“Why was it marked?”
He answered my question with another.
“How old do you think that skull is, Mr. Parker?”
I drew closer to the desk. The skull looked battered and slightly yellowed.
“I don’t know. Decades, maybe?”
Neddo shook his head.
“Months, perhaps even weeks. It has been artificially aged, run through dirt and sand then soaked in a preparation of urine. You can probably smell it on your fingers.”
I decided not to check.
“Where did it come from?”
He shrugged. “It looks Caucasian, probably male. There are no obvious signs of injury, but that means little. It could have come from a mortuary, I suppose, or a hospital, except that, as you seem to have surmised from the additions to my storeroom, human remains are hard to acquire in this country. Most of them, apart from the ones donated to medical science, have to be purchased from elsewhere. Eastern Europe was a good source, for a time, but it is now more difficult to obtain unregistered cadavers in such countries. China, as you’ve gathered, is less particular, but there are problems with the provenance of such remains, and they are expensive to obtain. There are few other options, apart from the obvious.”
“Such as supplying your own.”
“Yes.”
“Killing.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what that mark means?”
“I believe so.”
I asked if he had a camera, and he produced a dusty Kodak instant from a drawer in his desk. I took about five photographs of the outside of the skull, and three or four of its interior, adjusting the distance each time in the hope that the mark would come out clearly in at least one of them. In the end, I got two good images, once the photographs had developed on the desk before us.
“Have you ever met any of these ‘Believers’?” I said.
Neddo squirmed in his seat. “I meet a great many distinctive people in the course of my business. One might go so far as to say that some of them are sinister, even actively unpleasant. So, yes, I have met Believers.”
“How do you know?”
Neddo pointed at the sleeve of his gown, about an inch above his wrist.
“They bear the grapnel mark here.”
“A tattoo?”
“No,” said Neddo. “They burn it into their flesh.”
“Did you get any names?”
“No.”
“Don’t they have names?”
Neddo looked positively ill.
“Oh, they all have names, the worst of them anyway.”
His words seemed familiar to me. I tried to remember where I had heard them before.
They all have names.
But Neddo had already moved on.
“Others have asked about them, though, in the relatively recent past. I was visited by an agent of the FBI, perhaps a year ago. He wanted to know if I’d received any suspicious or unusual orders relating to arcana, particularly bones or bone sculpture, or ornate vellum. I told him that all such orders were unusual, and then he threatened me in much the same way that you have just done. A raid upon my premises by government agents would have been both inconvenient and embarrassing to me, and potentially ruinous if it led to criminal charges. I told him what I told you. He was unsatisfied, but I remain in business.”
“Do you remember the agent’s name?”
“Bosworth. Philip Bosworth. To be honest, had he not shown me his identification, I would have taken him for an accountant, or a clerk in a law office. He looked a little fragile for an FBI man. Nevertheless, the range of his knowledge was most impressive. He returned to clarify some details on another occasion, and I confess I enjoyed the process of mutual discovery that ensued.”
Once again, I was aware of an undertone to Neddo’s words, an almost sexual pleasure in the exploration of such subjects and material. The “process of mutual discovery”? I just hoped that Bosworth had bought him dinner first, and that the encounters with Neddo had brought him more satisfaction than my own. Neddo was as slippery as an eel in a bucket of Vaseline, and every useful word that he spoke came wrapped in layers of obfuscation. It was clear that he knew more than he was telling, but he would answer only a direct question, and the replies came unadorned with any additional information.
“Tell me about the statue,” I said.
Neddo’s hands began to tremble again.
“An interesting construction. I should like more time to study it.”
“You want me to leave it here? I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Neddo shrugged and sighed. “No matter. It is worthless, a copy of something far more ancient.”
“Go on.”
“It is a version of a larger bone sculpture, reputedly eight or nine feet in height. The original has been lost for a very long time, although it was created in Sedlec in the fifteenth century, crafted from bones contained in its ossuary.”
“You said that the bone candleholders were also replicas of originals from Sedlec. It sounds like someone has a fixation.”
“Sedlec is an unusual place, and the original bone statue is an unusual piece, assuming it exists at all and is not simply a myth. Since no one has ever seen it, its precise nature is open to speculation, but most interested parties are in agreement on its appearance. The statue you have brought with you is probably as accurate a representation as I have ever seen. I have examined only sketches and illustrations before, and a great deal of effort has gone into this piece. I should like to meet whoever is responsible for its construction.”
“So would I,” I said. “What was the purpose of the original? Why was it made?”
“Versions upon versions,” said Neddo. “Your sculpture is a miniature of another, also made in bone. That larger bone statue, though, is itself a representation, although the model for its construction is made of silver, and thus extremely valuable. Like this one, it is a depiction of a metamorphosis. It is known as the Black Angel.”
“A metamorphosis of what kind?”
“A transformation from man to angel, or man to demon to be more accurate, which brings us to the point upon which opinions differ. Clearly, the Black Angel would be a considerable boon to any private collection simply for its intrinsic value, but that is not why it has been so avidly sought. There are those who believe that the silver original is, in effect, a kind of prison, that it is not a depiction of a being transforming, but the thing itself; that a monk named Erdric confronted Immael, a fallen angel in human form, at Sedlec, and that in the course of the conflict between them Immael fell into a vat of molten silver just as his true form was in the process of being revealed. Silver is supposedly the bane of such beings, and Immael was unable to free himself from it once he had become immersed. Erdric ordered that the silver be slowly cooled, and the residue poured from the vat. What remained was the Black Angel: Immael’s form, shrouded in silver. The monks hid it, unable to destroy what lay within but fearful of allowing the statue to fall into the hands of those who might wish to free the thing inside, or use it to draw evil men to themselves. Since then, it has remained hidden, having been moved from Sedlec shortly before the monastery’s destruction in the fifteenth century. Its whereabouts were concealed in a series of coded references contained in a map. The map was then torn into fragments, and dispersed to Cistercian monasteries throughout Europe.
“Since then, myth, speculation, superstition, and perhaps even a grain of truth have all combined to create an object that has become increasingly fascinating over the space of half a millennium. The bone version of the statue was created almost contemporaneously, although why I cannot say. It was, perhaps, merely a way of reminding the community of Sedlec of what had occurred, and of the reality of evil in this world. It went missing at the same time as the silver statue, presumably to save it from the depredations of war, particularly after Sedlec was attacked and destroyed.”
“The Believers, are they among those searching for
it?”
“Yes, more than any others.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“And I don’t even consider myself to be an expert.”
“Then who is?”
“There is an auction house in Boston, the House of Stern, run by a woman named Claudia Stern. She specializes in the sale of arcana, and has a particular knowledge of the Black Angel and the myths associated with it.”
“And why is that?”
“Because she claims to be in possession of one of the map fragments, and is due to auction it next week. The object is controversial. It is believed to have been uncovered by a treasure seeker named Mordant, who found it beneath a flagstone in Sedlec some weeks ago. Mordant died in the church, apparently while trying to flee with the fragment.
“Or, more precisely, I suspect, while trying to flee from someone.”
What if?
The words had haunted Mordant for so long. He was cleverer than many of his breed, and warier too. He was constantly seeking the greater glory, the finer prize, disdaining even to trouble himself with the search for meaner rewards. Laws meant little to him: laws were for the living, and Mordant dealt exclusively with the dead. To this end, he had spent many years contemplating the mystery of Sedlec, poring again and again over myths of dark places, and of what might once have been concealed within them. As was, so yet might be.
What if?
Now he was within the ossuary itself, its alarm system overridden using a pair of clips and a length of wire, the air impossibly cold as he descended the stairs into the heart of the construct. He was surrounded by bones, by the partial remains of thousands of human beings, but this did not trouble him as much as it might have disturbed a more sensitive soul. Mordant was not a superstitious man, yet even he had to admit to a nagging sense of transgression in this place. Curiously, it was the sight of his exhalations made visible that made him uneasy, as though a presence were drawing his very life force from him, draining him slowly, breath by breath.
What if?
He walked between pyramids of skulls, beneath great traceries of vertebrae and garlands of fibulae, until he came to the small altar. He dropped a black canvas bag onto the floor. It jangled weightily when it landed. He withdrew a heavy pointed hammer from within, and set to work on the edges of a stone built into the floor, the shadow of the crucifix above falling upon him as moonlight filtered through the window behind.
What if?
He broke through the mortar, and saw that a few more taps would expose a gap large enough to accommodate the crowbar. So lost was he is in his work that he did not hear the approach from behind, and it was not until a faint musty smell came to his nostrils that he paused and turned, still on his knees. He looked up, and he was no longer alone.
What if?
Mordant raised himself slightly, almost apologetically, as though to indicate that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his presence in this place, and for the desecration he was committing, but as soon as he felt certain of his leverage he pushed himself forward and struck out with the flat of the hammer. He missed his target, but managed to clear himself a space through which he could see the steps. Hands grasped for him, but he was slick and fast and determined to escape. His blows were connecting now. He was almost clear. He reached the steps and ascended, his sight fixed on the door.
Mordant registered the presence to his right just a second too late. It emerged from the shadows, striking a blow that caught Mordant on the Adam’s apple and pushed him back to the very edge of the stairway. For a moment, he teetered on the brink of the top step, his arms swaying in an effort to steady himself, before he fell backward, tumbling head over heels.
What if ?
And Mordant’s neck broke on the last step.
It was always cold in the ossuary at Sedlec, which was why the old woman had wrapped herself up warm. A ring of keys dangled from her right hand as she followed the path to Santini-Aichel’s door. The care of this place had been in her family for generations, and its upkeep was supported by the books and cards sold from a small table by the door, and by the admission charge levied on those visitors who made the effort to come there. Now, as she approached, she saw that the door was ajar. There was a smear of blood upon the first of the stones within. Her hand rose to her mouth, and she halted at the periphery. Such a thing as this had never been known before: the ossuary was a sacred place, and had been left untouched for centuries.
She entered slowly, fearful of what she was about to see. A man’s body lay splayed before the altar, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. One of the stones beneath the crucifix had been entirely removed, and something gleamed dully in the early morning light. The shards of one of the beautiful skull candleholders congregated at the dead man’s feet. Curiously, her first concern was not for him, but for the damage that had been caused to the ossuary. How could someone do this? Did they not realize that these were once people like them, or that there was a beauty to what had been created from their remains? She lifted a piece of the skull from the floor, rubbing it gently between her fingers, before her attention was distracted by another new addition to the ossuary.
She reached for the small silver box by the dead man’s hand. The box was unlocked. Carefully, she raised the lid. There was vellum contained within, the rolled document apparently uncorrupted. She touched it with her fingers. It felt smooth, almost slick. She lifted it out and began to unroll it. In the corner was a coat of arms: it depicted a battle-ax against the backdrop of an open book. She did not recognize it. She saw symbols, and architectural drawings, then horns, and part of an inhuman face contorted in agony. The drawing was immensely detailed, although it ended at the neck, but the old woman wanted to see no more than she had been given to witness. It was already too horrific for her eyes. She replaced the vellum in the box and rushed to get help, barely noticing that the ossuary was slightly warmer than it should have been, and that the heat was coming from the stones beneath her feet.
And in the darkness far to the west, two eyes opened suddenly in an opulent room, twin fires ignited in the night. And at the heart of one pupil, a white mote flickered with the memory of the Divine.
Neddo was almost finished.
“Sometime between the discovery of the body and its removal following the arrival of the police, the fragment, which was contained in a silver box, disappeared,” he said. “Now, a similar fragment has been offered for sale through Claudia Stern. There’s no way of telling if it is the Sedlec fragment, but the Cistercian order has made clear its objections to the sale. Nevertheless, it appears to be going ahead. There will be a great deal of interest, although the auction itself will be a very private affair. Collectors of such material tend to be, um, reclusive and somewhat secretive. Their fascinations can be open to misunderstanding.”
I looked at the ephemera gathered in Neddo’s dingy store: human remains reduced to the status of ornaments. I felt an overpowering urge to be gone from this place.
“I may have more questions for you,” I said.
I took a business card from my wallet and laid it on the desk. Neddo glanced at it, but didn’t pick it up.
“I’m always here,” he replied. “Naturally, I’m curious to see where your inquiries lead you. Feel free to contact me, day or night.”
He smiled thinly.
“In fact, night is probably best.”
Garcia watched the building, growing increasingly uneasy as one hour rolled by, then another. He had tried to follow the man who was of such concern to Brightwell, but he was not yet familiar with the streets of this huge city, and had lost him within minutes. He believed that the man would return to his friends, and they were now Garcia’s most pressing concern as they were still in his apartment. He had expected the police to come, but they had not. At first, it gave him hope, but now he was not so sure. They must have seen what was there. Perhaps they had even watched some of the tapes in his collection. What kind of men did not call the
police in such a situation?
Garcia wanted his possessions back, and one in particular. It was important to him, but it was also the only item that could connect him, and the others, to the girl. Without it, the trail would be almost impossible to find.
A car pulled up, and the man got out and rang the bell to Garcia’s building. Garcia was relieved to see that he had the large wooden box in his hands. He only hoped that whatever he had removed from the apartment was still contained within it.
Minutes later, the door opened and the Negro and his smaller companion left. Now there was only one man in the apartment, alone.
Garcia uncloaked himself from the shadows and moved toward the doorway.
I made one last search of the rooms. Louis and Angel had been through the apartment again, but I wanted to be sure that nothing had been missed. When I was done with the occupied areas, I went to the white-tiled room that Louis had discovered. Its purpose was clear. While it had been thoroughly cleaned, I wondered how much work had gone in to removing evidence from the pipes. They were probably new, since the room was a recent addition. If someone had bled into the drain, traces might remain.
Tins of paint, and old paintbrushes, their bristles now entirely hardened, stood on a trestle table by the far wall, alongside a pile of old paint-spattered sheets. I pulled at the pile, raising a little cloud of red dust. I examined the residue, then swept the sheets from the table. There was more brick dust on the wood, and on the floor below. I tested the wall with my hand, and felt brick scrape against brick. I looked more closely and saw the brickwork was not quite even around the edges of a section perhaps eighteen inches in height. Using my fingers, I gripped the exposed edge and began moving it from left to right, shifting it until I was able to pull it forward entirely. It fell to the table, still in one piece, leaving a hole exposed. I could make out a shape inside. I knelt down and shined the flashlight upon it.
The Charlie Parker Collection 5-8: The Black Angel, The Unquiet, The Reapers, The Lovers Page 20