled insults ceased, replaced by fervent pleas for mercy. Blinking, from beads of sweat that rolled down the sides of his nose and stung his eyes, Lynch continued to struggle as his executioner delivered the sentence.
        “I thought, perhaps, that I might press it down on your face, you see, as if smothering you with a pillow.” Inspired by the horrified look on Lynch’s face, the butler explained further, “I should imagine that might be quicker and somewhat more humane than starting at your fingers and having it pull you in. That could take a while, I suspect, and might prolong the agony.”
        Firmly gripping the front and back covers, the butler flipped the heavy book over. As he held it open with both hands, the pages dangled, straining to reach their victim. In the process of lowering The Book, Herrington felt an odd sensation, an alarming numbness in his fingers. The feeling moved to his wrists and traveled up, into his arms.
      Shock registered on Herrington's face as the dreadful realization dawned. Rather than a ticket to heaven, his purchase of The Book came with a buy-one-get-one free feature, including transportation and an eternal place in hell for two condemned souls.

Who ends up with The Book? Let's meet the new owner:

Hounds of Hell - Chapter 3  (18+) A New Owner - A New Purpose #1715762 by George R. Lasher

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