‘Well, seems like she hadn’t long moved in,’ said Nightingale.
Mulholland grunted and looked up the street. ‘I think I could be done for the day,’ he said. ‘I can e-mail my story in. Won’t be up on the site till tomorrow morning anyway. You can leave me here.’
Nightingale followed his gaze, saw Red’s Bar across the street and nodded. He felt like a beer but he had an appointment with the mysterious Professor. He shook Mulholland’s hand and walked away. He had no way of knowing that it would be the last time he would see the journalist alive.
CHAPTER 33
Hundreds of miles and a time-zone away, in a darkened room in what had once been a church, four large black candles were burning, one at each corner of a heavy mahogany table, which stood in the middle of a nine-pointed star, chalked on the floor. At each point of the star stood copper bowls, filled with fresh chicken’s blood. In between the points of the star were brass bowls, in which precisely measured mixtures of herbs burned, giving off an acrid green smoke, which filled the room. The smoke seemed not to affect Joshua Wainwright, who stood before the table and breathed in the fumes through his nose and out again through his mouth. He was naked, except for a belt made of twisted grass around his waist, from which hung long leaves, to make a green skirt which reached down to the middle of his thighs. His torso had been painted with a reversed swastika on each breast, a five-pointed-star on his stomach and two words of power in a long dead language across his collar bones. His forehead bore two crescents, one above each eye, and executed in the same pale yellow liquid that he had used on his chest.
He pressed a button on the wall and the throbbing, insistent sound of voodoo drums filled the room. He knelt before the table, held his hands up with the fingers spread, gazed up at the giant, inverted golden crucifix which stood in its centre, and started to mouth words in the same long-dead language as he’d used to paint his collar bones. The prayer took five minutes to finish, and he repeated it twice more, his body motionless except for the movement of his lips, his eyes never wavering from the crucifix.
When the third prayer was finished, he rose from his knees, walked to the left-hand side of the table, and picked up a china bowl which held communion wafers, previously blessed by a priest. He walked to each of the burning bowls in turn, spat on a wafer, broke it in two, then threw it into the bowl. The embers of the herbs in each bowl roared into green flames as the desecrated wafers touched them. He returned the china bowl to the table, then slowly walked back to each bowl and shook drops of his own urine into them, to make the blasphemy complete.
Back at the table, he chanted a Latin phrase thirteen times, then stared intently at the small clay doll which stood in front of the crystal ball, in front of the mockery of the crucifix. It was dark and crudely made, the arms and legs just stumps, and the head a round featureless ball. With his left hand, he picked up a razor sharp copper knife, ran it along the palm of his right hand and a line of blood sprang out. He put the knife down, rubbed the blood onto the doll’s head, then picked up a lock of black hair from a brass plate, and pressed it into the still-soft clay on top of the head. Finally he spoke in English.
‘Lord Legba, Lady Ayida, keepers of the time to come, show me what awaits this one. Let the darkness be put aside, let the light shine for just a moment, that I might tell the fate that may await.’
He closed his fist on the doll, squeezing it into a shapeless mass with all the strength he had in his hand, feeling its essence mix with his own, as the two fates became entwined, despite the other being thousands of miles away. His eyes opened as wide as they could, the whites almost straining to their limit, as he gazed fixedly at the crystal. A pink vapour grew slowly from the bottom of the ball, and slowly filled the whole of it, then, even more slowly, began to clear.
A small figure seemed to walk across a grassy, shallow hill, at first smiling and strolling happily, but then it seemed to take fright, and started to run. Wainwright’s face ran with sweat as he watched the figure run faster and faster, looking behind it in terror, A larger figure came into view, a horribly misshapen thing, shuffling along on three or maybe four legs, its skin covered in scales which shifted colour at every moment. It seemed to move very slowly, yet with each step it grew closer and closer to the small running figure. Just at the moment when it caught up with its quarry, the thing turned its face towards the watcher and roared in triumph from its ghastly toothless mouth. Simultaneously, its prey screamed a high-pitched death cry of pain and terror. The monster paused to leap, but at that instant, another figure appeared, too obscure to see features, but recognisably human. The monster lurched back in surprise, the new figure advanced...and the crystal was suddenly pitch black.
Wainwright screamed too, and swept the crystal ball off the table with one savage back-handed blow. The glass smashed into a myriad fragments, and the four black candles flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. The beat of the drums stopped, and the room fell silent.
‘Not going to happen,’ Wainwright in a throaty whisper. ‘Just not going to happen.’
CHAPTER 34
Peter Mulholland drained the last half-inch of his latest Wiseacre and set the glass down on the bar, next to the empty bourbon glass. The last three beers had all come with chasers, and even an experienced and weighty drinker like him had taken far too much, even though he didn’t show it to the outside world. The barman nodded at him. ‘Same again, buddy?’
Mulholland shook his head, pulled out a tired black leather billfold and counted out enough money for his tab and a decent tip. ‘I’m done,’ he said, ‘Been a bad day, not sure that all those drinks were the best idea, but I didn’t have a better one.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said the barman, his face not showing much sorrow at all.
‘Yeah, lost a good friend. Makes no sense.’
‘Life rarely does. But I’m sorry to hear about your friend.’
‘You probably already heard,’ said Mulholland. ‘Kim Jarvis. At the Crystal Grotto.’
‘Shit yeah, I did hear. The damnedest thing.’
‘Yeah, ‘said Mulholland, ‘the damnedest thing is right. She blew her own brains out. Why would a person do that?’
The barman shrugged. ‘Want I should call you a cab, buddy?’
‘Nah, I’ll walk a while, maybe clear my head, then I’ll call one when I’m done walking.’
Mulholland tapped his pockets to check he had his phone, wallet and cigarettes, then remembered he didn’t smoke anymore. Old habits died hard. He slithered off his stool, wobbled to the door, then wandered unsteadily out onto the street, turned left and started walking in the direction of his apartment.
Across the street, the watcher stood in the shadow of a closed shop doorway. The wait would have seemed a long one to anyone else, but time in this place meant nothing. The vigil and what was to follow were probably unnecessary, even Nightingale didn’t know the importance of what he had learned, and this fat creature much less so, but there was just a chance that the story might be printed and strike a chord with someone who might understand. Even then, there would be little chance of the arrangements being interfered with. But it was important to deal with what could happen, rather than what was likely.
Mulholland shuffled on, his eyes barely registering the street names, until he arrived at a crosswalk. The red DON’T WALK glared at him, and he stood unsteadily on the sidewalk, until the green WALK flashed on. He had taken three steps before the watcher stared hard at the signal, and it turned back to red, but Mulholland was too intent on placing his feet in front of each other to notice. He had taken another two paces before the watcher called to him.
‘Hey Peter, got a light?’
The reporter span round, a puzzled look on his face and he took a half-step back before the dark blue SUV drove through the green light at 30mph and killed him.
The driver was a woman coming home from her yoga class, stone-cold sober, whereas Mulholland was three times over the driving l
imit. The CCTV showed he’d crossed against a red signal. The woman told police she thought she’d seen someone standing on the sidewalk, near the signal on the opposite side of the road from Mulholland, but no witness ever came forward, and the CCTV showed nothing.
The woman was told a few days later that she would face no charges, the drunken pedestrian had been at fault. Sometimes accidents happened and people died. It was the way of the world.
CHAPTER 35
Nightingale checked the clock on the dash of the car, which showed he was five minutes early for his appointment with Professor Schiller as he parked outside the address he had been given. The house stood back from the street, behind a large and well-tended lawn, with equally well-kept flower beds on both sides. The gravelled driveway led to a large garage, and then continued round to the house itself. Unlike a lot of the properties he’d seen in Memphis, this one was two stories high, the first floor being made of red brick, and the upper floor clad in the same white planking he’d seen at Brother Juniper’s restaurant. It looked to be a decent-sized house in a fairly desirable area, but it didn’t speak of any great wealth. Nightingale had no idea of what a professor might earn, but it seemed it didn’t run to a mansion.
He walked up the drive, but didn’t need to ring the bell as the door was opened for him before he reached it. His arrival had obviously been noted. A dumpy, middle-aged woman in a black dress stood on the doorstep. She had chin-length blonde hair that wasn’t her original colour, judging by the darker strip at her centre parting. She wore brown-framed spectacles with tinted lenses so Nightingale couldn’t see her eyes. Her lips were painted bright red, probably too young a shade for her, and there were stray grains of powder in the wrinkles on her face.
Then she smiled, and Nightingale warmed to her. It gave her the look of a benevolent grandmother, ready to dispense candy to her little ones.
‘What name, please?’ she asked.
Her accent seemed to match what Nightingale had heard of the professor on the phone. ‘Jack Nightingale. Professor Schiller is expecting me.’
‘Please come in. May I take your coat?’
‘No thank you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll keep it with me.’
She nodded her head again, as if agreeing that it was a wise choice. ‘Very good. This way please, my husband is in his study.’
Mrs. Schiller led Nightingale down a wood-panelled hall, towards the back of the house. The place looked like the viewing room of an auction-house, with a plethora of antique tables, chests, bookshelves and stands, most of them filled with historical pieces that looked as if they dated back centuries. Wood carvings and bronze figurines stood next to plates, china ornaments and thick old books. Nightingale was no expert, but the majority struck him as of European origin, there was no American work to be seen.
The house seemed larger inside than it had appeared from the street, and there were several rooms opening off the corridor. Nightingale had a glimpse of a sitting room and dining room through open doors, as the woman continued smartly down the hallway, with him following two steps behind.
She stopped at the last door on the left, a sturdy piece in old oak, with a black metal key plate and a large dark wooden doorknob. She knocked and waited.
‘It used to be he didn’t like to be disturbed while he was writing,’ she said with a conspiratorial smile. ‘These days, it’s to wake him up if he’s sleeping. He often drops off after dinner.’
There was a short pause, before a voice spoke through the door. ‘Herein.’
Mrs. Schiller turned the knob, pushed the door open, then stood aside to usher Nightingale into the room. ‘Willi, here is your visitor, Mr. Nightingale,’ she said.
Nightingale stepped through the doorway, and the woman shut it behind him. He gazed round the large room. It seemed like a continuation of the corridor, with antique objects everywhere, with yet more tables, stands and cases to hold and support them all. Every inch of wall-space was devoted to bookshelves, from floor to ceiling, and every space on them was filled with endless volumes, ranging from obvious modern printings to hand-bound works which must have been many centuries old. Nightingale noticed that quite a few titles were in German. The floor was covered in a deep-pile red carpet, which stretched from wall to wall. At one end were French windows, leading out onto a back garden. At the other end of the room were two large square windows with red curtains drawn across them.
Nightingale’s eyes finished their tour of the room, and settled on the huge mahogany desk that dominated the far end of the room. It was also covered in figurines, bowls and small plates, and piles of papers. In the middle of it all stood a computer keyboard and monitor. Behind the desk, in a leather chair, sat a thin old man, patiently waiting for Nightingale to finish his inspection. He must have been well over eighty, his thin face heavily lined, and his hands covered in prominent blue veins. He seemed to have modelled the style for his wild, white hair on the late Albert Einstein, though there was no matching moustache. His eyes were blue and watery, but stared at Nightingale with a fierce intelligence, through gold half-moon spectacles.
‘So, Jack Nightingale,’ he said, in his reedy, heavily accented voice. ‘I am Willi Schiller. You will forgive me not getting up or shaking hands, but I suffer with arthritis, so the fewer movements I need to make, the better.’
‘No problem, Professor.’
‘I don’t suppose you speak German?’
‘I’m sorry, no.’ Nightingale was about to make a joke about not needing to seeing as how England won the war, but realised that not everyone appreciated his sense of humour so he just shrugged.
‘Never mind,’ said the Professor. He waved Nightingale to a seat in front of the desk. It looked too modern for the room, so Nightingale assumed it had been brought in and placed there in anticipation of his visit.
‘So where do you teach, Professor?’ asked Nightingale as he sat down.
‘Hah,’ said Schiller, ‘I am actually an Emeritus Professor of the University of Memphis now. Too old to be teaching now, though they still keep an office for me for the rare occasions I care to use it. These days I keep busy giving talks in schools about the Holocaust. Make sure it’s never forgotten.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘So “Emeritus” means you’ve retired?’
‘Indeed. A very polite way of saying “Put out to grass”. Still, forty years were enough.’
‘And what did you specialise in?’
‘Medieval German History, with a sideline in traditional folklore, myths, legends and old religious beliefs.’
‘You’re from Germany originally?’
‘Of course, my family escaped in 1935, when I was just a child. As you might imagine, many of my relatives died in those dreadful times, and I have never wished to return. There were many invitations to conferences, and symposia, but I refused them all. I am proud to be American, even though my accent places me firmly in Europe. My parents always spoke German at home.’
Nightingale nodded. At any other time, he’d have been pleased to hear the Professor’s life story, but there was a clock ticking in his head, and he had no time to waste. ‘So you studied German History?’
‘Indeed so. I am fascinated with the history of my Fatherland, but not its descent during modern times.’
‘You mentioned myths and legends?’
‘Indeed so, I am an expert on the old beliefs, I even know some who still practise them.’
‘You mean witchcraft?’
‘Pah. It is one word for it. Traditional beliefs, folk remedies, witchcraft, mostly it was harmless old women making potions. Legends of creatures from the mountains and forests. Fairy stories to be told to children. The same as you might find throughout Europe many centuries ago.’
‘But not always?’
The Professor was silent. He opened the top drawer of his desk, and took out an old Meerschaum pipe, richly carved and yellowed with years of use, and began to fill it with tobacco from a wooden box on his desk. ‘You wish to smoke
?’
Nightingale needed no second invitation and lit a Marlboro. The Professor finished loading the pipe, lit it with a match from a stand on his desk, and drew deeply on it. ‘My wife says smoking is very bad for me,’ he said, ‘But at eighty-seven I think I know enough to make my own decisions. Just getting to eighty-seven shows it can’t be all that dangerous.’ He coughed heavily, to prove his point, and fixed his blue eyes on Nightingale through the cloud of blue smoke. ‘I suspect you are a man in a hurry, Mr. Nightingale, and have no time to waste on an old man’s stories.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, I’d be very interested to chat some other time, but, as you say, time is pressing. I’ve been here four days, and I’m still pretty much in the dark. Any light you could shine would be gratefully received.’
The Professor blew more smoke. Nightingale felt his eyes prickle. Whatever was in the pipe was strong stuff. ‘Let us put our playing cards on the table, Mr. Nightingale,’ he said eventually. ‘I am not a practitioner, of the Dark Arts, nor even of their whiter variants, but I have amassed a considerable knowledge of their use in Europe, and of the beliefs which underpin them. It was suggested to me that my knowledge may be of help to you, in your current predicament. The lady who contacted me, suggested that it is a very serious matter. It would be best if you were to be completely frank, DO not fear that I shall think you mad, I too have seen things which defy rational explanation.’
‘So, Mrs...’
The Professor cut him off with an upraised hand. ‘No. We will mention no names, please. Not even here where we seem to be alone. What is it the proverb says, “Least said, soonest repaired”, is that not correct?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Then I’ll be as brief as I can. I’ve been working for someone who certainly is a practitioner of what you call the Dark Arts, though, as far as I know, he only uses them for his own knowledge and enrichment, he doesn’t do much harm.’
Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel) Page 14