“You heard it yourself,” O’Donnell said. “Half of it’s made up. Don’t they just want to get their hashtags in order to honor their late madam or something?”
“The story was inspired by a few real findings and the accumulated knowledge of archaeologists and anthropologists. These people are trying to assemble all the pieces while keeping them out of our hands. They wanted to kill me to inhibit us from figuring everything out.”
He stuffed a hand into the accordion file holding the information they’d put together and pulled out the small black serpent figurine.
“Patrick had to battle a snake god. Other Irish tales speak of a serpent so large the world rested on its back and of demons that could rain fire down on the world. I think that’s what our friends want to awaken. They want to find it and they want to be the only ones who hold the knowledge about it. Letting it out, or closing the door on it.”
Twenty-Three
Keon Bello stared for a long time at the image of slash marks on coarse paper that had been relayed to him via email. Reportedly it had been received by his old friend Nathan Finch a day before his death.
He walked over to the desk not far from the entryway of this hovel he’d been staying in. He’d been moving from cheap hotel to cheap hotel for some time, once ripples had reached him that the old circles seemed active again.
He enlarged the image for a better look. Someone had taken special care with the calligraphy. It was formed with careful precision, and of course he recognized it.
He felt a new stab of fear.
If they knew Nathan, they knew who he was.
What he had done had come back, had boomeranged. His throat tightened a bit.
The character was from a lifetime ago. The thought experiment had been fresh then, still in the discussion phase.
He experienced a quick flashback. The hours at old stone ruins, sectioning off areas of dirt and documenting findings layer by layer, then, later, the pub table, the old friends and the markings on napkins and drawn on the tabletop amid the moisture from water rings left by beer steins.
He dragged a hand down his face, as if the gesture might wipe away anxiety. Why had he thought it could be forgotten or that all might remain undetected? A fire burned that could not be put out.
He’d been so young then, excited to be in college, in a new country, and to be part of the circle of brilliant friends he’d met here. Excited to wander Dublin’s wonderful, noisy, bustling streets, encouraged to make the most of education by his father who’d come from poverty in Ghana.
Did this message mean he’d been somehow marked now? He’d read the papers. Seen the names of people dead, strangers and familiar names. People who’d hoisted beers with him once upon a time. Friends who’d drifted in different directions, buoyed away by time but impossible to forget. He’d wept for them when he learned of their untimely deaths.
Poor Professor Burke who’d just been an advisor had been the latest. Burke had been a bit shocked by what they’d done, but he’d always remained their friend and mentor.
With Nathan’s death then the professor’s, they hadn’t bothered to make it look like an accident, which made Keon think there was more to the reports he’d read of the others. He tucked the paper into a pocket and rubbed his face again, both hands, palm heels pressing in on his forehead as if that would facilitate deeper thinking.
Pack a bag, find somewhere to land, wait. He could call the pharma company where he worked, buy himself a few days off and lie low. Then he could do what he’d been thinking about, contact the others. Who was left? He ticked off a mental list.
Kaity?
Hayden?
Liam? Where was Liam these days?
Would they want to hear from him? He had to at least reach out. Perhaps it was time to tell what they had done. Perhaps it was time to find them again, talk the situation over.
He stuffed the mailing into his pocket and hurried into his bedroom to grab an overnight bag, even though he suspected he might need to be gone more than a few nights.
Twenty-Four
Bullfinch had ridden with New York cabbies who were less aggressive than O’Donnell. He pressed his palms against the dash above the glove compartment to brace himself as she wove her car through Dublin traffic, making the most of every sliver of space to keep them moving forward, even when traffic slowed.
In the moments when she lost out on open spaces to other drivers, she held back on the gas but released strings of expletives, mixing English and Gaelic oaths.
They’d opted to look for the person on Redmond’s list who was closest geographically while Rees coordinated efforts to find those further afield including Burke’s niece, Vita, who attended boarding school in London. The sooner Mack and O.C.L.T. ferreted out a few more threads in the oddly woven conspiracy, the sooner they might find a pattern that would anticipate future moves by the disciples.
“Do I have a turn coming up?” O’Donnell asked.
“Three blocks and on the left.”
He drew in a breath and held it as she swerved around a lorry and in front of a compact, getting into the proper lane as the turn approached. Tires screeched—theirs and the driver’s behind them—as she reached the intersection and jerked the wheel for the turn.
“You seem to have a bit of disregard for caution,” Bullfinch said.
“My mam died when I was a girl. My father did everything by the book as a cop. Bullet got past his tactical vest in spite of it. I tend to just get on with the task at hand. Things fall where they will.”
“You’ve faced tragedy,” Bullfinch said. “Have you ever been told…”
“That I have a fatalistic outlook and pessimistic perspective? It’s come up. It’s on a chart of mine somewhere.”
“I’ve found even when something seems inevitable, there are often ways to turn the tide on the worst.”
“Good for you, professor. We should all be so sunny, though I recall you being a little grim a few minutes ago. I do my best to change things, but I can’t help but expect the worst and deal with it. We find this lady and the others on the list, maybe we can be hopeful. We’ll see.”
The building they sought was a four-story brown-brick with gray accents at the roofline and windows. O’Donnell wedged their vehicle in front of a pair of others, not in a parking place, but it got the car out of the flow of traffic.
They climbed out, and she led the way into the lobby.
“Thousand euros a month easy, and it’s not that grand,” she said, scanning the pale walls.
They found an elevator and thumbed Katherine White’s floor. Bullfinch felt his breath slow a bit as he stepped on. Being back in an elevator was a little disturbing.
He didn’t have much time to think about it. O’Donnell was thumbing the Close Door button to hurry things up.
Then they were on the third floor and hurrying toward No. 305. O’Donnell rested a hand on her hip where her weapon was holstered as she knocked.
There was no answer.
O’Donnell slid her weapon out of its holster, and she tried the knob, which turned readily.
No one meant to leave a door unlocked, even in a desirable building. She pushed it open and then leveled her weapon.
“Garda,” she called.
Bullfinch’s heart began to pound. This wasn’t just a flashback. There were too many chances that something was wrong.
He twisted the shaft of his cane, slid the bladed handle free, and followed O’Donnell inside as she stooped her shoulders, weapon ready.
Then, in a flurry of rustling fabric, she lunged to her left. Then came the sound of weight hitting the carpet. The weight of two bodies.
A woman had slammed into O’Donnell with such speed Bullfinch hadn’t fully registered what had happened in the split second they were in front of him.
On impact, O’Donnell’s weapon bounced from her hand, and the woman was on top of her, clawing, trying to pin her.
He tried to offer assistance, but somethin
g grabbed his coat collar and yanked him back. Half in the air, he saw a tall gaunt man, and then he was flung backward. He felt drywall give in as he crashed into it, and pictures in gold frames were jarred off hooks. He winced at the pain and let out a small gasp.
Hands grabbed his lapels, and he felt himself yanked forward. When his eyelids rose he saw the gaunt man’s face rushing toward him. Correction, he was rushing toward it. He found himself inches from two narrow slits of pupil.
Bullfinch had seen plenty of things in his time, things beyond the accepted parameters of reality. He looked into that now. The eyes were not traditionally human. They’d been shrouded by glasses before. Now, uncovered, he could see they were a dark brownish green, flecked with yellow. Reptilian.
As a rattling hiss escaped the man’s throat, Bullfinch raised both hands, delivering twin karate chops to the sides of the man’s—or whatever’s—neck.
The hands released their hold and he went spilling downward. The carpet was happily soft enough to absorb some of the impact, and he reached back, patting for his cane.
He found the shaft, not the blade, but as he pushed backward with his heels, he grabbed it and swung it in an arc that clipped the figure’s chin before he could make a move to regain his hold.
Bullfinch allowed himself just a second to check O’Donnell, and he saw her rapidly blocking her opponent’s quick blows, deflecting fists and forearms that came at her with blinding speed. Then she took a step back and lifted a foot, managing a kick that hit high on her opponent’s chest.
Holding her own.
He had to do the same.
He scrambled back, slid his hands along the cane and got a baseball bat-style grip on it. He swung, connecting near his attacker’s jaw, spinning the man’s head to one side.
He moved then, rising and bringing the cane down on the top of his attacker’s hooded head. Even with the fabric absorbing part of the blow, it landed well. Bullfinch felt the shockwaves in his palms and knew he’d made a good connection. He couldn’t say it stunned his opponent, but it slowed him and clearly brought pain, accompanied by a hesitation.
Another blow dropped the figure to his knees.
“Ja!” the woman shouted.
She’d seen the move over O’Donnell’s shoulder.
She reacted with a round of blows more furious than she’d tried earlier, fast, hard, overwhelming. O’Donnell stepped back, raising arms and crossing them at the wrists to protect herself, and the woman seized the moment, slamming into her, knocking her to the floor, then stepping past her.
Bullfinch readied the cane for a swing in case the woman went in the direction of O’Donnell’s lost weapon, but she rushed toward her colleague. Her hands cupped the large figure’s shoulders, and she pulled him to his feet.
Bullfinch prepared a swing for both of them, but the woman launched a kick of her own. He felt her foot slam into his abdomen, finding a soft patch that drove pain up through his chest. He staggered as inky blackness sought to flood his vision. Dragging in breaths, finally finding air, he managed to place a hand against the wall.
As he steadied himself, he heard a flurry of footsteps.
A retreat.
He tried to shout for O’Donnell but couldn’t produce sound.
He heard plenty, though.
A couple of rapid blasts, deafening and echoing through the small living room. Slugs slammed into dry wall, and the intruders pushed through the doorway, unharmed.
“Professor.”
O’Donnell was at his side.
“OK,” he said. “Find the woman.”
O’Donnell’s feet sounded like a muffled bombardment as she rushed through the apartment, in and out of rooms, kicking doors.
“I think she’s back here,” O’Donnell said after several seconds. “I think she’s OK.”
“Let’s get her to safety. If they had freelancers at my hotel, they could be back quickly.”
O’Donnell led the way into the apartment’s narrow hall and tapped on a back bedroom door when they reached it.
“Miss, I’m with the Garda.”
That produced no response.
“Kick it in and let’s get out of here,” Bullfinch said.
His focus was toward the living room. He worried they’d be facing reinforcements soon.
“Miss, we need to get you out of here,” O’Donnell said, giving it one more try.
Bullfinch gestured toward the door. “Before she goes out a window.”
“We’re on the third floor.”
“She’s desperate. A female ninja and a serpent man just invaded her apartment.”
“What did you say?”
“Later.”
O’Donnell stepped back and used a stomping kick to splinter the door near the latch.
An auburn-haired woman in her late thirties wearing a black sweater and jeans had positioned herself between the bed and the wall. O’Donnell put her at around 170 centimeters, 11 or 12 stone, not a twig but not terribly formidable. She held a figurine of a dancer above her head, ready to strike with it if anyone came too close.
O’Donnell had her badge in front of her.
“We need to go,” she said.
“You being Garda means nothing.”
Gray-green eyes were opened wide. Head cocked with a look of caution.
“This gentleman is from an organization that investigates the strange and the weird. We’re partnered. If that doesn’t ease your fears I’m gonna punch you and knock you unconscious and take you into protective custody.”
A few minutes later, the woman had donned a parka with a faux fur-lined hood, stowed her cat, which had been hiding under the bathroom sink, with a neighbor, and climbed into the back seat of O’Donnell’s cruiser.
“You were part of the student group who conducted the thought experiment?” Bullfinch asked. “You helped launch the Circle.”
O’Donnell focused on getting them back into traffic, slashing back from the parking spot and producing a concert of random car horns.
“Circle?”
“Or whoever’s playing the game that’s driving these nut jobs,” O’Donnell said.
She cut off a small Ford, and an angry shout flew out its open window. American accent. Laced with expletives. Must be a rental.
“We didn’t make anything up.”
“We’ve been filled in on the little game,” O’Donnell said. “People are getting killed over it. Your friends. That’s why you had the knock at your door a few minutes ago.”
“We didn’t make anything up,” Katherine said. “We just sort of compiled it all and…packaged it.”
“No time for splitting hairs,” O’Donnell said. “We need to know what you did so we can figure out what we need to do to put a stop to it.”
“Especially if something real’s at the heart of it,” Bullfinch added.
“Real? It was an experiment, based on what we’d been studying in school and some things we found helping on a dig. Then we might have intercepted some information.”
O’Donnell zigged into a narrow space producing honks and tire screeches, back to the driving she’d been exhibiting on the way. Bullfinch ignored it and twisted in his seat. She hadn’t failed them in traffic so far. His focus on her driving wouldn’t make any difference.
“What’d you find?”
She hesitated.
“Come on, nobody’s benefiting from secrets now.”
“A few things. Some writing on a wall, the tip of a standing stone with markings. We thought what we had at first was just a few more lines of Ogham and decided to make it about psychology and anthropology, see what that, along with primitive beliefs, might do if injected into the modern world. A new bit of mystery. We decided to throw the stone in the water and see where the ripples went.”
“You hid all this from your professors?”
“For a while we were able to.”
“These markings, you think you found them all?” O’Donnell asked.
A long a
nd persistent horn blast punctuated her statement. Bullfinch had to turn around, but she’d already corrected whatever course had produced the honk before he glanced through the rear windshield.
“We felt we had an almost complete set of characters. Others were created with calculations, and we sort of slipped them out on fabricated, but realistic stones.”
“How’d you do that?” O’Donnell asked.
“We had a friend who was a sculptor. He liked the challenge. We found stone of the right type and age, and he set to work.”
“How’d you extrapolate the markings?” Bullfinch asked.
“One of our friends had been doing some research, and he’d found a guy who had some lost notebooks of this pulp writer.”
“Rudolph Rottman,” Bullfinch said, tilting his head back and wrinkling his features as if he wanted to slap himself. “I saw some of his books in Burke’s office.”
O’Donnell glanced his way.
“Eyes on the road,” he said.
She righted the car’s course. “Who’s Rudolph Rottman?”
“A pulp writer like Miss White said. He died in the Thirties, but he left behind endless stacks of notes and bestiaries for a mythology that served as underpinning for his stories. His ideas or shadows of them bubble up in all sorts of conspiracy theories.”
“That’s the name,” Kaity said.
“He wrote of secret alphabets and a grimoire his characters were always desperate to get their hands on,” Bullfinch said. “There have always been urban myths that the grimoire was based on something real or at least that in the stories the information it was purported to contain had some basis in reality.”
“We had a friend who got hold of some of his papers, and they seemed like just what we needed along with Keon’s brain.”
“This guy like, what’s his name, Lovecraft?” O’Donnell asked.
“More like Seabury Quinn as far as recognition in the mainstream,” Bullfinch said. “He didn’t sell a lot of stories but he had as many notes and papers as Tolkien, and conspiracy theorists have loved him. Based on what we’ve been seeing it’s almost like one of his stories has come to life.”
Disciples of the Serpent: A Novel of the O.C.L.T. Page 11