Burial Ground

IX

3:36 p.m.

Eldon Monahan sat at his antique dining room table, half a bottle of Pisco-Tabernero to his left, the broken shell of his cell phone, which he had crushed in frustration, to his right. The photographs curled as they burned in the ashtray, scattering ashes that descended like snow onto the pristine surface. He drew another long swig from the bottle and poured a touch into the ashtray to fuel the blue flames. His housekeeper had taken the rest of the day off at his request, leaving him alone with his shattered dreams and the specter of his future.

He had left his office shortly before noon, claiming to have a severe stomach ache, which hadn't required the slightest bit of embellishment. Everyone had been telling him how pale he looked all morning. He hadn't been able to focus on his work at all, nor had he been able to carry on simple conversations in passing without his thoughts reverting to the train wreck that was now his life.

It wasn't as though all hope was lost. Plenty of Senators had survived sex scandals and illegal business dealings. Many were drunks, others cheats. None of them were innocent by anyone's definition. They all owed portions of their souls to various clandestine dealings that secured the campaign contributions that had bought them their seats. Favors were owed, and were collected at the cost of the welfare of their constituency.

But what he had done was far worse, wasn't it?

He had cut a deal with the devil in the flesh. Plundering the heritage of the Peruvian people was a despicable act, but it was nothing compared to the atrocity he had implicitly authorized. He had given Tasker his blessings to follow Leonard Gearhardt's party to the source of the treasure, and then kill them all. Perhaps one could be forgiven, but there was no way the other could.

Every time he so much as blinked, he saw the piranha-chewed face of Hunter Gearhardt on that cold steel slab staring up at him with an expression of accusation.

There was only one way out of this predicament.

He watched the last picture burn until there was absolutely nothing left, then drained the bottle. His head spun and his insides burned as he shuffled toward his den. The bottle fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. The hallway canted from one side to the other, forcing him to lean against the wall for balance. He fell across the threshold into his private sanctum, crawled to the desk chair, and pulled himself up into its leather embrace.

It had been nearly two full days since Tasker had phoned. Not that he really expected the man to call again, but he had secretly hoped he would have been granted one last chance to talk the man out of what he had planned.

He supposed he didn't have the right to pray for the opportunity, especially when he'd been given so many others along the way. This was the bed he had made. The time had come to lie in it.

The headdress rested on the desk in front of him next to his best calfskin belt. He had shoved the computer onto the ground to make room. It was now nothing more than a pile of fractured components. Another object sat on the blotter, positioned perfectly for an easy right-handed grab.

He raised the headdress and held it against his forehead while he cinched the belt tightly around his head.

Tears flowed down his cheeks from beneath the golden fangs.

A mewling sound crossed his lips.

He grabbed the other object from the desk and gripped it in his fist.

A Smith & Wesson .38 Special.

Chest heaving, he pressed the barrel against the metal arch over his forehead.

He caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall across from him.

Only the bluish-green eyes of a monster looked back.