“What makes you so sure?”
“Brimstone is the residue left after a portal of this plane is opened with Hell. So, unless Satan himself has made an appearance, the essence of brimstone would indicate a demon has come into this world.”
“And the eyes?”
“Demons do not possess souls, Mr Kolchak. Their own eyes are therefore windows into their true essence. A look into a true demon’s eyes is a glimpse into Hell. A glimpse that won’t go away.”
“So a person who looks into a demon’s eyes…”
“Will invariably poke, burn or scratch their own eyes out. Disturbing, but preferable to what usually happens if they refuse to look.”
“Go on.”
“The demon does it for you.”
Yuck. I wondered which of the two had been the case with the woman I’d seen.
“How would one go about, uh, verifying something like that? That a demon has been… summoned?”
Francine stuck her lower-lip out just a bit and made a pouty-face, the kind that made her look quite attractive, the kind that probably made boys slobber all over themselves in her youth. Then she turned and scanned the bindings of the books on one of the shelves nearby.
“Ah, here. This should help you.”
She handed me a huge tome, leather-bound and dusty, flexing her whole body and grunting as she hefted it into my arms. It was heavy. Neither the cover nor the spine bore any words. I opened it to the first page. The typeset looked ancient. The title was writ large: A Study in Daemon-ology. The s in ‘study’ was shaped like a cursive f.
“I picked this up years ago from a rare book dealer. Back in my black-magic phase, which lasted about a week, at most. Just long enough to learn a thing or two about curses. From what I recall, this is the bible, so to speak.”
I thanked her and turned to leave. “One more thing, would birds have anything to do with demons?”
“Birds? It’s possible, I suppose. Different demons have been associated with different animals in some accounts. Rats, bats, snakes. I suppose the arrival of a certain demon could attract birds. I wish I knew more, but it’s just not my field. I’m not much of a witch, Mr Kolchak. I can’t even cast a real spell.”
I knew some middle-aged men she could cast a real spell over if she wanted to, but I didn’t say that. I just thanked her again and left.
The sun was setting over the pacific as I drove away. I spent the rest of the evening in my room at the Gilbert with a pizza and some beer, reading.
Item: According to my reference book, there were 7,405,926 demons, divided into twelve classes.
Fact: Demons must take human form to walk the Earth for more than a nominal period of time.
Fact: Each demon has its own, virtually unique, weakness.
The book Francine had given me had to be six inches thick with pages as big as a road atlas. It contained the names of over a thousand demons, from Abigor to Zapar. The text was dense and stiff, with archaic sentence structure and obsolete terminology. The opening section was a general discussion of the various incantations and concoctions used through the centuries to combat demons and to ward them off. Gemstones, herbs, salts, incense. Most were admixtures designed to assault a demon’s peculiar senses as harshly as possible and force it to reveal itself or send it on its way back to Hell. With roughly two thousand pages to go, I skimmed the book for almost another hour, but it gradually started to feel pointless.
I picked up the file Vincenzo had given me and perused its contents. The Pacific Coast Philharmonic’s conductor was Lars Skadden, and a number of articles about his meteoric rise to the ranks of the world’s great composers were included. Skadden was relatively young, only thirty-four, and the tenor of the articles made it seem like he was an immediate sensation in the field of classical music.
None of the stories mentioned why he wore an eye patch.
I stared at the file photo of the maestro a good long time. He was older than his years in an enviable way, the way that said he would always look older than his years until it was appropriate for him to look younger than his years. I took an instant dislike to him.
Reporters make connections. I immediately wondered whether Skadden’s rise to prominence involved something more than hard work and clean living, and I concluded the fact he wore an eye patch when the apparent victim of a demon lost her eyes was one that couldn’t be overlooked. No pun intended.
The problem was, if Skadden did turn out to be some kind of demon, or in league with one, from what I could tell from the book I had to know which one if I stood any chance of doing anything about it. I spent the rest of the night reading demon biographies. I fell asleep just around the time the sun was starting to peek over the horizon. I was halfway through the Js. I slept hard and dreamed I had won a date with Tipi Hedren. We dined on pheasant in Hell’s Kitchen.
I dragged myself out of bed around half past noon, with a stiff back and an aching head. I was at the office about an hour later, and I learned the police had released the name of Karen Humphrey as the person whose body was found. I made some calls about her, then started to pick up where I left off in the book. As time dragged on, I began to cheat, reading the first few sentences of text and bouncing around the page looking for references to birds in general, starlings in particular, before moving to the next. I was midway through the Ps using this strategy when Updyke’s voice forced me to raise my eyes.
“A man from the Ornithological Society called.”
I dropped my feet from the desk and sat up in my chair. “What? When?”
“This morning. I put a message on your desk. If you cleaned it once in a while, you would know.”
I rummaged through the stacks of paper. Updyke stood there for several seconds watching me search before he reached over and pointed to a yellow sticky note. It had a name and phone number written on it.
“Did he say anything?” I grabbed the phone and started to dial the number.
“Only that you had asked him to check on something for you. Doing a piece on birds, Kolchak? That’s funny,” Updyke said, pausing for effect. “I always thought you were cuckoo.”
He said that last word like it was his imitation of a clock striking the hour. Then he started laughing at his own joke, glancing over to Miss Emily as he rocked back and forth, chuckling and nodding his thin torso up and down while patting his stomach.
I had a particular bird in mind I would have liked to show him, but I decided I wasn’t in the mood.
“No. Leave. Unless you know something about starlings that I don’t know, just go away. Now.”
“Murmuration!” he said.
I stopped what I was doing and hung up the phone, which had just started ringing at the other end of the line. “What did you say?”
“Murmuration,” he repeated.
“Good one, Ron,” said Emily.
Little cogs in my mind started to catch teeth as they spun.
“A group of starlings is called a murmuration,” he said. “You know, as in murmur.”
“Yeah… murmur,” I said, almost to myself. I flipped open the book, flopping over chunks of pages, until I reached the Ms. It took a few seconds, but then I found it.
Murmur. A demon of music.
“Ron, you’re a genius!”
He flushed, lowering his head. “Why, thank you, Carl. I do try to improve my mind—”
“Now get lost,” I said, dropping into my chair and diving into the biography of Murmur. “Before I go get a court order.”
Updyke stomped off in a huff, which is exactly what I wanted.
My skim-and-scan technique had caused me to miss it completely. It was one of the names I glossed over, just fresh enough for me to recall it when I heard the word.
Murmur. Nothing about starlings, but it seemed Murmur was Hell’s resident maestro. The author said he commanded thirty-six legions in the underworld, and was direct counsel to Satan himself. In other words, he was a player.
“Carl, how did that mee
ting with the maestro go this morning? Did you get his autograph?”
It was Vincenzo, standing in front of my desk. I had been so rapt in my reading I hadn’t noticed. His swarthy cherubic face looked anxious. His lips were smiling, vaguely, but his eyes didn’t quite share the sentiment.
“Oh, yeah, Tony. Yeah. Everything went great.”
“So you got the autograph!”
“Uh… no. No, the maestro was, uh, in a hurry. He promised we could meet again later. Don’t worry about it. You know you can count on me.”
“Right. So, how’s the philharmonic story.”
“Fine, Tony. Just fine.”
Vincenzo eyed the material on my desk. I shut the book and leaned forward to grab the folder that contained Karen Humphrey’s information.
“What are you reading?”
“Just, you know, background research.”
He lifted the cover of the book, twisting his head to read the title page. “A study in dae… a study in daemonology? Kolchak! What the heck is this?”
“Now, Tony, before you bust another blood vessel, hear me out. Karen Humphrey, the girl who was found in the symphony parking garage? What I left out of the story I turned in was that both her eyes were clawed out.”
“Both of them?”
“Both of them. And here’s the thing, Tony. I think she did it herself. Because of what she saw.”
“And what would that be, Carl?”
“Murmur!”
“Mur-what?”
“Murmur. A powerful demon who is a sort of like Hell’s patron anti-saint of music.”
“Oh. My. God. Kolchak! You are supposed to be covering the symphony! Stuff like Ravel’s Bolero, not Dante’s Inferno.”
“I am, Tony. I am. Listen to this.”
I picked up the huge text and found the spot I had been reading.
“Here it is. It was said that Murmur had been commissioned by the Prince of Darkness to compose a symphony, a Damnum Opus, and was promised vast portions of the Earth if he could perform it to the Devil’s liking. Think of it. Hordes of demons unleashed on humanity, under his command, paving the way for Armageddon. You see, Tony, Murmur is a vainglorious perfectionist, he has been working on this symphony for a thousand years, he has one chance to get it right, to get it perfect. I think he’s finally finished.”
“Good. Then the two of you have something in common, unless you drop this insane ranting and do your assignment.”
“But listen, Tony, listen… the author of this book, this seventeenth-century monk, speculated that because of his vanity and perfectionism, one way to force Murmur to reveal himself might be to… here it is, ‘offend his aesthetic sensibilities beyond his capability to control his self.’ I’ve been checking up on some facts, Tony. Karen Humphrey was trying to join the symphony to give her dying father something to be proud of. She was given a short-notice, special audition only because her father was a prominent name in the field of classical music and the philharmonic trustees probably hoped to receive a large bequest upon his death. But she wasn’t any good. She must have played part of that symphony so badly, she caused him to reveal his true form.”
“What are you saying, Carl? That some demon rose up out of Hell because some girl gave a bad performance on her cello? If poor performance is all it took, this office would be Hell on Earth!”
He pointed a stern finger at me as I opened my mouth to reply. “Don’t say it!”
“Flute, Tony. And I didn’t say she raised him from Hell. It seems clear he was already here, in human form.”
“Oh, no. No. Carl. Please, no. Don’t tell me you think—”
I nodded. “Lars Skadden’s a demon. Look, Tony, it all fits. He bolted to the position of maestro out of nowhere. He listened to Humphrey play right before she died. I heard him practically demand that the police promise him he wouldn’t have to listen to it again. Why? Because of how it offended him! How it made him lose control! And the starlings, Tony. Don’t forget the starlings. Think about it. Why would a young woman claw her own eyes out? What could make her do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Carl. I’m kind of feeling the urge right now.”
“Seeing a demon, Tony. Looking a demon in the eyes. That’s what will make a person do it. It says here, that once revealed, a demon has to take a life to regain his human form within a short amount of time or he will be summoned back to the bowels of Hell.”
“Look. Carl. How can I put this in a way that doesn’t use the phrase, or else you’re fired. Just cover the symphony story – sans demons – and I’ll overlook this little instance of blatant insubordination. Not to mention psychosis. Provided you bring me that autograph. And provided you promise to seek professional help. One simple story and one measly autograph. Is that too much to ask?”
I started to respond, but he cut me off with a turn of his head and a palm thrust toward my face.
“Uhpp. Don’t. Don’t say anything else. I’m going to leave now. I want that story, and that autograph. Please, Carl.” He hugged his considerable stomach. “If for no other reason than you pity a man with my digestive tract, drop this nonsense and do as I ask.”
He walked away from my desk, murmuring my name, among other things.
I left the office soon after that and headed for the nearest of the twenty-four hour superstores that seem to have popped up everywhere in the last few years. The book Francine had given me gave me an idea of how to make Murmur reveal himself.
The kicker was, once in demonic form, the only way to vanquish him was to either wait him out and hope he couldn’t manage to kill someone, or force him to look at his own reflection. His own full-length reflection.
I bought a full-length mirror and fought traffic all the way to South Grand. I had a plan.
A security guard was posted at the entrance to the administrative building. I parked on the street and waited, reading the section on Murmur several times, then going back to the general discussion on demons and the various ways people had historically fought them. Staff could be seen through the windows working late, no doubt preparing for the big show. But they continued to file out as the night wore on, until the building took on that deserted look. Eventually, only a few security and custodial personnel appeared to be inside.
About an hour before midnight, I pulled a crowbar and a flashlight from my trunk, tucked the mirror under my arm and circled around to the back of the building.
Finding a small window I could bust with the crowbar – at least where I hoped one would be – proved impossible. Every external wall consisted of huge glass panels of the type that made you curse when the sun hit them as you sat in afternoon traffic. I thought I remembered a smaller window near the parking garage, so I walked in that direction. I tried not to act suspicious, but a man with a flashlight, a closet-door mirror and a piece of curved metal lurking in the shadows is probably as good a definition of the word as there is. The camera and recorder dangling on straps from my shoulder didn’t help, either.
There were no police or guards that I could see as I found the area behind the parking garage and looked around. I’d been wrong. There were no accessible windows near the main concert hall. But I did find a door that didn’t look too sturdy. I pried it open with the crowbar.
My plan was simple. Find the tape of Humphrey’s audition, go find Skadden, and once he reverted to his true form, make him look at himself in the mirror. Like I said, simple.
I managed to avoid the patrolling guards and made it to the offices on the second floor. It wasn’t hard to find Skadden’s. It was the biggest of them all, nestled at the end of a wide corridor, with a semi-circular workstation for his secretary to guard the entrance. The back wall of the office was glass, and I realized it looked out over the concert hall like a luxury skybox at a stadium. A control panel next to it had a large bank of switches, allowing Skadden to turn on the lights of the auditorium to impress guests. A grand piano sat majestically near the center of the room. Glass cases housing vari
ous antique instruments conveyed the impression of a museum exhibit hall. The zig-zagging circle of my flashlight added to the effect.
For such a big office, there weren’t many places to look. A glass desk with no drawers, two chrome filing cabinets, a table with one drawer, and a wastebasket seemed to be the only items in the room that could hide something. Unless Skadden hid the tape in his leather couch or the piano, it had to be in one of those.
It wasn’t.
Just when I thought this was going to be much tougher than I had hoped, it occurred to me to check the secretary’s station. I had searched one of the secretary’s file drawers and was opening another when I noticed an envelope in a tray that looked thicker in the middle than normal. I looked inside and sure enough, there was a cassette with the letters “KH” and the previous day’s date on it.
No sooner did I pick it up than I heard the sound of footsteps and voices. I ducked back into the office and slid behind the wall next to the door.
It turned out not to be the best hiding place. Skadden walked in, flipped on the light switch and looked right at me. On his heels were the young guy I recognized from the parking garage as Skadden’s assistant and another man I had never seen before. I assumed the third man was Von Mueller. He had that regal, half-crazed look of a European composer to him.
“Who are you?” Skadden asked. “How did you get in here?”
“My name is Carl Kolchak, Mr Maestro. I’m a reporter. The more important question for all concerned is, who are you?”
Skadden regarded me the way a bureaucrat regards someone asserting a complaint. “Phillip, get security.”
The young man next to Skadden nodded and made a move for the door.
“Yes, Phillip, get security,” I said. “Tell them your boss hails from the nether regions of Hell. Tell them he killed Karen Humphrey.”
Phillip’s jaw slackened a bit and he seemed uncertain of what to do.
“What is going on, Lars?” Von Mueller asked, his German accent light but unmistakable. What was “vat.” Is was “iz.”
“This man is obviously a psycho, and he probably killed that poor girl. Get security Phillip!”
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