“I got that.”
“You think me unfeeling, but I believe Madame Theosophe is much worse. Her day of reckoning has been a long time in coming.”
I couldn’t disagree. Madame Theosophe had first attracted Bloodstone’s attention when she made claims of having helped Phoenix Police solve a serial murderer case. The police denied the claim; she said she had “consulted” with them, and produced an email acknowledgement from a detective thanking her for her suggestions. In her original note she made a couple of general statements which dovetailed with facts as reported in the case, and when she leaked the email thread to the papers, she became a local media sensation for a day and a half.
But she’d earned Bloodstone’s undying enmity when, in an interview, she responded to a question about where she would employ her crime fighting skills next. She made mention of trying to catch the killed known as The Deathdealer. She had said, “So many have tried and failed spectacularly—because they lack true insight and the ability to analyze the occult.” Bloodstone, whose consultation with the FBI on The Deathdealer case had blown up publicly, took that remark personally. I never saw her being worth Bloodstone’s time, but she’d gotten under his skin and he was determined to be the avatar of Karmic retribution when her time came.
Enter Don Hempstead and his wife.
I fully understood that lots of folks treat psychics like therapists or use them for recreation. Who gets hurt by a simple palm reading? Usually no one, but psychics like Madame Theosophe case clients—dig into their backgrounds, determine their ability to pay and manufacture ways the psychic can help them spiritually. That usually results in also helping them get rid of excess cash. Just because Madame Theosophe used tarot cards and mumbo-jumbo in her practice didn’t make her any better than phone scammers or televangelists in my book.
Bloodstone finished scribbling. “Your list of tasks, in order.”
I read quickly. The list ranged from the impossible to visiting an office supply store. That last one had specific details attached to it. The others, the difficult ones, did not, which was less a sign of his confidence in me than his desire to keep me in the dark. That drove me nuts.
“Is there anything you need explained?
“All of it?”
“Of operational concern, Connor.”
“No, sir, I’ll get right on this.” I folded the list carefully. “From the top. I’ll report by two this afternoon?”
The small man smiled. “Splendid. I cannot wait.”
There’s an old adage, “Any job will expand to take up all available time.” When working for Merlin Bloodstone, that goes double. One run to the office supply store became a half-dozen. Twice a day I got reports from investigators he’d had me put on this or that. Negotiations with one guest dragged on for days. And then getting the eight grand in cash to guarantee Madame Theosophe showed up? Don’t get me started.
Bloodstone hand-wrote the invitations and had them messengered to Don’s wife, his pal, Hank, and then Madame Theosophe. He could have sent me, but I had more important work: the third and fourth office store runs. Once that had been accomplished, we set about the hard work—me doing the lifting and him doing the vision thing.
At the beginning of the week he’d planned on holding the meeting in his office, but by Thursday had decided that would not do. He opted, instead, for the dining room. That surprised me, since I was pretty sure that doing what we had to do would, in his mind, taint the space forever. I mentioned this, which added finding a Navajo shaman to purify it added to my list.
The dining room, despite the wall of windows looking north onto desert and distant mountains, had the dark wood decor of a British manor house. Literally. He’d paid for paneling to be stripped, marked, shipped and reconstructed here. All the furnishings—cupboards and credenzas in addition to the dining table—had a similar, blocky build to them. The dining chairs managed to be comfortable despite an under-abundance of padding. The table would easily accommodate sixteen, but we arranged it for half that number. Bloodstone insisted on leaving the leaf in, primarily because that would distance him from Madame Theosophe, who would be seated at the far end with her back to the window.
There had been one wrinkle in the planning which I’d not foreseen, but which Bloodstone handled with unexpected charm. When Madame Theosophe called to confirm her attendance, she demanded to speak “to my superior.” I put her on hold, and informed Bloodstone of this. He picked up the line, listened, then said, “Yes, of course Connor will be included. He is my right hand.”
He listened again, then nodded. “Oh no, I insist. Please do bring your aide. This is why I made your invitation for two. People such as we benefit from the assistance of others we trust. Good day.”
Then he directed me to make a trip to a grocery store for dry ice.
Once we’d had the stage set in the dining room, about the only thing out of place was an old Russian samovar Bloodstone insisted on using. I’d had to go digging in the carriage house attic to find it. He had others, some Russian, even one from the court of Czar Nicholas II. This beast was constructed in the Stalinist era. It looked as if someone had cold-hammered it into shape using metal salvaged from dead Nazi Tiger tanks. Even after polishing, it had all the elegance of an IED, and was just as likely to explode. Steam hissed from every joint and a bunch of micro-cracks. Even putting a new, stainless steel tea pot on top for warming failed to improve the look.
Theresa Jensen arrived first, her demeanor as icy as her blue eyes. Even though her bosses had approved of her attendance, she really didn’t want to be here. Her venomous stare was almost as good as Bloodstone’s. I seated her halfway up the table’s left side—at nine o’clock, if Bloodstone was at six and Madame Theosophe at twelve.
My place was same side, forming a buffer between Theresa and Bloodstone. And the samovar. When it blew, I’d catch most of the shrapnel. Given the heat it was kicking out, I’d probably pass out long before it went boom.
Bloodstone reserved his place by marking it with a leather portfolio, which he planted on top of a small blotter—identical to those we’d laid out for everyone else attending. Bloodstone seated himself at the foot of the table, ostensibly for ease of greeting his visitors, but it also distanced him from Madame Theosophe. As a bonus, because she’d have her back to the window, he’d only have to view her in silhouette.
Don Hempstead and his wife, Carol, arrived not long after Theresa. Our client looked a bit trepidatious. Carol, being trim, blonde, and stylishly dressed in black slacks with an ivory silk blouse, took in the house with the eye of an appraiser. Something did not please her, but when she noticed me watching, she smiled simply and unapologetically. After introductions to Bloodstone, I seated Don at his right hand, and his wife opposite Theresa.
Hank Doren joined us next. Don’s age and tall, with hands the size of coal shovels. He had the build of one of those guys at a sports bar who talks about how the game has changed “since my day.” Dockers, dock shoes with no socks, button-down shirt over a Cardinal’s T-shirt—his look suggested he was treating this more as a lark than anything serious.
I put him on Carol’s right, and glanced at my watch. “We waiting, or should we get started?”
“Perhaps, Connor, you could take requests for refreshments.”
“Sure.” I plastered on my best waiter grin. “We have a variety of light pastries, some excellent cheeses, and a full selection of teas.”
Bloodstone sighed. “You say ‘tea’ as if we buy tea bags in bulk at some warehouse. I’ve tried to…oh, never mind.” He clasped his hands together. “If you will permit me, I would be pleased to choose for you. For example, Carol, for you I have a white tea, soft and subtle. And you, Mr. Doren, Pu-ehr, I think. Ms. Jensen, Earl Grey.”
Theresa nodded once. “You’ve read my mind.”
Bloodstone turned toward Don and studied him for a heartbeat. “Ti Kwan-yin, crisp and possessing depths unexpected.”
He’d have continued waxin
g poetic about the charms of his favorite tea, but the gate bell cut him off. He dismissed me with a wave and set himself to the task of preparing their infusions.
I headed to the foyer and hit the gate release. I waited a minute, then opened the door just as our final visitors arrived on the doorstep. “Madame Theosophe. And this is…?”
“Your better, Connor Moran.” She swept past me and her razor-thin aide followed in her wake. Okay, not really followed. The suction of her passing yanked him along behind her. They weren’t quite Jack Sprat and his wife, but she was a good thirty pounds above being as elegant as Carol Hempstead, and not quite as blonde. She’d also donned black slacks and wore a block-print blouse running heavy to red and blue. The color scheme matched her necklaces—all half-dozen of them.
Her aide gave off an undertaker vibe, from the black suit to the dour expression souring his long face. His black hair had to be a dye-job, but I was at a loss to figure out why. He ten years her junior, so white hair shouldn’t have been a problem. But guys will do all sorts of stuff for love.
Or a paycheck.
Our latest guests would have taken the first left into Bloodstone’s office, but I quickly cut them off and directed them deeper into the building. Theosophe paused just inside the dining room doorway and struck a pose facing Bloodstone. Imperious, her head held erect, eyes steely, she braced herself for a confrontation.
Alas, my boss, busy making tea, had his back to her. “This samovar makes up in efficiency what it lacks in cosmetic appeal. The teapot on top has Ti Kwan-yin, and the reservoir has more than enough water to accommodate everyone else’s choices.”
“I have arrived, Merlin.”
The mix of familiarity and condescension in her voice should have resulted in Bloodstone turning in an eye blink and exploding; but instead he turned slowly and smiled. “Ah, Madame Theosophe, so good of you to come. We have awaited your arrival with great anticipation. And this is?”
“Radu Antonescu, my apprentice. So difficult to find apt pupils these days.” She gave me a glance intended to curdle milk. “As, apparently, you know.”
“I have yet to see the need for an apprentice, as I know I have so much more to learn myself. In fact, we are here because I believe you have so much to teach me—all of us.” He took her by the elbow and escorted her to the head of the table. “Honor of place, please.”
She said nothing and I couldn’t read her expression because I’d taken over Bloodstone’s tea making. By the time I turned around with Theresa’s Earl Grey, Radu had taken his seat between her and Madame Theosophe. Bloodstone returned to the sideboard, pronounced other tea ready, so I delivered the cups. He made himself Ti Kwan-yin, and gave the same to Madame Theosophe. “It is perfect for you, since you embody so many of the goddess’ attributes.”
Radu got Pu-ehr, same as Hank. By the time I’d served everyone, Bloodstone had closed the doors and stood at the foot of the table.
“I should like to begin by thanking everyone for making time in their busy schedules…Yes, Madame Theosophe?”
She sniffed. “I believe there is a prior issue which needs to be settled.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Bloodstone turned back to the sideboard and pulled a thick envelope from where he’d wedged it between the samovar and a teak tea caddy. “The eight thousand, in cash.” He slid it to Theresa, who got up and gave it to Madame Theosophe.
“Just to make certain that we all are on sound legal footing, I invited Ms. Jensen to join us. She is a legal professional with whom I have worked in the past. I trust her discretion, and her ability to keep us on the right side of the law.”
Madame Theosophe weighted the packet in her hand, then passed it to Radu. He cracked the seal and quickly counted the banded stacks of twenties and fifties. He nodded.
Madame Theosophe smiled. “Not that I am not a trusting person, you understand.”
“Trust but verify, of course.” Bloodstone waited until Theresa had resumed her seat before continuing. “We are all here because of a very serious matter. Donald Hempstead is under a curse which needs to be lifted before more harm comes to him and those he for whom he cares. I would love if you, Madame Theosophe, would explain how you detected this curse and how your studies in the Law of Negation will mitigate it; but I would first beg an indulgence that will refine my understanding of things.”
Theosophe paused—perhaps for dramatic effect, but more for time to parse Bloodstone’s comment. She opted for condescension over anger in her reply. “I am always pleased to provide enlightenment.”
“You are quite generous.” Bloodstone picked up his folio and moved around the table counter-clockwise, drawing out a single sheet of hand-made paper the color of antique parchment. He set one on the blotter in front of each of our guests “Please, no one but you should touch your sheet, this paper is very sensitive to psychometric vibrations. I would ask each of you to simply write your name, boldly and clearly, there in the middle. Use all the space you…oh…Connor, pens, you forgot the pens.”
“Right, sorry.” I ran into the office, grabbed a half-dozen pens off my desk, and returned. I slipped past Bloodstone, again at his place, and moved around to the left. Theresa had pulled her own fountain pen from inside her black jacket, so I slapped a black ball point down in front of Radu, and rounded to the head of the table.
“Connor, your manners. Ladies first.” Bloodstone sighed. “You are so correct about pupils, Madame.”
I bowed in her direction and offered her the pens so she could make her own selection. “I beg your pardon.”
Another sniff, and she picked a blue ball point, then switched it for Radu’s black one. Carole took the other black, Hank green, and Don plucked a pen from the local Hilton from my hand. I returned to my place and dropped the last pen.
“As I said, I wish each of you to sign your name but, please, take a moment to focus. Think about who you truly are, your dreams and ambitions. Once you have done that, sign, and infuse all of that into your signature.”
We all signed, but Madame Theosophe made a show of it, finishing with a flourish that included one of those snake things undulating under her name.
“Splendid, thank you all.” My boss smiled. “Now, if you will each fold your sheets as you would a letter, in thirds, I shall collect them.”
He worked his way around the table from Don to Theresa, each laying their note on his palm. He accepted mine and tossed them all in the tea caddy’s empty lower drawer. “Thank you. Now, to the matter at hand…Yes, Mr. Doren?”
“What on earth did that just accomplish?”
“A very good question. Again, Madame Theosophe, if you will indulge me, perhaps my explanation of what we have just done will give you an understanding of my knowledge concerning the Law of Negation. Therefore you will see how much more knowledgeable you are than I, and can direct where we go from here.”
“That would be satisfactory, Merlin, but do please try to be succinct.” She rolled her eyes. “As best you can, of course.”
“Thank you.” He sipped his tea for a moment, then set the cup down again. “The paper I had you write upon is very special. It was handmade, as is obvious, in Egypt. Specifically, it was made through a ritual process by the last adherents to the Cult of Set, the Egyptian god of the underworld. As you are probably aware—certainly you are, Madame—the Cult of Set has, since its inception, sought to bring about the ascension of the underworld into this world. Down through history there have been many attempts to wipe them out. Saladin’s conquest of Egypt in 1169 was one such attempt. The Templars led two disastrous campaigns into Egypt for that same purpose during the Fifth Crusade. Even Napoleon’s Egyptian conquest is said to have been in pursuit of destroying the cult.”
Madame Theosophe sighed loudly. “Merlin, the man merely asked you what time it was, and here you lecture him on how to build a clock. Rather tedious. Please, what you are saying is common knowledge to anyone with enough brain cells to form a synapse.”
“A
h, yes, so kind of you to make that clear.” Bloodstone gave her a quick nod. “To the point: the cult’s enemies often attempted to infiltrate that community. But the cultists had a foolproof method of ferreting out traitors. They had each member sign their name or make their mark on a strip of papyrus prepared via the aforementioned ritual. The cult’s leaders would examine them from time to time. If a person was a traitor, the paper would reveal their true nature, exposing the traitor’s perfidy. The image of their loyalty would be negated.”
Theresa shook her head. “You mean that the high priests just scribbled something on the papyrus to prove to the superstitious that they’d been found out.”
“The cynically-minded would adopt that position, yes. I might agree with you, but I have done studies. The Lost Diary of Prince Kirill, for example, the Chronicles from the Oriosan Brotherhood and then the records of the Court of Farondis, all speak of philosophers attempting to recreate this paper and the cult’s methodologies. That is all I know about the matter. But, I bore you, Madam Theosophe, since you know all this. So, I would ask you to please expound upon your studies of the Law of Negation, so we can get to removing the curse on Donald Hempstead.”
Madame Theosophe rose slowly, projecting gravitas. “I find it very interesting, and even informative, the vector which has led you to your budding acquaintance with the Law of Negation—though it is only tangentially related, since the ritualized papyrus would function by the Law of Affirmation, revealing a true sense, and not Negation. Still, as you have said, you have much to learn.”
Bloodstone sat. “Please, teach us.”
Madame Theosophe’s nostrils flared with a triumphant sniff. “As everyone here knows, the term ‘occult’ refers to that which is hidden, and oft should remain so. Its opposite would be gnosis, Greek for knowledge and often used to characterize the work-product of revelation. It occurs to me, Merlin, that you see in silhouette what simple gnosis of Negation would completely reveal to you.”
Mystery! Page 14