Carl wanted to document the occult implications of these things—not because he was some kind of radical or conspiracy theorist, but because he loved his country and wanted to know what went on behind the red curtain. Ultimately he wanted America to retain the love and respect it had generated during its founding, and not let it fall prey to the temptations of empire. However, writing about such topics would also reveal them.
The man in my dream said revealing them was permissible.
His dream…
He sighed, closing his laptop. He felt too drunk to continue. He missed Lorraine and wanted to fall asleep in her arms, but instead there was only the cold, lonely apartment. He didn’t even make it to the bed, but stumbled over to the sofa, lit up a Camel, and laid on his back. He fell asleep smoking, his arms on his chest.
***
Denis phoned at nine o’clock in the morning.
“Me again!” he said, with far too much enthusiasm for the hour. “Happy to hear from me?”
Carl rolled over on the sofa. His forehead thrummed and his mouth tasted like Swiss cheese. “Happy wouldn’t be the right word.”
“Come on. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I just had an adventure with a wine bottle last night,” Carl said. Coughing, he forced himself to sit up. His apartment was like a cavern of stale cigarette smoke.
Denis sucked in a breath. “Ooh… one of those, eh? Well, I could feel bad for being the guy who yanked you out of retirement bliss. But why feel bad? Besides, I need your help. And this is good for you.”
The hangover crawled to the back of Carl’s skull, and he winced. Denis’s words were drilling into his ears. “Don’t you sleep?”
“No. But I did drink way too much Starbucks coffee.”
Carl laughed. He could remember mornings like that. “At least we are both functioning at the same mental level,” he said. He groped the coffee table for his Camels but found an empty pack. He crushed it and struggled to his feet, knee bones popping.
“Do you wanna know about the case?” Denis said.
“Of course I do.”
In the kitchen he took a moment to drink two glasses of water; then he opened a cupboard, fished down a new carton of Camels, and lit up. The smoke tasted like freedom.
“Detective Gawain and I were at Adam Francis’s house in Brooklyn for nearly five hours,” Denis said.
“Find anything?”
“I’ll say. Freaky shit, man. You’re going to love it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guy was a weirdo intellectual—like you. Hundreds of books, and… other things. Things I can only call ‘occult’, though I have no idea what that word really means.”
Carl grew excited. “Books are the love of my life, sans Lorraine and law enforcement.”
Speaking her name made him momentarily sad. He’d done it without thinking, and now he had to recover without letting on.
“Books make you horny,” Denis said.
That did it. He was recovered.
“We going to check this out or what?” he said. “You’re killing me.”
“Patience, little birdy. Jennifer is still finishing up. Let’s grab some breakfast. I’m starved. By the time we’re done, she and her helpers should be finished. Then the place will be ours. What do you say?”
“I say yea.”
“Great, I’ll drive. Meet me out front in five minutes.”
“What? Where are you?”
“I’m already downstairs.”
***
Adam Francis had lived in a part of Brooklyn to which Carl seldom ventured. A little borough in the southeastern portion known as Canarsie. A pier—Canarsie Pier—bordered the borough at the southernmost end, where various bog-like swamps of Jamaica Bay gave the impression of the American South, rather than New York City.
Not the best neighborhood by any means; but not the worst either. Usual mix of Jewish, Irish, Italian, Mexican, and lots of African and Caribbean expatriates. Adam’s apartment was off the pier in some buildings that looked like two-story townhouses.
Denis parked his unmarked Crown Vic along the curb and asked, “Come out here much?”
Carl shook his head. He’d been lost in thought since breakfast, going over the events of the night. The food had assuaged his hangover, but he still didn’t feel good about overindulging. Nor about the dream… or the letter… or any of that.
“No,” he said. “Not for a while. I think I worked a case or two out here back in the day. But I don’t recall the details.”
“69th Precinct patrols this area. I believe Rob Benison heads up the division. You ever meet Rob?”
“I vaguely remember a Rob Benison,” Carl said. They opened the doors and got out. The air smelled faintly of salt and sea breeze. “To be honest, my past is something of a blur. Just an endless stream of uniforms and faces—New York’s Finest and everything in-between. I can remember my graduation ceremony in Madison Square Garden, but after that things get patchy.”
Two NYPD cruisers flanked the driveway leading to the apartment building. The visibar lights were silent and dark. Carl stood looking at the surface of Jamaica Bay, watching the wheeling seagulls as he finished his cigarette. He flicked the butt into the gutter and followed Denis up the stone path.
Yellow police tape cordoned off a section of the lawn, the front stoop, and the doorway. An officer was sitting by the entrance in a metal folding chair, looking at his cell phone. When he saw Carl and Denis, he jumped to his feet.
“Morning, Thompson,” Denis said.
The officer nodded curtly. “Morning. Is something up?”
“Nope, nothing. Just coming to do another run-through with specialist Mr. Sanford here.” He jerked a finger at Carl. “Detective Gawain still on scene?”
“She left about twenty minutes ago. Officer Burkes was here, but he went for a quick walk around the pier. Said his hip was bothering him.”
“Hmm. Did Gawain leave you guys on?”
“Just for the day. She felt it necessary.”
Denis nodded, ducked under the yellow tape, and held it so Carl could pass too. Then he started into the building. “Well, carry on,” he told Thompson, somewhat humorously.
The officer began to take his seat, but glanced up at Carl passing by. The look in his eyes, a dull glow of admiration, informed Carl that the officer recognized him.
They entered a foyer with a staircase and a closed door set into the wall behind it. A brass letter A was affixed to the wood. A hint of spice in the air, perhaps a form of incense. Carl thought for a moment and realized it smelled like a Catholic church.
“Up or down?” he said.
Denis, mute, started up the stairs.
Carl followed. “Up it is. Hey, so how am I a specialist?”
“I had to say something. That was more of a joke, actually. Thompson knew it was you.”
“Yeah.” He sniffed at the air. “Got any ideas about this smell? Frankincense?”
“You nailed it. Seems Francis burned it on a regular basis. Little resin balls of it scattered around the apartment, and there’s, like, this small iron dish, concave, in which he burned the stuff.”
“Frankincense is biblical. It’s referred to as the consecrated incense in the Hebrew Bible, and it’s been used in Catholic ritual for centuries. According to the Gospel of Matthew 2:11, gold, frankincense, and myrrh were among the gifts given to Jesus by the Magi.”
“Only you would know that,” Denis said. He opened the door to the B apartment, using a key with an identification tag on it. They went inside.
“Didn’t you go to Catholic services as a child?”
“I’m from Salt Lake City,” Denis said. “That makes me a Mormon.”
“Funny, you don’t look like a Mormon. I thought you were from Philadelphia?”
“I just haven’t found my wives yet. Jewish people sometimes refer to themselves as ‘a king without a crown.’ Well, I’m a Mormon without his magic underwear.�
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“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
Denis glanced at him in the hallway. “Can we please focus? I’m hardly able to function as it is.”
Carl smiled. This kind of goofy banter was typical behavior for them. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.
His nostrils tickled as the incense grew twice as strong. The interior air seemed permeated with the stuff. Dark, too, even with the curtains that had been pulled open. The place felt more like a cell than a living domicile.
The hallway spilled into a living room; beyond that, a dining table flanked by two French windows, which looked out on Jamaica Bay. Paintings and other kinds of art covered nearly every wall surface. Carl recognized several reproductions: two Van Goghs, a Dali and a Rembrandt—even a wonderful replica of the Bacchus by Caravaggio.
Then there were the books—hundreds of them—stacked everywhere: leaning, tottering, dust-powdered leather bindings, most very old and lacking their jackets. Bookshelves surrounded the room, each overflowing with volumes, with piles of loose paper sticking out.
Denis flipped a light switch. “Jennifer and I placed what immediately stood out to us here,” he said, walking to the dining table.
Carl followed him. “There’s no TV; only books.”
“No TV in the bedroom, either. A house without TV. Isn’t that crazy?”
“I don’t own a TV.”
“See what I mean? Crazy.”
Carl joined the younger detective by the array of items on the dining table. “Show me,” he said.
Denis picked up several large books. “We didn’t go through everything. But we went through a lot—skimming books, mostly. Francis had foreknowledge of the painting. The Hortus, um, uh… Horton Hears a Who...”
“Hortus Palatinus by Jacques Fouquières.”
“Yeah, that one. These books mention it. He’s marked them up, too. Weird stuff. We held places with yellow tabs.”
Carl took the books, opening the large leather cover of the first. It was titled The Pictorial History of Art and it began with early cave pictographs, then quickly moved on to frescos and oil paintings. Carl turned to the place marked by the yellow tab.
“Wow,” he said.
The page showed the Jacques Fouquières painting of the Hortus Palatinus, followed by a paragraph or two of description, mentioning specifically Princess Elizabeth who had grown up in the castle, as well as the architect of the Palace Gardens, Salomon de Caus.
In the margin, someone—presumably Adam Francis—had written several passages and drawn a few symbols, one of which Carl recognized as the square and compasses of the Freemasons. Some of the writing was illegible, but he spoke aloud what he could decipher.
“ ‘By the grace of Wisdom, and Ia, does the Spirit of the Old One penetrate into this Low World... To herald the Angel slumbering beneath the Palace Gardens... While the Old One slumbers in the Seas of Atlantis... One shall awaken the Other... the Other shall awaken the Masses...’ ”
Carl shivered, remembering his dream-vision of the previous night. He flipped through the rest of the books. Each marked page showed a picture of Castle Heidelberg or the Hortus Palatinus, with Adam Francis’s scribblings in the margins. Pentagrams, circles, stars, compasses, crosses (the Rosicrucian Cross, specifically, with the image of the rose placed at the cross-section of the lines), and even one dodecahedron.
When he finished, he said, “So what else?”
Denis cleared his throat. “We found this book on his pillow.” He handed Carl a much smaller leather bound book entitled The Rosicrucian Enlightenment, authored by Francis A. Yates.
“I own this,” Carl said.
“You would.”
“It’s a scholarly text, more historical based than occult. Erudite, though. Dr. Yates is a fine writer. I’ve read all her books.” He flipped through the pages and noticed a number of them were dog-eared. “Did you and Detective Gawain do this?”
“Nope. That’s all his doing. Jennifer and I thumbed around in that one, but neither of us got very far. That’s why you’re here, remember?”
“The Rosicrucian Enlightenment is the first place I encountered Heidelberg.” He stopped at a page near the beginning, scrawled with shorthand notes and occult symbols. “Listen to this. ‘Heidelberg castle was to become a center whence strange and exciting influences were to emanate in the years following... Prince Henry had been deeply interested in Renaissance garden design, in mechanical fountains which could play music tunes, in speaking statues and other devices of this kind, the taste for which had been stimulated by the recovery of ancient texts describing such marvels by Hero of Alexandria and his school.’ ”
“Talking statues?” Denis said.
Carl nodded, closing the book. “There were also automated bronze birds that sang and rotated as one passed by, and oversized mirrors that reflected back not one’s face, but another’s.”
“Sounds like Disneyland.”
“Sort of was, in its day.”
“Here’s the frankincense bowl,” Denis said, moving on to the other items on the table. It was a concave iron slate, ashy and grimed with resin. “And various crystals and weird talisman things.” He indicated a pile of stones, jewels, and stitched-together fabrics reminiscent of Native American beadwork. “We found this stuff scattered on his shelves and dresser.”
Carl meditated on the items. Crystals? Seems a little too New Agey for an occultist.
But as he ran his hands over them he experienced a slight vibration. The air above the table glittered momentarily.
I should lay off the vino. “Can I smoke in here?”
Denis frowned. “I guess. Make sure you ash into the sink or something.”
Carl lit up and went to the French windows, opening them. “How about I ash outside?” He stopped; carvings on the wood windowsill had caught his attention. “Hey, come take a look at this.”
“What is it?” Denis asked, joining him.
Carl pointed out two dodecahedrons, one at each corner of the sill, then to the pair of deeply grooved arrow notches, each tip pointing toward Jamaica Bay. Two letters were carved between the pair of arrows, an uppercase I and a lowercase a—to form the word Ia.
“What’s Ia?” Denis said. “And what’s this guy’s obsession with geometry?”
“These symbols are used by occultists as representations and diagrams; images that house important information—information too dangerous for the general public. Ia is probably a magical incantation meant to produce a force field around the apartment.”
Denis grunted, then went back to the table. Carl smoked, ashed, and ran his fingers over the deep grooves in the windowsill. The smoke burned his lungs but it felt good in light of the previous night’s tomfoolery. He wanted them to burn. He felt like punishing himself for the way he’d acted.
He picked up a small glass monkey dish from the counter, opting to use it as an ashtray, and went to Denis. He briefly thought of mentioning the letter he’d received from the Golden Rose Croix Order of Oriphiel, but refrained. He still wasn’t sure about that. If he decided to tell Denis, it would have to be when the time was right.
“Those are interesting,” he said instead, pointing to the last group of objects on the table.
“They’re from the bedroom,” Denis said. He picked up a large gold candelabrum, passing it before Carl’s eyes, then a bronze goblet that reminded him of the Holy Grail. A hand mirror, what looked like the hood of a robe, and finally a long, curved, serpentine dagger with a jewel-encrusted handle.
Carl took up the latter. It felt like grabbing a dragon’s hide. “Holy smokes.”
“Identical to the dagger we found at the museum,” Denis said.
Carl raised an eyebrow. “Really? The murder weapon?”
Denis nodded. “It don’t matter how amazing and wonderful the curator says this guy was, he was obviously into some kinky shit. I mean, look at all this stuff. He must’ve been in a cult or something.”
&
nbsp; “He very well might have been.” Carl replaced the dagger on the table. “I’d like to see the bedroom.”
“This way.”
Denis led him through the living room and into an adjacent hallway. The frankincense aroma continued to increase, but Carl batted it down with his fuming Camel. He ashed into the little monkey dish he carried.
They emerged into the bedroom, approximately the size of the living room. Carl stamped out his cigarette, placing the monkey dish on an oak dresser. The bed was a king-size, with a wrought-iron frame and headboard, the bedspread pulled tightly across the mattress. Here were another pair of bookcases stocked to the brim, several mirrors, lamps, and more rocks and crystals lying about, some as large as basketballs.
Carl perused the book titles, recognizing a lot of them. The editions were fantastic, all in great shape and coveted rarities. Philosophy, science, and astronomy—Plato, Newton, and Kepler—esoteric Christianity, occultism, Rosicrucianism—Valentinus, Crowley, Andreae. Titles by Goethe, Bacon, Dee, Aquinas, Saint Augustine, and Mani. An intellectual orgy spanned the shelves.
“I knew you’d dig this stuff,” Denis remarked. “You should see the look on your face.”
Carl chuckled. “Have you ever read this one? The New Atlantis and Other Writings by Francis Bacon.”
“Why would I have read that?”
“It’s about a New World in which all governmental power is exercised by a secret society called The Temple of Solomon. This privileged elite study science and art in secret while deciding the fate of the people. Bacon was a professed Rosicrucian.”
“You mean those guys from the castle?”
Carl nodded. But as he attempted to pull the book down from the shelf, it caught and only came out halfway, lodging diagonally. A clicking noise sounded within the wall, and suddenly the entire bookcase lurched forward.
Dreaming In Darkness Page 4