“There is nothing else like it,” Oriphiel replies. “This is the fruit of higher human thinking, in conjunction with greater spiritual intelligences. Just to be here effects a change in one’s mental attitude and emotional state. Buildings such as this are in perfect harmony with the structure of the universe. This is the result of Sacred Geometry.”
Carl takes a moment to admire the stone edifices weaving about them; his heart flutters and he feels drowsy in this sea of sighing beauty. The more he looks, the more he is drawn in. If he’s not careful, he will lose himself completely.
Oriphiel’s voice saves him from the siren’s call. “You have abandoned the Adam Francis case altogether.”
Carl grunts. “Not by choice.”
“No matter,” the angel replies, laughing. “That you’re off is what counts. The book should be your central focus. Time is ripening for it.”
“What makes you sure?”
“Aside from the fact that I’m an archangel?”
Carl pauses, feeling foolish. “There are hundreds if not thousands of books written about occult influences on society, hidden America, and the other secret societies. What makes mine any different?”
“You doubt yourself.”
“And?”
“Was it not you who encountered the Divine Sophia in the New York Public Library? You who is directly connected to the Adam Francis ritual, which opened the door for my resurrection and summoned the Old One from its dreaming slumber? Doesn’t that make you different?”
Carl is silent, remembering that day in the library when a feminine fog overcame him, when he was lulled into vision by—what—the Divine Sophia, otherwise known as Mary, Mother of God? And then he had seen Lorraine…
“Since you are no longer part of the investigation, I’ll tell you about the fingerprint,” Oriphiel says.
Carl perks up. “Did Francis disfigure his fingertips?”
The angel smiles. “I emerged,” he says, “from the mirror placed directly beneath his body. That was how I entered the physical world; the mirror functioned as a doorway for me. As I exited the museum, I stopped and touched the dagger handle. Just once.”
He raises his finger. Carl squints to inspect and thinks he sees triangles and circles scored onto the angel’s fleshy pad.
“Why?” he says.
“A message,” Oriphiel replies. “I was announcing myself to the world.”
His spectral words hang in the air as Carl begins to understand. It isn’t easy to digest. Everything will soon change. Everything will soon come to an end.
“They’ll never find a match,” Carl says.
Oriphiel laughs. “Not in their computer programs, they won’t; but if they checked through the occult documents preserved throughout history…”
“They don’t know about that. And even if they did, they’re too afraid. They can only see as much as their courage allows.”
“Then I guess they’ll be searching for a long time,” the angel says, “in which case my road to the White House is, and shall remain, free of obstacles.”
“Road to the White House? What are you talking about?”
Oriphiel’s face vanishes. A black hole swallows his eyes, nose, and mouth. Within the deep chasm a flame burns, blue and flickering. The angel roars, and the blast knocks Carl off the bench. He falls in the grass, sprawling onto his back.
The scream fills his ears until he can hear nothing else. He shuts his eyes, covers his ears, and holds his breath. If he died at that moment, it could only be a blessing.
***
Carl used Google to locate the number for the Metropolitan Museum of Art and dialed it into his cell phone. A female secretary at the museum answered. Carl explained who he was, and she told him to wait a moment. After a short duration, the curator came on the line.
“This is Paul.”
“Hi, Paul. Detective Sanford again.”
A pause. “More of this? I’ve told you people everything I know—three or four times now. Things are just getting back to normal here.”
“I promise it won’t take much of your time.”
A heavier pause, then finally: “Proceed.”
“I want to talk to you about Adam.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“The case has taken a curious turn; I think you’d be interested. We are now certain that Mr. Francis did not commit suicide.”
“Do you mean the Freemason connection? The other two detectives—the younger fellow and the woman—already filled me in. Sorry, I don’t know anything about that.”
“Not the Freemasons,” Carl said, “but rather the biggest and most secretive Rosicrucian organization in existence—the Golden Rose Croix Order of Oriphiel. Ever heard of it? Mr. Francis was a member. He received journals and members-only booklets from them. Some described, in elaborate detail, occult rituals meant to summon supernatural beings. Angels and demons—know what I mean?”
“I see.” Paul cleared his throat. “He was into a lot of unconventional spiritual topics.”
“We found a secret altar in his house,” Carl went on, “hidden behind a bookcase in his bedroom. The central piece of the altar was a giant ornate mirror, inscribed with symbols that included dodecahedrons, pyramids, and crosses with a blooming rose at the center. Inside the altar we discovered one of these members-only booklets that described a specific ritual that included a mirror, a dodecahedron, and a body strung upside down in the manner of St. Peter. Is it ringing any bells for you?”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Carl allowed a long, uncomfortable silence, relishing the anxious pause. Finally the curator replied, “Perhaps we’d better continue this in person.”
“Yes, perhaps.”
They made plans to meet that evening. Paul was vehement about selecting a private place, and he suggested Jones Beach on Long Island. Carl was cooperative, even though the beach was a ways away. When they hung up, Carl lit a cigarette and took a look around his apartments: books, papers, pizza boxes, empty wine bottles.
He smiled, opened the top drawer of his desk, and withdrew his .38. Then he went into his bedroom and found the leather shoulder holster the Bureau let him keep when he retired.
He lifted up the piece and stood before the mirror. He hadn’t cleaned it in a while, but he didn’t think that would matter. He didn’t actually plan on using it. It was just in case.
He watched his own reflection as he donned the shoulder strap, then checked to make sure the revolver was loaded. He secured the piece in place and stood looking at himself. It felt like he had just traveled back in time.
The old Carl—Detective Sanders—slowly reemerged from the depths of his unconscious. Suddenly he could see his whole history stretching out behind him, see the man he used to be, the man who came home to Lorraine every night (or sometimes didn’t come home), and the man who eventually shut her out, who fell down a well of depression and never really climbed back out again.
So sad to revisit him.
I never meant for any of this to happen. It’s not like I wanted to take the road that led me here.
His reflection stayed mute, and then he could only see the Carl now, the Carl of the present, the one graying with old age, with eye sockets that sagged, and a mouth twitching with discomfort.
But he liked wearing the .38 again. It made him feel strong, powerful, and even though that power was probably an illusion, he liked the feeling—it was exactly what he’d been missing these last few years.
He imagined Paul, the museum curator, sitting in his little office down on Fifth Avenue, and he grinned.
I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.
***
It was an hour’s drive to Jones Beach. He’d been out there hundreds of times, though not for many years. When he and Lorraine lived together on Long Island, they went almost every weekend until Carl’s career began to eclipse his personal life. Then it became every other weekend, and then once a month. Then summers. Finall
y, not at all.
He remembered those drives. Happier times. Packing up the towels and chairs, the ice chest and umbrella, lathering up in sunscreen, donning their bathing suits and setting out in the morning, with the sun rising on the horizon. Walking along the boardwalk, eating nachos.
He drove in silence now: calm, meditative. He did not drive all that often anymore, but he was not so old that he couldn’t do it. By the time he reached the beach entrance, it was evening and the sun was setting: a red, demonic disc in the sky. Bushy shrubs, white sand dunes, and the smell of salt enveloped the world. In the distance, the teeming blue waters of the Atlantic swayed. Jones Beach itself was closing, and a stream of cars exited the parking lot.
Carl saw the turnout Paul had described to him. It was a circle of flat sand hemmed in by reeds and scrub grass. Seagulls danced high above it. He saw a parked silver car with tinted windows, and pulled in beside it.
He remained in his vehicle, looking over the dunes at the breaking surf. No beachgoers here. The area was off-limits. A sudden dread sprouted within him, crashing over his soul like the waves he was observing.
I have nothing to fear. All that matters is my book. I can do this. I’m not afraid.
The affirmation helped balance him, so when he saw the door to the silver car open and the baldheaded museum curator step out, he felt about as courageous as he was ever going to feel, and went out to join him.
“Evening, Paul,” he said.
“Evening.” Paul wore a plaid shirt and corduroys, and looked somehow thinner than before. Older, too. He could be close to Carl’s age. His bald head glinted in the reddish sunrays, as did his spectacles.
“Ever been out here?” he said.
“I used to come with my ex-wife. It was a lot of fun. You?”
“When I was a kid. I lived in Brooklyn with my mother and she’d take me out here. But I never liked it. I’m afraid of water.”
“Ah.”
“I’ve never been married, either. I’m homosexual.”
Carl had suspected this, but the man’s sudden and intimate confession caught him off guard. Perhaps it was a disarming tactic. Carl managed to nod neutrally, while Paul faced him with a steely glare.
“Why did you tell me about Adam’s private life?” he asked.
“You mean the secret alcove and his Rosicrucian affiliations?”
Paul nodded. “Yes. Why tell me? Isn’t that information confidential?”
“It is. But I’m not actually employed by the NYPD anymore. And I’m not actually on the case, so I don’t really give a shit about confidentiality.”
Paul concealed his reaction with practiced aplomb. “I see. Then I ask you again: Why tell me?”
“Because you’re the only person we know of who had a relationship with Adam. The other security guards and Met employees interviewed said they knew next to nothing about him and had interacted with him only superficially.”
“So what? Adam was introverted, a recluse, and nothing like the rest of the degenerates we hire.”
“If that’s true, then doesn’t it seem strange that you would have such a close relationship with him? Were the two of you lovers?”
“Please. I’ve already told you why Adam and I got along so well. It was an intellectual connection. We enjoyed talking about art, history, and spiritual topics.”
Carl lit a cigarette, and exhaled toward the ocean. Paul took a step back to avoid the smoke. The beach looked on fire from the reddish-yellow sun. A few stars appeared; it would be dark soon.
“Mr. Francis didn’t have any friends,” Carl continued. “He did not have immediate family in New York, either. The only human relationships he had were with the Golden Rose Croix Order of Oriphiel, and with you.”
Paul shifted uncomfortably. “Yes?”
“It would be logical, then, for you to be affiliated with this Order.”
Paul gave him mute defiance.
“Am I right?”
He held out as long as he could, then slouched. “Okay, you’re right. What difference does it make? I’ll deny it to anyone else.”
“I could try and prove it.”
“I thought you said you weren’t on the case?”
Carl chuckled. “I’m not. But it’s nice to have my suspicions validated. Was that your actual connection with Adam, then? The Order? Is that what you guys talked about?”
“We talked about the affairs of the Order, sure. We talked about other things, as well.”
“Did you talk about the ritual he was preparing?”
Paul didn’t reply.
“Did you know he was going to do it in your museum? Did you know the night that he did it? Were you in on it, did you help him plan it? How about the Hortus Palatinus, did you help secure it from Germany?”
“I’ve told you enough,” Paul said.
Movement came from the shrubs. Rustling leaves, only there was no wind.
Carl turned automatically. Twilight had engulfed the beach, and through the purple light what he first took to be trees or bushes revealed themselves as shadow people.
They moved, stood, and entered the circle of flat sand.
Paul joined them.
“I see,” Carl said. This he hadn’t expected. His head was too cloudy lately, too much going on. And true, he was getting on in years. Still, the old him wouldn’t have overlooked this possibility.
His fingers twitched toward the .38 snuggled against his left flank, but he stopped them before they found their mark. He didn’t want to reveal he was armed—though they probably suspected it.
“Friends of yours?” he asked.
“Members of the Golden Rose Croix Order of Oriphiel,” Paul said.
The curator had changed, had somehow shrunken down into an imp or a minion, smaller than his pals. Either that or his companions were extraordinarily big, but it was hard to tell. Carl felt drunk, like the twilit sunset and reddish, purpling light had transported him to an alien planet.
“We knew you’d be trouble once you showed on the scene,” Paul said. Apparently he’d become their spokesperson. “We already knew of your book project and we were funneling down inspiration to you, for the Order is working to propagate such ideas, to secrete them into the world. The time has come for people to know the truth.”
“You were helping me?” Carl said.
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“Basically you started sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Not your fault. We know the Denis man pulled you onto the case. Some being works through him. But you weren’t meant to be here.”
“Why the hell not?” He flipped his cigarette away. “I was a detective once. A damn good one.”
“Precisely,” Paul said. “You’re too good. You actually believe that the stuff you’re writing about has basis in reality. Most people don’t believe or if they do they’re too busy or bogged down with suffering to care.”
“You were afraid I’d get too close,” Carl said, “that I’d get to the truth and expose you.”
Paul nodded. “It’s true the Order wants to reveal itself and its teachings at this time. But we wish to do it in accordance with natural progression. We can’t dump what we know and what’s in store for the future of humanity on people; it’ll freak them out, scare them. Then they’ll be overly suspicious and likely reject us. Therefore we must excrete it into the collective consciousness, little by little, by means such as that book you’re writing. What people consider to be their reality must be maintained for now—at least during the preparatory stages. Of course later…” Paul trailed off, waving his hand, “…there’ll be no choice in the matter.”
Carl suddenly understood how much control the Philosophic Empire exerted over events taking place on Earth. It frightened him. He’d known already, but Christ there seemed no escaping it. He shivered.
“At least I know what’s going on now,” Carl said. Heat crept up his sides. He started to sweat. “What do I do?”
“You do nothing,” Paul said. “You go back and work on your book, finish it, edit it, find a publisher. Book tour, promote, etc. Stop thinking about Adam Francis and stop worrying about the case.”
“Won’t Detective Gawain and the rest of the NYPD catch on to you?”
The curator barked a laugh. “There’s no danger of that. We have a fall guy already in place. The trail will soon lead to him. Your people will find him, catch him, and then he’ll confess.”
“But he’s innocent. You have an innocent man willing to spend his life in prison? What if they lethally inject him?”
“We have brethren who are devoted to our cause. In the Middle East men of faith sacrifice themselves all the time. And they won’t inject him; he won’t even do a life sentence. Members of our Order occupy the highest positions in the United States government. He’ll be out in no time.”
“Wow,” Carl said, shaking his head. “You guys sure are into martyrdom. First Adam Francis, and now this guy. I’m right about that, aren’t I? Mr. Francis performed self-sacrifice?”
Paul gave a single, nearly imperceptible, nod.
Carl’s whole body seemed to decompress, as if he’d just had the wind knocked out of him. He smiled inwardly. At least I can die happy knowing I’m right and Detective Gawain is an idiot.
One of the shadow-members of the Order stepped forward. He looked, to Carl, somewhat like an alien, his physique gangly and gaunt, his skin abnormally pale, and his eyes… two obsidian orbs embedded in the top of his face.
They all wore purple-black robes and cowls, similar to what he’d seen in Adam Francis’s closet. Pinned to each of their hips was a very familiar serpent-shaped dagger.
Paul stepped back as the member unfurled a weathered-looking piece of parchment. The other members also moved away. At that moment the sun sunk below the horizon. The Rosicrucian began to read:
“When the stars are right
And the planets are aligned
Dreaming In Darkness Page 9