He leaves Snuff & Julie to “tend the farm” while He fires up His truck & makes a quick run up-country to Des Moines to secure copies of the two larger-circulation papers. A roundtrip of almost 200 miles. But well worth the effort.
A quick scan of the printed letters & ciphers discloses to His eye that this is no casual copycat. Most likely, the engineer of the massacre. Whoever created them is a longtime student of His writings. Too many keynotes, too deep an appreciation for His leit motifs, to account for chance. It could be a fan. It could be the Feds. It could be that goddamn Hawkes, but He doubts it. Subtleties of language are not Frank’s forte. Although, of course, it could likely be an associate or someone in his employ. The contents should serve to disclose much…
He quickly notes the variance in the otherwise-fixed number of exclamation marks. Hence, He begins by decoding the message to the Tribune by adding & subtracting letters from the misspelled words from His stockpile of 39 letters.
In a matter of half an hour, Maldoror has translated the following:
EMTCATNOCEVITAREPMICAIDOZNIATTIRBEGROEG
which He scans quickly, recognizing as a simple mirror image, & reverses:
GEORGE BRITTAIN ZODIAC IMPERATIVE CONTACT ME
The second section contains 15 Zodiacal symbols, including His own Earth/Spirit Cross-&-Circle, & the all of the first nine signs except Taurus & Virgo, &, most notable, Libra is used three times. They are scattered singly among the alphabetic characters. He uses a transposition code as follows:
Aries Taurus Gemini Cancer Leo Virgo Libra Scorpio Sagittarius
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
The letter to the Sun-Times translates, after reversal:
713 (the Houston area code)
a seven-digit telephone number
OCT 17 734 PM NAME YOUR PRICE MERMAIDS INN IS OURS
The “George Brittain” leadoff is perhaps the first thing to truly startle the Medic of Mutilations in close to 30 years. It absolutely eliminates the crank factor. He has His immediate suspicions. The date & time & the reference to “MERMAID’S INN” are the other tipoffs. October is the 10th month. The cipher-sender could have used the symbol for Capricorn instead. But he used His “Zodiac abbreviation,” “OCT.” & He knows or knew one man positively obsessed by the numbers “7734.” & 7734 had been the codename listing he had used in the logbook where he had listed the empirical formula for their shared project, “BLUE DEVIL, LI DI 1.”
The Prof. had voyaged beyond the boundaries of Death in his quest for the forbidden secrets it might yield. & this mortal had traveled with Him on three occasions to Tijuana to visit the infamous snuff parlor in its Psychedelic Era incarnation south of the border. The only living person except Snuff to do so…
However, Brittain had been forced to abandon His formal studies in the wake of His discovered indiscretion with the corpse of a 16-year-old rape-murder victim. & He lost track of His associate except for an infrequent contact triggered by some chance meeting at a shared haunt or the like. Except for the time he had crashed with Him & Snuff & The Wicked Witch for a brief spell in the Haight, dodging some unnamed peril too heavy to handle.
But The Prof was into pain in a far different form than He fancied. Brittain twisted the biblical axiom, steadfastly believing it is “better to give than to receive…” The Dominatrix of the Damned spent many interesting hours exploring the limitless wastes of The Prof’s utterly unbelievable Pain Threshold. Although He tried, Brittain found it a useless expenditure of energy tormenting anyone as willing as His cadaverous companion. Though it led to a Master/Slave relationship where The Prof worshipped Him as the True Incarnation of Evil. Had it not been that He found three the perfect number for His initiated elite Satanic SPIKE team, He might have included this fellow perverse genius into His Zodiacal endeavors.
Maldoror has little doubt what the basic content of the remaining cipher will reveal. He only wishes to confirm it quickly. His plans are to drive all the way to Chicago tomorrow morning, purchase a copy of the Daily Calumet, & return to His hideout by evening, a roundtrip of just over 600 miles. It will prove a foray into hostile territory under full alert. A high-risk venture that is ill-suited to His normal super-cautious strategy. Sending Snuff & Julie is not a valid option. His quandry is solved. Due to media cooperation (read: “sweet deal”), the 10 o’clock network news warns: “stay tuned for a special broadcast profiling the recent tragedy, including the actual contents of all three letters, in the hopes some alert viewer may be able to crack the mysterious ciphers, just as a pair of amateur cryptologists did back in the original Zodiac case. Just as we sought the public’s help in solving the ‘Zodiac’ copycat slayings that terrorized New York City during 1990.”
“Get the goddamn VCR ready. Julie. Grab a fresh tape. This is one we shall wish to save…” Mal orders.
Later, He replays the tape, holding the image of the third letter on STOP PICTURE. Forty-one letters. Two Sagittarius symbols. One Virgo. & a Zodiac cross-&-circle. In less than 20 minutes, He has His answer: BLUE DEVIL LI DI 9 OAK 69 SNUFF & JUSTINE SIGNED THE PROF The only slight surprise is Prof’s dual use of His symbol as the zero & ampersand. The triggered association causes Him to crack a rare grin…
[ 279 ]
“Lucy, I think you’ll have to agree it was a stroke of pure genius!” Even through the tinted glass of the penthouse windows, the glaring mid-October Houston sun glints on the left lens of his cobalt mirrorshades, forming a blazing blue star of reflected light, as Prof. Punk kicks back in the black leather office chair, his bare feet propped up on the desktop. There is a muted, sucking, squelching sound, as he shifts slightly in his seat, the pleasant glow of sweat causing his bare butt to stick to the buttersoft leather.
A spiked cockring clamps tightly around the slender jut of his erect but pitifully boyish penis. The twin dominatrices entertain him as he talks on the phone, taking turns whipping his bloody genitals with the thorny stem of a single, blue-dyed rose & raking an emery board across the head of his raw-scraped phallus. He has no fear of speaking candidly to his employer in their presence—both wear their Hear-No-See-No-Speak-No-Evil sensory deprivation masks of zippered black leather.
“I trust you’ve been watching the Windy City newsfront, Lucy…? I’ve just personally taken care of our problem with Hawkes. Thanks for lending me The Trouble Shooter—”
He pauses momentarily.
“Yeah. He’s got the connections, plenty of them, both with the Mafia Mob & inside CPD. The two dead narcs were both K.A.s. Among other things, they were helping merch slip out of Property, shaking down the independents, you know the score… In fact, the narcs were both on Erebos’ payroll, He set them up with a straight break-in scam, & the faked roust re the LSD & crank, then whacked them to keep it on the QT. Anyway, Lucy, the shooter wasn’t even the one with the Vette. He stashed the costume & the H&K the girl gave Hawkes in a big tackle box he’d dug down in the dirt beforehand about a hundred yards to the southwest, & kicked a little soil over it. They ‘discovered’ it before sundown the first day. Hawkes’ prints are all over the gun barrel. & the shooter wore a CPD-issue set of cycle leathers under the Zodiac rig. Didn’t bother asking where he got them. Had a copcycle-clone & reg crash helmet waiting in the weeds. He kicked it over. Headed out. & blended right in with the general chaos. I got the idea from the text of the same Zodiac letter as the threat— ‘The S.F. police could have caught me last night if they had searched the park properly instead of holding road races with their motorcicles seeing who could make the most noise…’ They had a van waiting just over in Palos Hills. Old scam. But it worked on the heat. Drove the Vette up a ramp into the back. Abracadabra. Instant disappearing act.”
Another pause.
“I used one of those simple camera lucida setups—the kind they used to sell mail order through all the comic books—to trace the examples of Zodiac’s handprinting from the ZODIAC book by Robert Graysmith onto the sheets of paper I used for my Zodiac letters. In fact, the rig was a gift
from Brittain Himself, way back when we worked on the development of Li Di 1 back at UCLA. He had a whole shitload of the things He’d picked up from some warehouse jobber or whatever that was liquidating all his stock. I had warned Him He should type all His letters or His handwriting would give Him away. He gave a rare smile, & told me, ‘No. Quite to the contrary. It will prove Me innocent. My original sources, for all intents & purposes, are totally untraceable. If they ever try to match My handwriting to it, they shall be forced to use their own evidence to secure My release.’
“The number of exclamation marks following the misspelled word, “DISASSTROUS,’ in the postscript will alert George as to which of the three ciphers comes first. The Tribune’s has one, the Sun-Times’ two, & the Calumet’s three…
“No chance He’ll miss it, Lucy. His Pattern Recognition score on the college entrance tests was at the top of the ninth stanine, & He said He’d deliberately ‘sluffed’ a few just so He wouldn’t draw undue attention… As for our little couriers, be expecting three new guests down at The Inn. BellaDonald should enjoy meating them…”
[ 280 ]
Miraculous.
Considering the media exposure. Considering the “high profile” of the gunmetal silver Vette, even with the switch-off to the Hoosier plates. Considering Hawkes’ distinctive build & rugged facial features, frequently photographed. The authorities have no need for composite drawings. Frank’s face has appeared from coast to coast, along with the warning “CONSIDER ARMED & EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.” But he has eluded capture. Evading notice, perhaps, due to his sheer boldness, making no attempt to disguise himself. No dyed hair, no wig, false beard or mustache. No switch to unaccustomed clothes in which he feels self-conscious. Invisible due to his very visibility.
Or, perhaps, it is something more…
Perhaps it is his two very recent, very near escapes from the looming grasp of Death Angel’s Shadow—from the yawning portal-mouth of Death the Mystical Doorway—not near-death experiences in the purist-sense, but near-death experiences nonetheless…
Perhaps it is the loss of his familiar, dayside/christian sigil—the golden medal of St. Michael—a sigil depicting the legendary archangel in the act of defeating Lucifer, leader of the Fallen Angels, during their rebellion against god at the beginning of the creation, as the judeo-christian mythos has it…
Perhaps it is the crippling of his sole/soul companion, his forced separation from the protection of Elijah…
Perhaps the prolonged, mind-altering sleep deprivation Hawkes has suffered…
Perhaps it is Hawkes’ atavistic initiation rite of Dionysian sexual exploration, the vision quest journey deep into the darkest darkside of his psyche…
Perhaps it is all these elements, interacting together in synergistic combination…
Perhaps Hawkes’ old persona has been shed like a serpent’s skin, & he has transformed—he has been reborn upon the Shaman’s Path…
Perhaps he is invisible to his enemies simply because Hawkes WILLS it…
He leaves Gary, Indiana in broad daylight.
Takes I-65 South to Indianapolis, then on to Louisville, Kentucky. Catches I-64, & cuts across the southern tip of Illinois, heading west to St. Louis. There, he must opt between I-70, & a course almost due-west, or I-44, that angles southwestward. He flips a dime.
I-70, heads.
I-44, tails.
Tails wins.
Just before Rolla, he hits the backroads, wending his way west.
The weather is unseasonably warm. A stretch of Indian Summer. Hawkes rents a scenic cabin overlooking the Lake of the Ozarks. Digs in. & tries to relax, put the pieces of the puzzle together, & enjoy the blazing autumn foliage for which the region is so famous…
[ 281 ]
October 17, 7:34 p.m.
In the distance, the graceful columns of the Learning Resources Center conjure uplifting associations reminding onlookers of the strings of some colossal celestial harp. But it is the dramatic, 200-foot-tall, spindle-shaped tower with its disk-like glassed observation deck housing the campus radio station & a battery of dial-for-counseling phones that dominates the Tulsa landscape. Atop its summit, the eternal Flame of Knowledge burns symbolically.
Surely enough to send the awed sheep-souls of the evangelical faithful into raptures of pious bliss & to stir the embers of self-righteousness into the raging fires of fanatical devotion to their Okie godhead of Bible-thumping, mom-&-apple-pie euphoria & jingoistic “shed-his-grace-on-thee…” in visions of red, white & BLUE…
DEEP. DEMONIC. BLUE.
&. DOG. SHIT. HIS. RACE. ON. THEE.
ANTS. MORALISTIC. HUMAN. ANTS.
AWAITING. THEE. EXTERMINATOR.
Thoughts flashing through the mind of Maldoror as He drops His coins into the payphone’s slot. IT. COULD. BE. THIRTY. COINS. OF. JUDAS’. SILVER… A. GAMBIT. BEGGING. FOR. THAT. FAREWELL. KISS. UPON. THEE. CHEEK… HENCE. THIS. SIDESTEP. OF. THIRTEEN-HUNDRED+ MILES. INTO. ANAL. ROBERTS’. ANTHILL. U. …LET. THE. BLUE. PIGS. TRACE. THIS. HELP. HOTLINE. TO. HELL… Piquing His twisted sense of humor.
Like watching TV Saturday night in Room 16 of the cheapjack motel just west of the Kansas border, the 18-wheelers thundering past down Interstate 160, through the outskirts of Walsh, Colorado, as Hawkes’ face is broadcast continent-wide on America’s Most Wanted…
The last of the coins clinks into the slot.
The throbbing buzz of a live line.
George Brittain’s leather-gloved left hand lifts the receiver to His ear. Gloved right fingertip punches in the 713 area code & the remaining seven digits. His Sixth Sense, the Tantric Vamacara link of the wakened Third Eye of the Predator’s pineal gland & the seething snakepit of the reptilian limbic backbrain, signals the Professor’s ploy is not a trap. He has long studied the left-hand path of Laya Yoga’s kundalini, the secret magicks of Kali, “The Earringed One,” the devouring, destructive black Earth Mother, She to whom the goats are sacrificed in diurnal ritual, She of the Garland of Skulls & the Girdle of Severed Hands, She of the Sword & the Shield & the Severed Hand & the Hangman’s Noose… She who is the Hindu equivalent of the Aztec Coatlicue, Serpent Skirt, with Her necklace of amputated hands & hearts & single human skull… & He has studied the secrets of the pineal body, photoreceptor, endocrine secretor of melatonin influencer of sex glands, rich in noradrenaline, serotonin & histamine. He who has studied the secrets of the limbic brain, its role in fear, rage, aggression, & sexual behavior… He is the Ultimate Adept of the Occult, synthesizing His Power from the diverging paths of comparative philosophy…
Yet He leaves nothing to chance.
Here in Tulsa, He has led any electronic eavesdroppers far afield of His own network of hideaways. A trace, here, will yield a sumtotal ZERO. His roundabout trip has served to scout out a potential point of rendezvous. He senses this is what The Prof seeks. For whatever reason. Though He deduces it is the Blue Devil Serum in its alluded ninth refinement… His gloved finger punches the tenth & final digit of the phonecode. He hears it ring.
“Yeah. Prof here. Is that You…?” The answering voice asks.
“This is the Zodiac speaking. I am back with you.” Brittain says. “Give Me the details of how this came to be.”
Prof fills Him in on the development of Li Di 9, & how they framed His nemesis, Hawkes, with the narc-slayings & school bus massacre. “We’ve always held Hawkes within the palm of our hand. Now we choose to crush him…”
Maldoror recognizes the familiar clipped pattern of His former partner’s speech, as Prof recognizes Brittain’s characteristic monotone.
& Prof, as expected, seeks a meeting. “Name Your price—”
“Make it Monday, the twenty-third. The first day of Scorpio. The Element is Water. The Sign is Fixed. The Mysterious Seeker. Make it eight a.m. Scorpio is the Eighth Sign. & Eight. Is the Number of Initiation. There is a deserted farm near Satanta, Kansas—”
“Satan-ta.” Prof emphasizes the semantic connection he instantly perceives,
confirming the place-name.
“Yes. Near the joining of the dry riverbeds of the ‘Wild River,’ the Cimmaron, & its North Fork.
“The price is high. A pig or a preacher. Twelve little stars. You understand?: twelve angels. & thirteen hounds. How you accomplish this is your problem…”
“Z? I have no problem meeting those requirements. But I have one request. I will need some help to handle what You ask. Will You allow me three assistants—?”
“Agreed.”
[ 282 ]
Frank tries to ride out the nightmare.
Wanted as a cop killer. Implicated as a copycat, at the very least, in the most heinous crimes claimed by the mysterious “Zodiac” serial slayer, his quarry for over 30 years. Hoping against the odds that some break in the case will clear his name.
The weather is quixotic. First hot for several days. Then a sudden cold snap, frost spider-webbing the windowpanes with white. Then yet another bout of Indian Summer.
The nights are uniformly endless, restless, sleepless, despite the Noctecs swallowed down with Jack Daniels, Mickey Finn nightcaps that should fell an elephant…
But don’t.
The dead whisper through the walls until the morning hours, when Frank finally grabs a few fitful winks of Z-time, tossing & turning, caught up in his own very special Hell of Zodiac & Devil’s Fucking Valley, waking with the sheets & pillow soaked with icy feversweat, the mattress soggy with the flood of perspiration.
Duet for the Devil Page 46