‘But why does this Dudák steal kids?’
‘Apparently this thing, whatever it is, can exercise a huge influence over children. Right up to making them kill themselves. And then it feeds off the death energies.’
‘And you think that’s what’s loose in Memphis, and what’s got Naomi?’
‘I really don’t know Joshua. The Prof seemed to attach some importance to June 26. It’s the anniversary of the day the Piper stole the kids from Hamlin.’
‘It’s also Saturday,’ said Wainwright. ‘We have to find her before then. And we’re heading in the wrong direction.’
‘My guess is she’s still safe till Saturday,’ said Nightingale, ‘and we won’t be finding her by looking. We need specialist help, and I need a place to summon it.’
‘But what if you’re wrong, and this Dudák decides not to wait until Saturday?’
Nightingale gave him a rueful look. ‘Well, then I guess that won’t be good at all. If you have a better idea, I’ll go with it.’
Wainwright opened the window, and threw his cigarette butt out. He sighed.
‘I’m all out, Jack. My last idea didn’t work out too well. We’ll play it your way.’
CHAPTER 49
They arrived in Nashville after three and a half hours on the road. The two men had sat in silence after their brief conversation. Nightingale concentrated on the road, though it was an easy drive with the morning rush-hour long over. Once inside Nashville, Wainwright told Nightingale to ignore the SatNav and guided him in monosyllables, until he turned onto Northplace Drive, and up a short driveway on the left, where Nightingale parked in front of the front door, next to a white BMW M6. The front door of the house opened the moment he turned the engine off, and a tall black man in an immaculate lime-green suit came down the steps towards the car. Wainwright opened the passenger door and jumped down, gesturing at Nightingale to stay put. The man held out a set of keys to Wainwright. ‘All set, man. Good to see you again.’ He grinned, showing a gold tooth at the front of his mouth.
The two men hugged. Tyrone was a couple of inches taller than Wainwright and his skin a few shades lighter, but they could have been brothers.
‘Appreciate it, Tyrone. Keys to the box in the same place?’
‘Sure are. Lose them if you use them, man,’
Tyrone walked round to the driver’s door of the BMW, got in, started it up and was gone in a flurry of screeching tyres and flying gravel.
‘Come on out, Jack,’ said Wainwright. ‘Apologies for the lack of introductions, but the less Tyrone knows, the fewer questions he can ever answer.’
‘Same goes for me, I suppose.’
Wainwright grinned. ‘There is that.’
Nightingale stood and looked up at the house. ‘Mansion’ would have been a better description. It was a blend of Classical and American styles, and nobody could have called it subtle. Four giant two-storey high white columns supported a pediment over the front entrance. On either side, white walls, arched windows and grey triangular roof sections stretched out until they blended into a white-walled grey-roofed set of garages on the left, and finished in immaculately kept lawns and trees on the right. Behind the slate triangles, the grey roof rose high, punctuated by dormer windows that indicated a third storey. Nightingale let out a whistle. ‘You know Tyrone through business or the other thing?’
‘We go way back, let’s go inside.’
Which seems to close down that conversation, thought Nightingale, as he took his bag from the back seat of the SUV, and walked up the steps of Tyrone’s place. Wainwright had no luggage, and was still wearing Matthew Fisher’s overcoat over his blood-stained clothes. Nightingale hoped he hadn’t stained the seats, that might not be easy to explain to Hertz. Still, on a list of his current problems, it didn’t rank too high. Wainwright could always buy them another car.
Nightingale put his bag just inside the front door and looked around. The entrance hall reached up to the full height of the house. At the far end stood a sweeping curved staircase which led up to balconies running round both sides of the hall, with doors leading off them. Downstairs, there were several more doors, and passages either side of the stairs leading off into the other wings of the house. Everything was painted a dazzling white, with bannisters, balcony rails and door panels picked out in gold. Wainwright pointed at the second door on the left.
‘Make yourself at home in the main sitting room, while I shower and change, Jack. Be down right away.’
He hurried up the stairs, and Nightingale opened the door and walked into another room painted white. It was huge, with a black grand piano at one end, and French windows leading out onto the grounds at the other. In the middle were three large, black leather sofas and a selection of leather chairs, loosely arranged round a black marble coffee table. A giant black television hung on one wall, above shelves that housed an expensive hi-fi system. To one side of the shelves a black wood bar had been installed, with fully-equipped liquor shelves, and a black fridge.
He looked round the room again, trying to decide what was wrong with it, and it came to him. It looked as if it was a page from a furniture catalogue, and had been ordered in all at the same time. There wasn’t a single personal item here, not a plant, a book, a magazine or an ornament. Nightingale wondered if it always looked this way, or if Tyrone had spend two hours frantically clearing up, in response to Wainwright’s call. Not that he looked the type to do much in the way of domestic chores.
Nightingale walked to the French windows and found them unlocked. He opened one, stepped outside and lit a Marlboro. The grounds stretched a few hundred yards back, the immaculate lawn finally giving way to shrubbery and trees, with a high stone wall marking the end of the property. Over to the left he saw the pool and pool-house, with a paved walking and eating area next to it. If this really was Tyrone’s house, the man certainly had money.
He finished his cigarette and went back inside. He walked across to the television, turned it on and flicked through channels until he found the Memphis News channel. The top story was the death of a young child at the Memphis Civil Rights Museum, after setting fire to herself. As yet she hadn’t been identified. ‘Kaitlyn Jones’, whispered Nightingale to himself.
Further down the bulletin was news of the death of a local Memphis Herald reporter who had been killed while trying to cross a road in Memphis last night. He’s been named as Peter Mulholland. Nightingale cursed out loud.
‘Friend of yours?’ asked Wainwright from behind him.
‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ’I met him yesterday, he was a colleague of Kim Jarvis, the reporter who killed herself at the grotto. We went to talk to her house-mate, but didn’t find out much. He looked like a guy who liked a drink, might have forgotten to look both ways.’
‘Yeah, he might have,’ said Wainwright. ‘But did you ever notice how a lot of people who you meet seem to end up dead?’
‘It had occurred to me,’ said Nightingale.
‘Come and sit down, Jack,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’ve just declared this whole house a smoking zone.’
Nightingale turned and went back into the room. Wainwright went behind the bar, opened a humidor and took out one of his favourite cigars. He had changed into a grey silk shirt, black jeans and a pair of black western boots. The shirt collar was open, showing a thick gold neck-chain, with a pentagram hanging from it, matching the gold Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist and the heavy gold chain on his right. He poured two large malt whiskies, gave one to Nightingale and then sat down on a sofa. ‘This is a fucking mess, Jack,’ he said. He gulped down some whisky. ‘Is it possible that Matthew killed my sister?’
Nightingale paused, thinking of similar scenes he’d come upon in the last few years. ‘I don’t know, Joshua. Someone wanted the police to think he did. If he did, then it wasn’t the Matthew that we knew, but the chances are there was someone else in that house. Naomi wouldn’t have left by herself.’
‘You mean they might hav
e been controlled?’
‘We’ve both known it done. I’ve seen you do it.’
‘True enough. I can influence people, but I wouldn’t know how to get a husband to kill the wife he loved. And they did love each other, Jack. I’ve always known that.’
‘Tell me about the guys in the car,’ said Nightingale, thinking a change of subject might be a good idea.
‘I opened the driver’s door and took one look, then I shut it again. It was a bloodbath, Jack. They’d been hacked to pieces, but inside the car. Who could have done that? How is it even possible?’
‘I don’t know, I’m sorry. You said they were good guys? Professionals?’
‘The best, there’s no way anyone could have snuck up on them, no way anyone could have done that without them putting up a fight. Nobody.’
‘Maybe nobody human, at least. But maybe we’re not dealing with humans here.’
Wainwright looked him full in the eyes. ‘You know something, Jack. And you have some ideas. That’s part of why we’re here. Tell me.’
Nightingale lit another cigarette and gave Wainwright the full story of what he’d learned from the Professor, and then told him about his meeting with Bonnie Parker. Wainwright sat in silence until Nightingale had finished. ‘I’d heard about demons who feed off fear and death, but never one who preyed on kids,’ he said.
‘So it’s common?’
‘Well, not common, but it happens. That kind of demon inhabiting a human body, whether alone or sharing it with the human is what explains people like Jeffrey Dahmer, Dennis Nilsen, Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler. Christman Genipperteinga, the Red Inn murderers in France...’
‘All demons?’
‘That’s the explanation I’ve heard for them. There’s meant to be a death energy they feed off, released when their victims die. But kids? New one on me. Though there may be others, I’m no expert. But look, Jack, do you trust this Professor guy?’
‘I’m not sure I trust anybody these days, but he came with a good introduction, and what would he have to gain by making the whole thing up?’
‘Beats me. But if it is this Dudák creature that’s making the kids kill themselves and feeding off their death energies, that still leaves quite a few questions unanswered.’
‘It does,’ said Nightingale. ’For example, if Dudák has been in a blocked cavern in Germany for nearly eight hundred years, who, or what, released him?’
‘Yeah, and why should he come out of there with a burning grudge against kids in Tennessee, and me in particular. I never heard of the thing, much less did it any harm.’
‘Could one of the Apostles have released it and set it on you?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I doubt it, they didn’t have that kind of power. And demons don’t usually follow human orders. If one of the Apostles had gone to Germany, found the thing and released it, it would have probably killed them, rather than start listening to their list of grudges. The only one who could control a demon like Dudák, and use it to carry out this kind of thing, would be a much stronger demon. Maybe even a Prince of Hell.’
‘Maybe even a Princess,’ said Nightingale thoughtfully.
‘Holy shit, you think Proserpine could be behind this?’
‘I can only think of one way to find out for sure.’
‘What’s that?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Ask her.’
‘Are you insane?’
Nightingale smiled ruefully. ‘It’s been suggested before.’
‘But why would she tell you anything, if she’s behind all this?’
‘Dunno, maybe I might have to offer her something she wants.’
‘She wants your soul, Jack. You prepared to bargain with it?’
‘Maybe there might be a second choice. Now look, Joshua, you either help me with this or you come up with a better idea.’
Wainwright was silent.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Now, the first thing I’m going to need is a big empty room.’
Wainwright forced a smile. ‘You haven’t had the full tour yet, have you?’ he said. ‘Let’s start with the basement.’
Wainwright led the way to the end of the entrance hall, along the left hand corridor, and down to a door on the right, which he opened with a key from his pocket. There was a light-switch just inside the door, and turning it on revealed a set of stone steps leading down. Nightingale followed him, but could see very little when they reached the bottom.
‘Hang onto your hat,’ said Wainwright, and pressed another switch.
Nightingale’s jaw literally dropped, causing him to wince in pain. It was a vast space, which must have run under most of the house. Nightingale took a few steps inside, and then stopped to take it all in. It was a chapel. An underground chapel. There were lines of blood-red pews – enough to seat close to a hundred people - facing a wooden table which must have been thirty feet long, now mostly covered in a long red cloth. Two thrones, upholstered in red plush stood on the left and right hand sides of the table, with six-foot high blood-red inverted crosses hanging on the wall behind each one.
Between the thrones stood a figure carved from black wood which must have been nine feet high, its huge wings spreading out from its shoulders, the outsize phallus pointing at the room, the five-pointed star in the middle of the forehead, directly between the roots of the long curving horns which arched upwards towards the high ceiling.
‘Baphomet,’ said Nightingale quietly. ‘The Goat of Mendes. The Devil incarnate.’
‘Some might say that,’ said Wainwright quietly.
The floor was mostly of grey flagstones, except for two large black squares directly before the statue, one of which was inlaid with a red five-pointed star and some other symbols Nightingale didn’t recognise. The other bore a huge inlay of the head of Satan, also done in blood-red. The walls, and the vaulted ceiling, were painted in flat white, and bore no decorations.
‘Joshua, what is this place?’ said Nightingale. ‘Who uses it, and what for?’
Wainwright moved his lips in a very small smile. ‘Let’s just say it’s the basement of the house that Tyrone lives in, and leave it at that, shall we? Is it going to be big enough for your purposes?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Nightingale. ‘Plenty big enough, and I’m sure she’ll like it. I’m going to need a few things that I don’t have with me.’
Wainwright nodded. ‘I know. They should all be here except one, and I’ll have that here in two hours. You plan to wait till nightfall?’
‘It’s meant to be best, but we can’t afford to waste the time. According to the list, Naomi’s due to die in three days time, but whoever made the list could change their rules any time they felt like it. Better to get started straight away.’
Another nod from Wainwright.
‘Let’s get on it. I’ll show you where everything is.’ He leaned towards Nightingale. ‘Jack?’
‘Yes?’
‘You think you’re going to need me here for this?’
Nightingale thought he could hear fear in Wainwright’s voice, and understood. To a learned Satanist like him, the idea of raising one of Hell’s most powerful Devils must have seemed almost suicidal, or worse. It was only Nightingale’s almost complete ignorance of the danger involved that had ever allowed him to try it the first time.
‘No, Joshua,’ he said. ‘This is a one-man job. I’d like you out of the house, please. There are some other things I think we’ll be needing, so you could be organising those, maybe catching up on the news from Memphis. I’ll give you a list, and you can take the Escape.’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Wainwright. ‘The Ferrari in the garage is more my style.’
‘Probably is. But it might be a good idea to stay below the radar.’
Wainwright grinned. ‘There is that. Let’s go upstairs and you can give me that list.’
CHAPTER 50
It would probably have taken a professional cleaning team the better part of a day to have done a complete
job on Tyrone’s huge basement chapel. Jack Nightingale didn’t have a day, and he had no wish to involve anyone else in his activities, so he settled for pushing some of the pews against the walls, leaving a space around twenty yards on each side, and spent an hour scrubbing the stone-flagged floor until he was satisfied that it was spotlessly clean. The first time he’d ever tried this, he’d been warned that any kind of impurity could lead to disaster, and he’d seen enough of the Occult world to know the danger of complacency, so he was meticulous about the cleaning.
When he was satisfied, he headed to the shower in what Joshua had called the ‘Robing Room’, where he scrubbed himself with coal tar soap, cleaned under his nails, fingers and toes, with a new plastic nail brush, shampooed his hair twice, then rinsed himself off for ten minutes. He dried himself on a new towel, then put on brand new black jeans and a black cotton shirt, both of which had come wrapped in plastic from the wardrobes upstairs. New and spotless grey trainers completed his outfit, and then he returned to the Satanic chapel.
As Wainwright had promised, everything he needed had been placed in a large cardboard box near the table. He took a piece of consecrated white chalk and drew a circle with it, around six feet in diameter on the stone floor. There were birch trees in the grounds, and one of them had provided the fresh branch he used to brush round the outline of the circle as an extra safety measure. With a fresh piece of chalk, he drew a pentagram, the ancient symbol of a five-pointed star, inside the circle, with two of the points facing north. Then came a triangle to enclose the circle, again with the apex facing north. At the three points of the triangle, he wrote MI, CH and AEL to spell out the name of the Archangel Michael.
The next item was the one thing that the house had been unable to provide, since it was essential that it was freshly blessed. Nightingale had no idea where Wainwright might have found a priest to do the job, but the flask of consecrated salt water had arrived well within the promised two hours. Nightingale took the bottle and sprinkled water around the circle, being careful not to leave any part of it untreated.
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