Disciples of the Serpent: A Novel of the O.C.L.T.

by Williams, Sidney

  She switched over to camera mode on her mobi and took a step forward, beginning to snap photos as the flash flared–first broad shots for coverage. Then, as Jaager stood watching, she moved in closer, making sure she captured each character and distinct traits, providing a good view that would not be open to confusion.

  When she’d finished, she moved to the big man’s shoulder and held the face of the phone so that they could both see it. With a fingertip, she flicked through the captures quickly for his survey. When she’d finished, he gave a slow nod, and she stepped back while he picked up a heavy stone from their feet.

  Holding it between his hands, he walked over to the wall and began striking the stone against the characters. He glanced up occasionally to make sure he wasn’t jarring any dangerous bits of ceiling free, but he focused mostly on destroying the markings, making sure they were leaving nothing behind.

  Fifteen

  “The snake figurine can’t be an accident can it?” O’Donnell asked. “Based on the other things we’ve seen?”

  She and Bullfinch had left the offices behind and made their way back to her car, and an unsettling feeling wriggled into her abdomen. It was the kind of annoying gut spasm triggered when she sensed something dark and inevitable.

  “No, it definitely has some kind of meaning. Too many coincidences otherwise.”

  “Plastic snakes, strange sketches and a man’s been poisoned with viper venom? We’re in agreement.”

  “Snake images are common enough in his area of research, even in Ireland where there are no snakes and certainly in the British Isles, but when all things start being tallied…”

  “It suggests somehow he’s stumbled into the path of some kind of crazy fanatics with a snake obsession and an interest in these Ogham markings.”

  “We need to gather more details, but that sums it up. We don’t know enough about what’s going on. I don’t know if he’s ‘stumbled on’ or is ‘part of’ something.”

  “This Circle that was mentioned?”

  “Right. We need more details.”

  O’Donnell wedged their vehicle into a traffic stream and headed back toward Aisteach headquarters.

  Letting Professor Bullfinch get a look at Burke’s office hadn’t been a bad idea, but it had unsettled her. A murky cloud seemed to lurk somewhere ahead. She didn’t like not knowing its makeup or the sense that it gave her of something grim and inevitable.

  As crazy as some of the ideas were and some of the things they seemed to be up to, she had to agree the purpose of Aisteach seemed reasonable in this instance. Indications of high strangeness—as she’d heard Bullfinch call it—and ancient lore wouldn’t be scrutinized in the proper vein by traditional investigators. They’d be pragmatic and treat everything like craziness. She would have done it on a given Tuesday. Her father certainly would have had little patience for weird theories or anything that strayed from the concrete, but she was beginning to see there was more to it.

  Someone like Bullfinch would look at things just as he was doing and pick up meaning in odd markings she and others would miss. But what did that say about what she’d been dragged into?

  As the windshield wipers fought an onslaught of rain, her mind battled back insane thoughts. A lost alphabet, snake legends, shadowy needle men with syringes full of venom was the stuff of a Saturday night piped telly horror marathon and not a police investigation.

  The killers she sought were killers, possibly spree killers the way things were shaping up and likely to strike again. But their motivation was stranger and more ominous than your usual brand of terrorist driven by political or twisted religious causes. They were going to need to understand what was driving these people and if there were more than the two that had struck at Castle Cluin.

  Rees greeted them as they stepped back into Aisteach headquarters, slipping off coats and hats. His sleeves had been rolled to his elbows, his tie loosened, and he looked weary and beaten down.

  O’Donnell didn’t like that. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Rumblings from pencil pushers. What have you got?”

  “We’d have called ahead if it was really exciting, but Professor Bullfinch picked up a few coils of data.”

  If Rees had been a teenage girl, he would have given her an eye roll, but his grim smirk said enough.

  “It’s something else to run through my friend Mack back at the O.C.L.T.,” Bullfinch said. “Perhaps tied to what Professor Burke wanted to talk to me about years ago.”

  “If it puts us closer to naming whoever’s running around killing people with snake poison to collect rocks, I’m all for it,” Rees said. “Why don’t you…”

  He didn’t finish. A shout from somewhere in the hallway cut off his suggestion.

  “I’ll not wait.”

  Deputy Commissioner Darce Sheehan followed the words into the room, flanked by solemn men in dark coats and suits. O’Donnell didn’t recognize them. Homicide officers or bureaucrats? Probably bureaucrats.

  His shoulders squared, his face looked redder than it had been on the street when he’d been blessing out O’Donnell.

  “I knew she’d be in here.”

  The source of the rumblings seemed apparent. He stomped to Rees, stopping only millimeters from his face.

  “I don’t know what this operation you run here is supposed to be, but I don’t want it interfering with official lines of inquiry, and you’ve got a hell of a nerve pulling in an officer I have on suspension.”

  “We have full sanction…”

  “To impede a homicide inquiry?”

  “We’re in no way impeding. We’re pursuing a line your officers wouldn’t think about…”

  Sheehan’s gaze swept around the control room, where various paranormal website news feeds and videos were displayed, and someone in a white coat was leading a large black dog on a leash. O’Donnell’s gaze was tugged to the fish tank and the huge blue hammer-headed fish again. It seemed impossible, but she detected a distinct distaste in the thing’s eye.

  “This malarkey? Hell no we wouldn’t consider the bunkum you have people pouring over. What? Aliens, taibhsí? And you have a suspended officer…”

  “You’re not utilizing her skills, so I am. Take it up with the president if you don’t like it.”

  “She’s already at the heart of a serious and controversial matter and you’re stumbling around an active case, interviewing the same witnesses. We don’t need her…”

  “The line of investigation she’s involved in has nothing to do with anything you’re pursuing. You go ahead and sniff for the killer. O’Donnell can benefit from what we’re doing and that’s a damn site better than having her sit around in her apartment while you stew and answer political questions.”

  “I thought your little cubby here was supposed to be low profile. She’s already in the press…”

  “Which makes any rumors about her work here secondary to what journalists want to report on. Any relevant information we turn up about the homicide inquiry will be shared.”

  Sheehan drew a breath, prepared to spew more, but he held it, his shoulders sagging. He’d finished venting.

  “We’ll be watching to make sure you don’t interfere, that you’re just tracking the spooky stuff.”

  “Fine,” Rees said. “You go on with what you’re doing. You solve the case, wonderful.”

  Sheehan didn’t seem to have more to say. He gathered his bureaucrats and turned in a rustle of uniform fabric, his shoes tapping the tiles in a heavy path to the door.

  “You have scenes like that often?” Bullfinch asked.

  “Usually it’s in budget meetings,” Rees said. “Ignore it. Do what you need to do after you’ve filled me in. Tomorrow, though. It’s late. It’s been a hell of a long day and everyone needs some rest. Maybe tomorrow we’ll figure out where Professor Burke went when he left his office.”

  “What if we get there ahead of the other investigation?”

  “So be it. We’ll deal with the s
hite as it comes.”

  Sixteen

  A dark-haired man in a crisp black suit stood not far from the entrance in the hotel lobby. Though not particularly tall, his demeanor and expression made him intimidating. He nodded to Freya when she entered and he caught her gaze.

  His arms were crossed in front of him, right hand gripping left wrist, and he wore an almost imperceptible ear and mouthpiece in the right ear. She saw but didn’t hear him speak from the corner of his mouth. As she climbed a small flight of steps to the spot, he stood near a square pillar of a rich-looking wood.

  “You’re expected, Ms. Turnbull. Please step this way.” Matter of fact but grim.

  He thumbed a button next to an elevator, and the doors opened immediately. He then inserted a key into the panel, allowing the car to whisk them up to a suite where a couple more grim private security agents stood sentry.

  The latest find had warranted immediate contact with the men bankrolling this operation even though the hour was growing late and Freya’s lower spine throbbed while her temples threatened to implode.

  She caught a whiff of liquor when she was ushered into the sitting room. Expensive stuff, it floated just over the sterile and generic scent of all hotel rooms that was tinged with just a hint of expensive male cologne.

  The old man from the car, Malphas, The Shepherd, rested in a red armchair, his suit coat draped over the side. Balor stood near a window, features shadowed by his wide-brimmed hat, not partaking or engaging. Just listening as he stood with folded arms.

  Across from Malphas sat two gray-haired men in dark suits, one at one end of a sofa, the other in a wheelchair parked near the sofa arm. The one on the sofa held a tumbler with amber liquid and ice. American preference, clearly.

  The one in the wheelchair seemed to be the older version, wavy white hair, wire-rimmed glasses. The lenses had a slight tint. A woman in a long-sleeved black sheath dress, hair in a tight up-style, stood near him. If she was a nurse she was a damned elegant one.

  Something that looked like vodka resided in his glass, and he swirled it with gnarled hands. That was really the only sign of life.

  The man on the sofa proffered a smile that seemed alien by comparison.

  “Welcome, Ms. Turnbull,” he said, obviously the younger brother. “I’m Edward Groom. This is William. We’re going to have to dispense with intrigue and trust your confidentiality.”

  “It’s absolute.”

  The names rang a bell from the headlines. Made sense they’d be here. The big economic conference in town and all. She connected the dots and couldn’t keep the realization off her face.

  “Of course none of this is to be discussed and would be denied,” Edward said. “I understand you’ve had a turbulent but successful day.”

  “Speaking of things to be denied, we’ve gathered new information, and we’ve brought a silence to some of the people who were of concern. And some others whose deaths could be of use.”

  “Every endeavor has some cost.” Gruff, the first sound from the one in the wheelchair. The woman beside him remained stoic.

  Feeling a little unpolished in the woman’s presence, Freya looked at the scuffs and scratches on her hands and her skinned knuckles. They offered an account of the day’s events.

  “Unfortunately your activities have attracted some attention,” Edward said. “People some of our friends keep an eye on have begun to sniff at your trail. We may be ahead of the game enough to maintain a lead on them.”

  “The markings from the keep?”

  Edward looked toward the hooded man. “Excellent we’re told. A real help. Invaluable.”

  “Will we be on deadline?” Freya asked.

  “If we can keep up this pace, we should be able to complete the mission before the end of the conference.”

  “That’s a goal?”

  “One of them. The other’s set by the analysts in our think tank who were able to connect us with friends here.” He nodded toward the old man. “It’s a little more cosmic. But we’re on schedule to act while the planets are where they ought to be.”

  “What’s our next location?”

  Edward rose and leaned in front of Malphas for a moment, listening to quiet whispers. He nodded as the final sounds issued.

  “Unfortunately, you’ve done excellent work, but he says there’s a key piece with markings that’s not documented anywhere. It has to be rooted out from among those who were part of what the scholars call the Old Conspiracy among themselves. We owe them a great deal, but they are not allies. For a while, you’re going to be seeking people and not artifacts. People can be less cooperative than stones, but we’re hopeful some of the warnings that have been issued are enough to get the ants moving a bit.”

  “Warnings?”

  “Little messages planted here or there. Deaths of inconsequential individuals known to our subjects.”

  Freya swallowed. So that was why some people had had to die.

  Edward titled his head toward the assistant. She slipped a slim laptop from a case at her side and walked over to display it, holding her hand under it like a waiter holding a tray. It offered a photo of a pleasant-looking gray-haired man with a mild smile. One hand had slipped casually into the pants pocket of his tweed suit, and he seemed to be chatting to someone outside the frame.

  “This is Geoffrey Bullfinch. Watch out for him,” Edward said.

  “He gets in your way, Mr. Jaager can do what he needs to,” William added, perhaps a little to Edward’s dismay if the expression was accurate.

  Freya gave a nod. “Also noted.”

  “The gentleman you met on the way in is our old friend Mike,” William said.

  Edward folded his arms. “We’re in a bit of a debate about whether he should pay Mr. Bullfinch a visit. Perhaps we’ll flip a coin.”

  Seventeen

  Bullfinch positioned the computer tablet’s case so that the screen stood almost upright on his hotel table. Then he touched its face to bring up the encrypted login. After typing in his code and a few flickers on screen, he peered into the face of an African-American man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, almost a crew cut.

  Reed Christopher Hayes, often called Crease, looked tired. He was several time zones away, making it even later—or was that earlier?—than here. Bullfinch suspected his investigation wasn’t the only thing keeping Hayes awake.

  Crease commanded the network of O.C.L.T. operatives, meaning at any given time he was privy to crisis situations around the globe. The pressure of that had to build up.

  “Hello, Geoffrey,” he said, managing a bit of a jovial tone in spite of it all. “Let’s see…”

  He gazed somewhere outside of the range of the webcam he was looking into and reached for something.

  “Ogham-like symbols, venom and stones, right?”

  “That about sums up our case,” Bullfinch said, leaning back in his chair and sipping the drink he’d poured into a short hotel glass.

  “We’ve had the word out on the network, and there are reports of some chatter about Ogham. Vague at the moment, but we’ve been looking back, trying to connect what you’re seeing with other activity, especially given Professor Burke’s tweet to you, or whatever he sent.”

  Hayes took in a slow breath and looked down at the information he’d reached for.

  “In the early aughts some buzz went out about Ogham-like symbols and artifacts. We sent you a few details. We have a little more. The web wasn’t what it is today, so we’re talking about documents on paper and even old-style computer bulletin boards that were still breathing. You know Mack. He’s on a couple of jobs for us, but he’s even been scanning old gopher files and Telnet back channels. He hasn’t sent me a full report. He thinks there’s been a bit of effort to keep some things below radar, so he’s on that.”

  Mack would be Wendell Macklemore, and if there was information to be ferreted out, he’d be the one to do it. Bullfinch had observed Mack’s technical acumen first hand as a dire situation devel
oped, so he had full confidence in his abilities. Perhaps it was even more than confidence. Mack’s skills were beyond comprehension.

  “The big question is how much of it’s real and how much of it’s hoopla,” Bullfinch said. “We could be looking at a series of local murders by fanatics, which could be bad enough. What concerns me is that the belief has foundation, that they’re onto something powerful that could wreak havoc in ways we’re all too familiar with.”

  “If you keep scratching at the layers, you’ll know soon…”

  A burst of Italian from the hallway cut off the remainder of Crease’s remark.

  “Sorry,” Bullfinch said. “You’ll have to repeat that.”

  Bullfinch headed toward his door, leaning into the peep hole. A man in a tight black jacket moved along the hallway outside, seeming to look for a room number.

  “I was just saying something will become apparent soon,” Crease said.

  The man outside staggered a bit, muttering something else in Italian, almost under his breath.

  “You’re right,” Bullfinch said. “The pieces will…”

  Without warning, the man left the center of the hallway, hurling himself toward Bullfinch’s door. The professor had just enough time to react, pulling back from the peep hole before the door crashed inward.

  He found time also for an exclamation and a partial spin before the man followed the door inward, the mass just missing the chance to slam into Bullfinch full force and pin him to the floor. A glancing clip came from the door’s edge, but he was already on the move. His tablet flew from his hand and bounced between bed and wall with Crease’s words continuing to flow from it, though they’d turned to inquiries about what the hell was going on.

  Bullfinch let that go unanswered and concentrated on his cane leaning against a table by the window. Meanwhile, the intruder barked what sounded like warnings in Italian. Congelare. Freeze? Did Italians use “freeze” like Americans did? He seemed to want Bullfinch to stop.