“But I can’t forget about the case,” he says. “Somehow it speaks to me.”
“Naturally, it does. You are helping to bring it down from the realm of Heaven to the realm of the five senses. That book you’re writing? Divine revelation. We know all about you, and we are actually giving you permission to write the book. It is our preference that you work solely on your book and not combine your labors with other events. But there is free will. And so you do as you please. But know this: there is much terror in store for you.”
Carl feels his transparent skin prickle. Terror? Did the angel mean the Old One?
Oriphiel, reading Carl’s thoughts, nods.
“There shall be a grand devastation,” the angel continues. “Behold, the reckoning of your world.”
The seas farther off and the snaky body of the Hudson begin to toss, white-tipped waves spuming into arcs of liquid, crashing together, the water turning bright purple and then bright red; then parting as though cleaved, leaving space enough for the horror from beneath to emerge.
Tentacled pillars shoot forth, soaring toward New York City, connecting with the Earth to smash, pulverize, and topple, turning whole skyscrapers into pluming clouds of smoke. The wrenching of iron beams echoes in the air. Cars, taxicabs, and city buses go flying. Even tiny dark flecks of human beings plummet from the sky. Fires roar to life and grow, only moments before the sea crashes in a monstrous wave, turning everything into a watery ruin.
Carl watches, numb with fear. How easily it all comes down, all the lofty accomplishments of Man, all the advanced thinking and technological know-how, as if everything stood only as a reflection, a wavering image on the surface of a pond.
Oriphiel places a hand on his shoulder. His touch is like molten ice. “Fear not.” His words have a merciful, calming effect on Carl’s soul. “You are far removed from the devastation taking place.” Then he chuckles. “For now, anyway…”
A shadow rises and falls along the surface of the ridge. Oriphiel points. Carl follows the angel’s finger to see a massive shape rising out of the sea. His whole body freezes.
Emerging like a mountainous upheaval, the creature which Carl saw pictured in the small wooden idol back at Adam Francis’s apartment—the Old One—appears out of the water.
The creature has an enormous ribbed and corded torso, brown-green and encrusted with barnacles, shells, and aquatic plant life. Waves break upon it and fall away as spray. Serpentine tentacles stream out from under its chin, extending toward the remnants of New York City to wreak their havoc. Its head resembles a mound of earth with furnaces for eyes, glimmering orange-green and surveying the destruction without emotion.
“Jesus Christ…” Carl whispers.
“He,” the angel replies, “the Old One is not.”
Carl drops to his knees and begins to pray.
***
Light and the smell of old books and leather greeted Carl as he awoke. He jerked his neck suddenly and a sharp bolt of pain shot down his right arm. He yelped. Blinking, he saw his body constricted in the chair, and so pulled himself aright.
The overhead lighting of the New York Public Library glared at him. He was alone. At least no one had seen him fall asleep. It could’ve marked him as a vagrant.
He rubbed his eyes, wiping his face with the tail of his shirt, and checked to make sure the Adam Francis books and his notes had not been stolen. They hadn’t.
He slowly put himself back together. The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz lay tepeed at his feet. He retrieved it, placing it back with the others.
That was some dream.
He’d had two now, and never had his dreams been so vivid. And never had he interacted consciously with someone in a dream, as he did with the Archangel Oriphiel. It boggled his mind.
He checked the time on his cell phone and saw that evening was approaching. He’d have to get going if he wanted to make it home before sundown. He started to get to his feet, but a wave of blinding white washed over him. He felt lightheaded and had to support himself on the arm of the chair.
When the effects of the headrush dissipated, he grabbed his books and started to walk. He was feeling better. But he’d gotten no more than ten feet before something caught his attention.
All breath vanished from his lungs and a viscous, clingy substance enwrapped him, binding his muscles and limbs. For a moment he couldn’t tell whether or not he was dreaming again. His two worlds—the inner and outer—had blurred together, forming a crack in reality.
He received the impression of a pale mist. Like the effects of his headrush but different: more ghostlike, and yet substantial. It filtered among the rows of silently standing bookshelves, hanging in the aisles, and pressing against the endless book spines.
Now what in the hell is this?
Carl waited in the mist, unmoving—too afraid to move. Was this a hallucination or the real thing? The question plagued his mind, yet he couldn’t produce an answer. All he knew was that it was gathering fast—and seemed to be taking over the entire world.
The library disappeared. The spectral mist enveloped everything in a gauzy atmosphere, swirling, churning, and weaving together to blot out all physical objects in a terrifying ocean of oblivion.
A shape moved forward through the mist. A shadow, a black silhouette of a humanoid figure, disproportionately near and far at the same time. It phased, glittering in and out of sight, and was then surrounded by a radiant ball of golden-white luminance.
The flesh of Carl’s lower back shivered with cold but he felt detached, and imagined he was just a pair of eyes, two balls of perception hovering behind a reality shroud: two eyes alone, two darting pupils frantically searching for the truth.
The auric figure came closer, gliding on motionless limbs. Clouds of mist parted to allow it passage, and the golden light became so bright it burned, imparting a crisp warmth into the air. Carl suddenly realized the figure was a woman.
Oh no, no, no…
When he looked again he swooned with exhilaration.
No!
For within the golden encasement, just as he remembered her, just as she had looked before she departed from his life, swam Lorraine. All his hopes and dreams and love bloomed there like a radiant flower.
But this isn’t really you.
And yet he longed to fall upon his knees—still, even after all these years—to worship, to weep, praise, and then give himself over willingly to her. “Please…” he whispered, his voice soft as silence, “take me back…”
Eventually this passed, and the vision of his ex-wife faded, smeared away like a painter ruining his canvas, recombining into something starkly different. Lorraine was gone. Icy blades of sorrow replaced her, lancing his heart.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
Had he fallen to his knees? Or was he still standing?
The female light form—not Lorraine but a glowing young goddess-like being with creamy skin and luxuriant golden hair—came within two feet of where he stood, or kneeled. Her body was thin and yet curvaceous, but altogether unsexual, almost androgynous. She swept past before him, a queen parading before guests.
He extended a quivering hand, fingers yearning to touch the fabric of her gown, and yet his purchase found nothing, his fingers phasing through flesh.
She paused, turning to him. Perfectly symmetrical face, with eyes the deepest blue, a small nose, and a thin pink mouth. A gaze neither meek nor mild, but intensely willful and powerful. Her look scared him.
In waving arcs she passed hands over him, making a kind of blessing. Once finished, she smiled, but it was a smile of resolve and valor. She turned away from him, leaving only the memory of her eyes. And as her radiant form receded into the mist, he noticed the lofty lacy wings extending from her back—like two curving blades drawn together over her head.
A void opened within him. Perhaps the chasm had always been there. Either way, he was suddenly very aware of how alone he felt. He missed Lorraine, which was stupi
d because she was gone and never coming back, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling.
The mist clouds disappeared and one by one the furniture, bookshelves, walls, and ceiling of the New York Public Library returned. Carl watched the light-filled woman glide out of sight until eventually she too disappeared.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you okay?”
Carl blinked into the face of the beady-eyed librarian who was adjusting her tiny spectacles with one wrinkled hand.
“I’m going to have to ask you to get off the floor.”
Groaning, he lifted himself up and got to his feet, embarrassed that the old woman was staring.
“Do I have to call security?” she said.
“No, I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just a medical thing.”
She blinked at him. “Okay. Well, if you’re in need of help please get yourself to a hospital. We can’t have you dying in the library.” With that, she marched away.
Carl chuckled. New Yorkers. At least some things could be counted on. He spent a moment gathering his books and then hightailed it out of the library.
He was standing on the stone steps and trying to recollect his thoughts when he saw her for real.
After everything he’d just experienced, his brain felt like putty, and he almost thought he’d lapsed back into vision.
But no. It was her.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
She had not seen him yet. She was looking at a flyer posted onto one of the Grecian pillars, frowning beneath her eyeglasses. She was as thin as he remembered her, her long skirt flapping in the wind. He could just make out new wrinkles on her face and saw that her hair had finally gone gray. She was a decade his junior and she’d maintained her brown mane even as he’d started going gray right on schedule. She looked sad somehow; fragile, too; as though on the verge of breaking.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen… Lorraine, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re just as lonely as—
But then she swung her head in his direction, quite suddenly, as if she’d heard her name spoken. His whole body tensed. She stared right at him, still frowning; it slowly dawned on her who she was looking at.
Jesus, now she sees me.
As she looked right at him everything about her features changed, and she appeared to soften. Startled recognition washed over her face, and she smiled slightly.
He smiled back, but as he raised his hand to wave another man came out of the library, stopping beside her. The man took her hand, smiling himself and speaking to her in a questioning manner. She pointed to the flyer, as though in explanation. When she looked into his face Carl recognized the same expression she’d once given him in the beginning. The man nodded, gently guiding her toward the library.
She looked over her shoulder once just before they entered, and Carl saw she was smiling back at him.
There it is, then. Simple. Lorraine and her new life. Funny, she looked so sad at first, but maybe that’s how I wanted her to look.
Wind pressed against him, and he felt like it could blow him away—almost wanted it to. He’d seen her. Christ, how many years had it even been? At least eight. And yet nothing changed from his seeing her: the sun and moon didn’t collide, the world kept right on spinning. They had become just two people passing in the bustling New York crowd.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. But to his surprise, he wasn’t upset or melancholy. In fact he felt quite spry, as if a terrible weight had been removed from him. Sure, he still missed her, but seeing her now had somehow sealed it for him, made their separation real. He thought of his book and realized that maybe, just maybe, he could go on with his life.
He shook his head, laughing and lighting a cigarette. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered in one smoke-filled breath. “Who would’ve thought…?”
He caught a cab within the next ten minutes, and before sundown he was home.
***
For the next eight days Carl remained in his apartment, thinking about the Adam Francis case, or else working on his book. He found he was able to write again. Words flowed from his fingertips. The case, he realized, had served as an inspiration for him. The manuscript would be complete in a month.
He only met Denis once during this period, and that was the morning after his experience in the New York Public Library. The young detective came by his apartment and stood in the hall, refusing to come in on account of being slammed with casework. He told Carl he had shown Detective Gawain the note from the Golden Rose Croix Order of Oriphiel, but now she was concerned about having him help with the case, worried he might arouse unwanted attention.
“She ain’t seen nothing yet,” Carl replied, handing Denis the thumb-drive containing his updates to the case file. “Wait until she gets a load of this.”
Denis looked at it then stuck it in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said briefly.
“Did Gawain see the secret alcove in Francis’s apartment?”
“She did.”
“And?”
Denis frowned. Lines marred his comely face. “Her latest theory is that somebody who’s in this Order with Adam Francis must be the killer. According to her, it’s cause for motivation. She’s got us all looking into various organizations now. We’re even conducting interviews with the local Masonic and Rosicrucian lodges—hell, even the goddamned Shriners out on Long Island.”
“Good, I’m something of an expert on that.”
“I know, Carl—and Gawain knows, too. But somebody involved with these organizations also knows, or else you wouldn’t have received that note. Jennifer wants you to lay low for a while. If they know you’re still involved, they may get suspicious and try to conceal themselves during our investigation. In their note, they asked you off the case. Jennifer wants to give them that. Make sense?”
Carl sighed, and nodded. It did make sense. But that didn’t help his nausea.
“I need those books from the alcove,” Denis said.
Carl went and got them.
“Thanks. I’ll show these, and your additions to the case file, to Jennifer. We’re waiting on the analysis results for the murder weapon.”
Murder weapon… Still denying the possibility of a suicide, eh?
“I really want your help on this,” Denis went on, “but we gotta take you off, at least for the time being. Work on your book for a week. Do the things you’d normally do—although don’t go, or call, anywhere strange. Leave that to Detective Gawain and me. Once we’ve got the results of the dagger handle print—”
“There’s a dagger handle print?”
Denis nodded. “Just one.”
“You’re going to move forward with this as a murder investigation and not as a suicide?”
“Detective Gawain is running the show.”
“What about you, Denis? Do you think it was a suicide?”
He thought long and hard, then said, “The jury’s still out for me. I’m not deciding one way or the other. But I have to do what my boss tells me to do. So do you, actually. Give us a week and do nothing. Then we’ll reconvene. Deal?”
“Deal.” Carl closed the door. What did he care? He was retired. He had his book to finish. He was an old man now.
But he was also an addict. He had gotten a sniff of the trail, like a bloodhound, and now he was hooked.
And yet he managed to go about his normal routine and he did work on his book. He didn’t dream. He smoked like a train engine, though his chest gave over to pains at times. He drank more wine than he should have, often lying on his bed half drunk and staring at the ceiling, recalling the strange woman—angel?—from the library and seeing Lorraine again.
On the ninth day, Denis called.
“Carl? Detective Gawain wants to meet.”
It was seven in the morning. Carl was sprawled across the mattress, the sunlight trying to penetrate his closed curtains. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling fan.
“Where?”
“You up to driving?�
��
He almost said yes, then remembered that his body felt like a large mortared brick, and he almost laughed. “Better if you pick me up.”
“Fine. See you in a half-hour.” Denis hung up.
He’d sounded edgy, but Carl did not blame him. He knew what this kind of work did to a person’s nerves. He was glad Denis wasn’t married because it was usually the wife who suffered most—just like Lorraine.
He showered, dressed rather nicely, threw on some cologne. He went downstairs and smoked as he waited for Denis, who pulled up to the curb several minutes later. They drove toward Central Park.
Denis managed to find a parking spot along Fifth Avenue. He fed the meter and they entered the eastern side of Central Park through a screen of foliage and wrought iron gating. The asphalt paths were crowded with early morning joggers. Sun beams spilled in among the branches; birds chirped; squirrels scampered on the grass.
They walked in silence for several minutes until the reservoir came into view. Detective Gawain was sitting in one of the benches overlooking the blue-gray water. Piles of clouds mounted overhead, reflected in the glasslike surface.
She stood as they approached. She was dressed casually in a white, low-cut blouse and a black, ankle-length skirt. “Carl, Denis,” she said, nodding to them.
Carl nodded back. “Hello, detective.”
“Call me Jennifer.”
He gestured to her outfit. “That’s an interesting police uniform, ma’am. It’s very cute.”
She smiled. “I’m taking the day off, thank you.” Her eyeglasses glittered back the sunlight, and a golden aura hovered about her curly brown hair. “Shall we?”
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