This Dark Salvation

IV.

For the rest of the day I hid in my room. Thomas came by to check on me hours later, not keeping his word. He left after I threw a vase near his feet. It was one my mother picked out. Authentic china, she told me, very expensive and rare. That only reminded me the way she would act around the business—if she even was allowed to. Women can't add to a men's conversation.

Occasionally, I'd step out onto the balcony and watch the press try desperately to get information on the murders. Once they noticed me standing above them, they went mad. Camera flashes bent in the streaming sunlight and their questions overlapped each other's. I knew it wasn't a good idea to watch them, but I couldn't move. I was glued to their animated movements and interest in my presence. It was pitiful to see the men and women below yell nonsense to me. As if they really cared that my parent's death at all.

"Manson," said Thomas behind me. He must have let himself in.

I turned around clenching my hands. "What is it now? Do they need more pictures of the bodies?" I asked.

"Manson." He looked worried, paler than usual. "You must get inside."

I was about to respond when I heard a man below scream out. Suddenly, the women were screaming, and the press scattered. I whipped around griping the railing. A man, hidden by a strange mask, was repeatedly stabbing a reporter. He stooped over his victim letting the blood drip from his hands before facing me. I went weak in the knees as our eyes met. He was completely insane. From what I could make out, an expression of pure hatred washed over him, he barred his crooked teeth like an animal. I could read his gaze as if it flashed like a neon sign. He hated me for my existence, he despised my reign and power. Never have we met in our lifetime until then, and for a reason I couldn't decipher, he hated me.

For the reporters' final breath, he gasped and withered. Blood seeped out into the gravel like sticky sap adhering him to the stones. He went still. The man stuffed the knife into the reporters' neck while keeping his eyes on me.

"You'll burn! You'll burn!" he screamed at me.

The popping of a gun released me back into reality. A policeman had fired at the masked murder. He yelped in surprise as a bullet drove clean through his hand. But the man was out of sight in a second disappearing through our sheltered garden and into the woods. Strangely enough, the press had again grouped together and started snapping more pictures of the horrific scene and of my disturbed face.

"Manson!"

Thomas yanked me inside and slammed the doors shut. He flew to the windows and pulled the curtains until my room was shut off from the natural sunlight. Thomas looked furious. I've never seen him that angry before. I fell into my desk chair as he paced the length of my wall.

"Jack, I'm sorry," I sputtered, "I didn't realize how serious this was—"

Thomas froze with a hand to his forehead and gave me a look. He quickly smothered the stare. "You can't do that anymore, especially not today."

"Why are you ordering me around? How dare you—"

"We need to get you out of here," continued Thomas. "Your relatives won't allow you to stay at their estate, you'd be a threat to their lives. How about your summer cottage... that could do."

"I'm absolutely comfortable here."

"No, that's no good, they know where your cottage is," said Thomas. He stopped for a moment in thought, then slowly turned to me. "Your betrothed."

"What about her?"

"You can stay at your betrothed's."

I scowled. "That can't be acceptable at all. Besides Jack, we don't even know where she lives or even her name. This is ridiculous."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Thomas. "I'll speak with your father's adviser about it, he's certain to know."

He started for the door.

"Jack, wait!"

He left.