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  The boy reappeared.

  Let me go. You do not know what you are doing. You are making a mistake.

  Barnett read the last word, pronounced the last syllable. He let out a breath and closed the book. Walking around the circle, he looked closely at the marks and lines on the floor. The boy’s gaze followed him but he remained silent.

  Satisfied, Barnett paused at the door and looked at the boy. “You are uh... forbidden to leave that circle, right?”

  The boy nodded, just barely. His eyes never left Barnett. Yes.

  “Good.”

  Barnett nodded, satisfied. He took one last look around the room and left.

  The figure of the boy stood in silence, unmoving.

  ***

  Barnett’s older brother had died of cancer five years ago; he was only forty-five. Barnett was there at the end, in his private room. He would like to say that he had been holding Robert’s thin, skeletal hand, comforting him at the end, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t.

  He had stood as far away as he could, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth and nose. The smell. The smell of death and sickness. He couldn’t bear it and had almost passed out. If he hadn’t taken several Xanax beforehand, he would have.

  He had looked at Robert, once so strong and alive, now brittle and weak. His face was a mask of skin drawn tightly over his skull. His eyes were dull and clouded. His skin was grey with sickness. A vein weakly throbbing in his temple.

  He had seen the pain that Robert was going through, the pain his wife and daughters were going through. Barnett had done what he could. He paid the medical bills, had flown him from clinic to clinic, found Robert the best care, but it didn’t matter. Robert had gotten sicker and sicker, closer to death every day. And eventually the cancer won. Just as it had with their father.

  So when Barnett was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer, he did what he always did when faced with a problem; he set out to solve it, one way or another. He was not going to die, not going to turn into that…”thing” that Robert had become.

  He was not going to go out like Robert. Robert was weak at the end, and he had given up. Barnett was different. He was a survivor. Money was no object.

  When he had first been diagnosed, he had gotten a second opinion. Had flown to Tokyo for a third. But it was always the same. “I’m sorry, Logan, but there’s nothing we can do… “ or “... the cancer is very aggressive… “ What could they do? Nothing, except make his last days “comfortable”. Like Robert’s? Sure, he was comfortable. He had been so drugged up he had not recognized his own girls. Is that any way to go? Looking like a skeleton? Where’s the dignity? Where’s the final goodbye? And the smell...

  It was not just the cancer. It was death. Blackness, emptiness. Rot, decay. He was not a religious man; he never had been, and the concept of death scared the shit out of him. He had no aspirations about heavenly gates and all that. The lights go out and that’s it. You’re just a hunk of meat, cold and empty. What about all that you’ve accomplished, all that you have yet to do? “Oh Logan, your legacy will live on long after you are gone.” Fuck his legacy. Life was for the living and no way was Logan Barnett giving in so easily. No way was Barnett going out like that. It’s not fair. Fuck death. And while we’re at it, fuck those doctors. They were great at telling you what you already knew. But as for helping you? As the old saying goes: “The gods help those who help themselves.” Whether they like it or not.

  ***

  Barnett collected occult items; he’d always been interested in the occult even as a boy--but it was a secret--his stockholders, and the media, must never know. And only a few of his inner circle suspected. What would they think about a CEO who collected books that had been owned and purportedly destroyed by the Vatican? Molitor’s De Lamiis et Pythonicis Mulieribus, The Diary of Aleister Crowley and Clavicula Salomonis Regis were a few of the better known books in his collection. And that one he had “borrowed” from Miskatonic University - the one that had caused such a stir back in the thirties.

  It was more than a hobby; he actually believed that the right combination of words, in the perfect circumstances, should be able to produce something… what? Wonderful? Amazing? Impossible? He owned too many books, had traveled to too many places, spoken with too many mystics to decide it was nonsense. Why did the lore and knowledge still exist after tens of thousands of years if there was nothing to it? Was yoga nonsense? Or meditation? And both of those had been around for thousands of years. And magnetism? Used for cheap parlor tricks and “magic” in the 19th century. And now look at it. So why not this? There’s got to be more to the world than what we sense with just our eyes and ears.

  He spent hours poring over ancient books and scrolls, turned crumbling pages while wearing white cotton gloves, frequently watched by nervous curators. He flew to Nepal, to Bremen, to Paris, Boston, and sought out certain individuals who “knew things”, for lack of a better term. He spoke with professors, museum curators, historians and, for a generous donation, a patient in a New England mental hospital. He took copious notes and bought books. Always the books. His assistant Katya hated the books, and more importantly, the money he spent on them. If she only knew… But it was his money, not the corporation's, as he told her several times. And that would usually shut her up for a few weeks. And so he kept looking.

  And eventually he found what he needed to do.

  Barnett owned real estate all over the world. Several years ago, during the housing crash, he bought a luxury high-rise in Las Vegas that had been built and then sat vacant. Barnett never planned on using the building, having bought it solely as an investment, planning on holding on to it until the market righted and then unloading it for a nice profit. Neither his name nor his company’s name was anywhere on the lease. He used it from time to time, when he wanted to discreetly entertain certain visitors. To keep up appearances, he had sold several of the apartments on the lower floors. He had never met the other tenants and didn’t want to.

  His personal suite, on the top floor, had two stories, a private pool and three bedrooms with the smaller, attached maid’s quarters and an adjoining door in the kitchen. That’s where he would perform the ritual. The only way in (or out) was through his suite. He’d had the unit’s separate entrance sealed off when he moved in.

  ***

  He sat in the empty parking garage, the engine of his car idling. Another one of his little secrets. Along with his apartment he had a car, paid for in cash and registered to an employee who had died last year.

  He silently cursed himself for not planning this out better. He should have gone to an animal shelter and bought a cat or dog. It would have been easier. Now he had to go out and find a test subject.

  He knew what he had to do now, but he did not want to. The first reason was that he didn’t want to leave that… kid, thing, whatever it was, unsupervised for long. But if what he had read was true, and he had to assume he done everything right, it would not be able to leave the circle without his permission. He had said he couldn’t leave. Could he lie? Barnett didn’t think so. Not based on what he had read.

  The second reason he didn’t want to do this was because he had never killed anyone before. But if everything had gone as it should (and so far so good), nobody would die. So with that thought, he put the car in drive and headed out.

  He headed away from the Strip, toward a more unpopulated area. At this time of night, the Las Vegas Strip was packed and in full party mode, but these back streets full of office parks and low rent apartments were more or less deserted. He drove slowly, his window down, searching the sidewalks and shadows. A stray dog. A stray person. Either one would do.

  Finally. He spotted a figure sitting beside a shopping cart behind a darkened office building and slowed to a stop.

  He stopped the car just outside the reach of the parking lot lights. He got out and looked down the street, both directions. Nothing. He had passed only one car a while back, going the other way. No one around. It’s n
ow or never.

  Barnett reached into his pocket and brought out a pair of thin leather gloves, which he pulled on. From his inside pocket he pulled out a small pistol, a Taurus 709 Slim 9mm. More than enough, he had been told, for what he wanted to do. The gun was virtually untraceable. The serial number had been filed down and the bullets had been made in a garage somewhere in Idaho.

  Breathing deeply, he strode quickly toward the bum, his gun was held down at his right side.

  The man could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty. His face was dark and lined from sun, wear and tear, and bad decisions. He blinked up at Barnett and looked around warily.

  “Yeah? What you want?”

  Barnett shot the man five times. The first three shots tore into his chest, but the gun jerked up slightly and one bullet hit him in the throat, while the last bullet ricocheted off the cement behind him. The bum rolled sideways against the side of the building and slid to the ground.

  Barnett tentatively approached him and looked down. He still held the gun out in front of him, not sure if he had another bullet or not. His mind flicked back to the iconic scene in Dirty Harry and he couldn’t help smiling.

  The bum was stirring. Moaning, he slowly pushed himself up to his hands and knees. Blood pumped steadily from the wounds in his throat and chest, pooling on the concrete beneath him. He groaned again and gagged. He hacked up a red wad of tissue the size of a golf ball that splatted on the ground.

  Yuh shuh muh!” His voice was raspy and he wheezed as he struggled to get up. He clutched at the shopping cart, pulling himself up slowly.

  Barnett sighed and shot him in the head. A hole blossomed in the back of the man’s skull. He let out a grunt and his weight pushed the cart forward, away from him and he collapsed. He coughed up another clump of blood along with something pink and white.

  “Fuh-!” The bum gurgled through a mouthful of blood. “Uh hur… plz… “

  He turned to look up at Barnett, who was struggling to eject the magazine and shove another into the gun. He finished and stepped forward, pointing the gun at the man again. He paused. He already had four holes in his chest, one in his throat, and one in his head. He was still bleeding. He couldn’t (shouldn’t?) be alive… but he was. It worked.

  “Hlp muh… “ begged the man, crawling toward his cart. His face was gray and one of his eyes was filled with blood. Blood was flowing freely through the jagged hole in his throat.

  He slowly dragged himself up the side of the shopping cart and leaned on it. He could barely stand. “Puh--c... no.” His one good eye stared helplessly. Barnett, holding the gun in front of him--like a talisman--backed away until he reached the door. He shoved it open, and gagging, ran for the car. He stopped and leaned on the trunk and vomited a thin stream onto the asphalt. Before getting back in the car, he glanced over at the man he had shot. He was now on his feet, walking unsteadily toward Barnett’s car. He was still trying to speak.

  Barnett drove without headlights back to his building. He hit the remote, drove beneath the rising metal gate, screeched to a stop, leapt out of the car and punched the up button on the elevator. His mind was racing with exhilaration and excitement.

  Back in the apartment, he hurriedly unlocked the door, pounded down the hallway, unlocked his apartment door and went into the kitchen. He unlocked the deadbolt, the latch and the padlock.

  The boy was still standing there, waiting.

  “It worked, didn’t it? I caught you and there’s nothing you can do!”

  “Have you seen enough?”

  “What? No. You’re not going anywhere. With you in here, I’m not going to die. Right? Nothing can die.”

  Nothing can die, repeated the boy. Is that really what you want? “Yes. Yes it is.” Barnett slammed the door behind him. In the kitchen, he poured himself a bourbon and headed out to the balcony. The view was more spectacular than usual. He held up his glass and saluted the heavens. He was flooded with…what? Hope? Euphoria? Invincibility? He polished off his drink and debated having another. The adrenaline rush was abating and he felt weary. His headache was gone but he was utterly exhausted, physically and mentally. Sleep sounded fantastic.

  He went back to the kitchen and checked the door to the maid’s quarters. Locked. He took a couple of sleeping pills and headed up the stairs to his bed.

  The next afternoon, he sat on the couch with a mug of coffee, switching between news channels.

  “…officials have not commented, but there are scattered reports of people remaining alive and conscious after devastating injuries.”

  “…some type of disturbance at University Hospital…”

  “…absolutely incredible, but the proof is irrefutable. People who should be dying are remaining alive. They are conscious and alert and doctors have no explanation as to-”

  He pushed the off button and silenced the TV. All the channels were the same. People weren’t dying.

  Barnett glanced over at his cell phone and checked the time. He scrolled through his messages. The phone rang in his hands. He looked at the name. Katya. Of course. He thumbed the “answer” button.

  “Hey, Katya.”

  “Oh my God, Logan, where are you? I’ve been calling you for over an hour! Are you okay? Everyone is trying to find you. The investors have been calling all day. We need to call a board meeting. How soon can you get here? “

  By “here,” she meant San Francisco, home of his main office. Her tone alarmed him. Katya was many things: she was extremely organized, able to juggle phone calls and a web conference with ease, all while texting and drinking a cup of coffee.

  “I’m fine, Katya. Everything is fine. You sound worried.

  What’s going on? “

  I don’t even know! No one seems to know. People say that no can die anymore, and some are saying it’s the Rapture, if you can believe it. But one thing--”

  He cut her off. “What do you think is going on?” She was smart and he wanted her take on this.

  When she replied, her voice was faint, unsure.

  “I don’t know what to think. It’s too soon to know for sure. Whatever is happening, it’s scary. People are getting freaked out.”

  “I’m planning on coming in first thing tomorrow. But right now I’m tired and need some breakfast.”

  “It’s three o’clock.”

  “So lunch. But don’t worry. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “You can’t make it until then?”

  I’m exhausted, Katya. I haven’t slept in a couple days. I mean, really slept. I’m gonna hole up in Vegas for the night. I’ll get there when I get there.”

  “Vegas? How long have been in Vegas?”

  “A couple of days. I’m looking at some properties.”

  “You’re in Vegas.” Her disapproval oozed out of his earpiece.

  “Looking at some properties.”

  Silence from Katya.

  “Jesus, Katya, relax. I’ll fly out in the morning. Try to be in by ten or eleven. How’s that?”

  “All right. Do you want me to call the airline?”

  “No, you set up the meeting. Schedule it for one tomorrow. I’ll call Stuart and have him book the flight. And Katya--”

  Yes?”

  It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be great.”

  She started to say something, but he hit “end call”. He loved Katya, but she could be such a worrier.

  He slept most of the rest of the day, waking up occasionally to look in on “The Kid” as he was beginning to think of him. The Kid never moved. Just stood there, gazing blankly at Barnett each time he opened the door.

  He finally decided to get going around eight. He was well rested, hungry and it was time to start celebrating. The sun was just setting over Mount Charleston and the hotels and casinos were starting to come alive. There were even some people walking on the sidewalk in front of his building. He stood on the balcony, watching the lights, chasing two pain pills with an energy drink. He was feeling good now, excited. Hi
s headache was just a dull throb in the back of his head. Catching up on sleep was all he needed.

  After a quick shower and shave, he grabbed his phone, pocketed his car keys and headed out.

  He spent the next several hours celebrating.

  A massive headache woke him up. His throat and mouth were raw, as though they had been scoured and sandblasted. He couldn’t breathe through his right nostril. He sat up, holding his head and surveyed his surroundings. He was in his bedroom at the apartment, but according to the lingerie on the floor, he wasn’t alone. He turned his head and softly grunted from the pain. He turned his head more slowly.

  There was a girl in the bed. All he could see was the top of her head. Brunette. He struggled to remember what had happened last night. He recalled heading to his favorite nightclub, meeting his local source, scoring some cocaine and buying drinks for a large group of people. He vaguely remembered drinking and dancing with a beautiful brunette, but after that... he carefully lifted up the sheets. She was naked. But so was he.

  He stood up slowly and with great difficulty and effort, was able to pull on a pair of sweatpants. He made his way out to the living room, holding on to the wall for balance. He stopped twice because his head was swimming.

  The light was too much for him, so he hit the switch and the shutters came down, filling the room with soothing darkness. He grabbed an energy drink out of the fridge and chased a couple of pain pills. His head was pounding; every beat of his heart was a vise being cranked tighter and tighter on his temples.