They sat down on the bench, Denis in the middle.
“I want to thank you for coming here, Carl,” she said. Her voice sounded pleasant, but there was a flickering in it. Carl could tell she was struggling, that the case was catching up with her. He felt a pang of pity. He had no doubt she’d become—was becoming—a successful detective; his feeling was more about the toll that success would eventually take on her.
“My pleasure.”
“He’s got nothing better to do,” Denis joked.
“I beg to differ.” She held up the thumb-drive, then pulled a manila folder from her large Gucci shoulder bag. She took a copy of Carl’s note from the folder and held it up, flicking her eyes to it. “Someone thinks what you’re doing is important.”
Carl stared at the note as if it’d come from another planet. It seemed strange, like it didn’t belong to him. He briefly recalled the day it arrived on his doorstep, and shook his head. What had really happened there?
“When I started the book project—” he began.
Jennifer broke in. “What’s the title?”
“American History and the Occult.”
“Ah, one man’s love of history,” Denis said wistfully.
Jennifer ignored him. “You were saying?”
“I started my book project as a hobby, a way for me to utilize my retirement time—and to satisfy my intellectual curiosity. Also, it was a way for me to resurrect my never-realized teaching career. I’ve always been interested in the occult, but the more research I did into the foundation of the United States, the realer it all became. Gradually I moved from hobbyist into being quite serious.”
“Wow, even hungover he speaks good,” Denis said.
“Speaks well, you asshole, and you’re wrong. I’m not hungover. Not today, anyway.”
Jennifer laughed. “You guys are too much. Carl, tell me a little about your book, its contents and so forth. When we spoke at the museum, I only took a passing interest, largely based on my own personal entertainment biases. Now I’d like to hear about this because it relates directly to the Francis case.”
“Man, you’re both so well-spoken,” Denis said.
“I promise to throw in a curse word or two,” Carl said, “so that you’ll feel more at home, Denis.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, what the fucking book is about is…”
They all laughed.
“That’s funny. But I’m being serious,” Jennifer added.
Carl nodded. He went on to recount, as best he could, the entire manuscript for her, chapter by chapter, giving her brief summaries. She listened intently and even took notes. Denis listened as well, peppering the monologue with jokes.
When he’d finished, Jennifer shook her head. “Quite an earful, Carl.”
They looked out across the surface of the reservoir to the line of buildings on the far side. The temperature began to creep up. Carl could feel sweat soaking his lower back.
Jennifer said, “Your suicide theory is interesting. But I’m not convinced.”
“Your murder assertion is interesting. But I’m not totally convinced.”
“Why not?”
“Did you even look at the diagrams in Mr. Francis’s secret books? They’re a representation of the crime scene.”
“You’re right, they are, but a lot of those pamphlets were sent out to every single member of the Order with which Adam Francis was affiliated. What makes you so sure some other member didn’t string up Francis?”
Carl blinked at her. “Because the ritual requires a personal act of self-sacrifice, and not a human sacrifice. I made that very clear in my notes.”
Jennifer looked embarrassed. “I must’ve skimmed over that… I’ve been extremely busy. But it doesn’t change the fact that apparently dozens, if not hundreds, of people knew about the ritual. After all, the Heidelberg painting had to get overseas somehow. That suggests an accomplice.”
“Try tens of thousands of members worldwide,” Carl said. “I’ve been reading about the Freemasons, Rosicrucians, Shriners, Theosophists, and various other exclusive societies for years. It’s fascinating. They’re a huge part of the global infrastructure and even our daily lives. A lot of their members hold high profile jobs in government and business. People just don’t know about it.”
“That makes sense,” Jennifer said, “because I have been under increasing pressure from federal agents about this case. For some reason, the news and developments concerning the death of Mr. Francis and this investigation continues to travel up the chain of command. Now the customs snafu, with respect to the Heidelberg painting, would account for some of the attention. But not all of it. The magnifying glass is coming down on us, and I honestly have no idea why.”
In that instant Carl glimpsed the real Jennifer Gawain, crouching under a slowly ascending tower of cards that was bound to topple at any moment. He felt sorry for the girl. She was in over her head. But what the hell, so was he.
“The Philosophic Empire and the Invisible Government of the World—that’s the umbrella term for these fraternities and organizations,” Carl said. “They are working towards a very specific goal: the establishment of an ‘Enlightened Society.’ And whether you want to believe or not, these groups deal in magic, both black and white.
“The ritual Mr. Francis performed at the museum was an instance of such magic. Now he may have had help preparing the ritual—backing from the Order, in other words—but what he did, he did of his own free will—which was the whole point. It was like a seed that was sown into the fabric of the world, and now the Order and those connected to it are doing their best to cultivate and raise their sapling.
“It would only make sense that anyone threatening to get in their way—for instance, your investigation team and myself—would have to be curtailed and kept under control. They’ll let you appear to investigate the death of Mr. Francis, but they’ll make sure you never get anywhere near the truth.”
“Do you know how crazy that sounds?” Jennifer said.
Carl shrugged. “It’s all there in Mr. Francis’s books to be corroborated.”
“What’s so bad about an enlightened society?” Denis said. “Doesn’t sound evil. Sounds better than Bronx and Yonkers.”
“It isn’t necessarily evil. As with anything, there are evil people working within its ranks, just as there are good people. Depends on how you spin it. Some people want anarchy; are they evil? The Invisible Government of the World opposes anarchy and wants to establish Order: a Divine Order situated within a Brand New World. But in order to create, they must first destroy.”
“Destroy what?” Jennifer said.
Carl smirked. “I hate to ruin your day off, but pretty much everything you see around you. Wait, let me clarify this… Christopher Columbus, remember him? He was a part of the Invisible Government. He came to the New World with a specific agenda planned and prepared by them. They don’t talk of this in the modern-day history classrooms, but knowledge about the New World and its inhabitants already existed. They sent Columbus here to obliterate the cultures present—so they could establish the foundation of their ‘Enlightened, or Free Society’—which is exactly what they did—and it’s about to happen again.”
The two detectives stared at him.
“It’s like this,” he continued. “The society built here—the United States of America—has reached its pinnacle. I’m unclear as to whether it failed or if it has just run its course, but their plan is now to wipe the country clean and start over again—but at a much higher level, with all our modern scientific knowledge and intellectual know-how in place. They will incorporate the rest of the world when it is reestablished—one unified foundation of psychic power and enlightened denizens, the best of the best. Out with the old, in with the new, ever heard of that expression?”
“I have to ask how you know all this,” Jennifer said, looking pained, almost constipated.
Carl started to answer, then stopped himself.
&
nbsp; How the hell do I know all this?
Then he remembered his dreams (visions?) and said only, “I’ve read thousands of books in my lifetime. It’s all there in the libraries, waiting to be dug up.”
He smiled to himself. He knew in reality he wasn’t actually fibbing. It was all there, but nobody paid attention.
Jennifer released a deep meditative sigh. Wind tugged at her hair. “Jesus,” she said. Then she glanced at Denis. “Do you believe this?”
“Well…” His mouth straightened as he got serious. “Before this case? Not really. Though when Carl was training me all those years ago he talked about stuff kind of like this, and some of it opened my eyes.
“But I have to say that working the Francis case and digging deeper into these organizations and fraternities—then seeing Francis’s home and that altar of his—that yes, I do believe what Carl’s saying is true. It ain’t nice or pretty to think about, but it’s all there hidden in plain sight, as I’ve heard him say.”
Jennifer frowned and was quiet for a while. Finally she said, “Well, I don’t believe it.”
Her words seemed to strike the air. They sounded forced. She had something of a defiant look about her now. None of it was any mystery to Carl, why she had denied his words flatly and why she had to force herself to do so. It was fear. She was afraid that what he’d said might be true.
“Here’s what I believe,” she said. “I believe these groups do exist, only they’re a bunch of overzealous nuts, one step away from fanaticism. They sit around in their fraternities reading their books and philosophizing, dominating the business world and political arena, while in Somalia guerrilla warfare breaks out. If you ask me whether or not political corruption exists, I’m in full agreement that it does. But if you’re telling me the corrupted officials are devil worshiping wizards casting magical spells on the entire world… at that junction, we part ways.”
Carl leaned back against the bench and laughed. “That’s one way to put it,” he said. He wasn’t surprised. Peering beneath the veil took courage, and courage required experience, and Jennifer was just a young woman, still green in some respects.
“I furthermore believe,” she continued, “that someone in the Order had a bone to pick with Mr. Francis. Perhaps he owed money or slept with a head wizard’s wife. Point is, someone wanted to see him killed, and that person went to great lengths to make it happen. The ritual presentation was intended to send a message to the rest of the group, almost like a calling card, like the mafia guys used to do. Can you seriously sit there and tell me Mr. Francis managed to string himself from the ceiling and slit his own throat? That doesn’t seem feasible.”
She paused, staring at both of them. “The abnormal print on the handle belongs to Adam Francis’s killer. That’s my opinion.”
Carl jerked forward. “Abnormal print?”
“Fingerprint results came back from the lab,” Denis said.
“Does the print belong to Francis?”
“It does not,” Jennifer said, shaking her head. She took out another manila folder to hand Carl a computer printout with the black and white image of the fingerprint as well as the notes from the lab technicians.
Carl studied it. He whistled softly. “Let me hear what this means to you.”
“It means the killer altered his prints,” Jennifer said. “He obviously wore gloves—”
“Adam Francis wore gloves,” Denis interjected.
Jennifer nodded, but continued without skipping a beat, “—but the killer may have taken off his gloves for a moment, perhaps to touch Adam Francis’s dead body, or maybe there was a struggle with the dagger. I’d say the killer took necessary precautions, in case he had to use his bare hands. There are ways to do this. Smearing SuperGlue across the tips, deliberately scarring them, sandpaper, burning them. The killer implemented one of these methods, and that’s the cause of the abnormal image.”
“I see your point,” Carl said. “I’ve worked cases where the perp brutalized or even burned his fingertips, but in such cases the prints were rejected by the lab. In the notes here, it doesn’t say the print was rejected—in other words, it’s a viable print—but it doesn’t match any in their database. They even sent it to the FBI, though it doesn’t appear to match any in their database either. On top of that, it says the print is abnormal, that it’s not comprised of the normal ridges and grooves, but rather geometric shapes, inverted triangles, and the like. Now that is just plain weird. Your lab technicians claim never to have seen anything like it.”
“I read all that, Carl. But think about this rationally. A person with fingerprints composed of triangles, hexagons, and circles? Nothing like that exists in reality. Besides, what other option is there? The killer mutilated his prints. So I ask you again: How realistic is it to think that Mr. Francis possessed the psychotic aplomb to slice his own throat? Honestly, have you dug around for other cases like that?”
Carl shook his head. “I know that if a person is crazy enough and driven enough, they can do anything. Rolf Adler taught me that.”
There was silence. They all knew the Adler case had taken Carl into early retirement, but it wasn’t something anyone talked about. Carl smiled at this. That was the reason he’d brought it up: to derail the train of conversation and produce a pause for clarity and reevaluation. Apparently, it had worked.
He sighed. “Really all I’m hearing is that the print isn’t going to help us.”
Denis and Jennifer both nodded.
“Then where does that leave us?”
“It leaves us with the orders and fraternities,” Jennifer said, “the esoteric organizations, the Masons, the Rosicrucians, all the rest. I am convinced the killer is there. But secrecy is their main function, so finding anything out will be difficult. All we can do now is locate official members and interview them, hoping someone will admit to knowing Mr. Francis. I’ve got my guys looking into these organizations. Other than that…” She held up her hands in defeat.
“Doesn’t sound like much,” Carl said.
“It’s all we’ve got,” she replied flatly.
With that attitude it is. He was starting to feel very unhappy about the way this meeting was turning out. He lit a fresh cigarette as consolation. His eyes dimmed as the smoke curled before them.
“That brings us to the point of our meeting,” Jennifer said. She looked at Carl and tried to hold his gaze.
He knew what was coming. But he asked the question anyway. “Which is?”
“I’m going to ask you to leave off the case for good.”
I knew it.
He glanced at Denis, but the young detective turned away.
“I know Denis invited you on board,” Jennifer continued. “I actually agree with his initial decision. You’re an invaluable storehouse of information when it comes to this stuff, and I am very appreciative for everything you’ve told us.”
She squinted. “All the same, I can’t have you probing around, not after the letter of warning you received. I’m going to give them what they want, and hopefully it will clear the way for us to do some deeper investigating. To be honest, I’m not convinced you aren’t in some way affiliated with these groups—how else could you know so much? In that sense, I don’t want Denis sharing sensitive information with you.”
“Oh, come on. What if I’m right?” he said, standing. “What if Adam Francis committed ritual suicide?”
“Then I promise you can say ‘I told you so’ when the time comes.” Her smile was sardonic.
A thought struck him. Something that had nothing to do with what they were talking about and nothing to do with Detective Gawain’s killing blow—and everything to do with the Adam Francis case and how they were going to reach the next phase. He had it, the obvious link, and he smiled.
He looked at Denis. “I guess that does it, then.”
Denis managed to raise his head and meet Carl’s gaze. “Listen, man, I’m sorry. Jennifer is running the show. I just do as I’m told.”
They both nodded, relieved.
“Be sure and tell us when it’s published,” Jennifer said.
“If I can get it published,” Carl corrected. He smoked, turning to leave, enjoying the smell of smoke. He turned back.
“You know, not far from here—on the other side of the park, snuggled in amongst some trees—there’s a freestanding Egyptian obelisk covered in hieroglyphs. Ever gone and seen it? It’s called Cleopatra’s Needle. It’s exactly like the Washington Monument, only smaller.”
Denis brightened. “Yeah! I’ve seen it actually. Weird.”
Jennifer wrinkled her nose. “Funny, I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s there,” Carl said. “There’s another in London, and one in Paris. Freemasons brought them over after Alexander the Great re-consecrated them to St. Michael. Denis, maybe you could take Jennifer over to see it? Interesting, to say the least. Makes you wonder why a seventy foot Egyptian symbol would be erected in the middle of New York City.”
Then he shrugged. “One can only speculate.”
With that, he flicked his cigarette and walked away.
***
The man in the business suit grins, spreading his arms wide. “Welcome to Castle Heidelberg,” he says.
Carl can hardly breathe. He marvels at the high stone pillars, towers, and archways. Softly swaying trees lean their branches over the stone walls, opening up toward the cloud-streaked sky.
He and the angel man—Oriphiel—are outside in a grassy courtyard, with statues and urns and marble benches. Bronze birds, bronze frogs, and bronze foxes squat around them. Together, the two men sit on one of the benches.
“It’s beautiful,” Carl says. “More beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.”
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