The Witch of Babylon

by Dorothy J. Mcintosh

  “Alchemy? You mean black magic, Satanism, that kind of stuff?”

  “Not that weird. They’re serious. Apparently the website links to articles about Renaissance and medieval documents that describe esoteric methods to convert base metals into gold.”

  She let out a laugh. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I know it sounds crazy. But these people are rough. They’ve actually threatened me twice. To make matters worse, Hal was mixed up with them. I’ve only just found this out. And I need to know who they really are.”

  “Do they show up on this website?”

  “Only through masks and astrological signs. But I do have two names. Eris Haines and George Shimsky.”

  “Well, let’s check things out on the screen.”

  She asked me to get a kitchen chair and bring it into her study.

  In contrast to the homey clutter in the rest of her apartment, her office was spartan. No books anywhere, no files, just a couple of ballpoint pens and some scratch paper. The only exception was a jumble of cat toys on the floor. The cat wandered in behind us. He grabbed a mouse with rips in the fabric and proceeded to claw out the insides, strewing white cotton stuffing everywhere, his yellow eyes fixing on Corinne with a mean glare. She laughed. “He’s just mad at me for making him get off the chair.” The cat began to purr and brushed against my legs. I put my hand down and ruffled his fur.

  This amused Corinne even more. “Now he’s trying to make me jealous.”

  Three monitors sat on her desk, each with a different screen saver. On one, strains of Bartók played to rain falling gently upon a field of wildflowers; on the next, ocean surf caressed a coral beach. The last monitor showed a forest blazing with autumn colors.

  “That’s as close as I ever get to nature,” Corinne joked. She took a seat in a chair so technologically advanced it looked like something you’d see in a fighter jet. “It’s custom-made. Sitting for hours on end does unspeakable things to your back. Now, do you just have names? No birth dates, licenses, anything like that?”

  “Only this.” I handed her the business card Colin Reed had given me. “The phone and fax numbers are duds, so the business name probably is too. Other than that, Eris Haines may be an MIT grad and she was fired from the Department of Defense. George Shimsky was a chemist.”

  “That should get me started.”

  I sat beside her while she searched through sites.

  “Okay, I can’t find anything on Haines. There’s a good chance that’s not her real name. Ditto for the company name. Shimsky graduated summa cum laude also from MIT in 1984 at the age of twenty. One year later he had five patents to his credit. Bright boy. Worked for Dow Chemical and FMC. Didn’t appear to last too long at either one. Set up his own consulting company and then disaster hit. Good Lord!”

  “What?”

  “It says here he was trying to convert metals into gold.” She shook her head. “How freaky can you get? He suffered major physical trauma and stroked out. After that, I can’t find anything on him. What was the website you mentioned?”

  “Alchemy Archives dot com.”

  She brought up the site and spent a few minutes checking it out. “There’s some interesting stuff here, but it will take me a while to really get into it. Listen, Johnnie, I really do have a damn deadline to meet. Can I get back to you? I’ll make it soon.”

  “Sure. It’s great of you to help.”

  “I’m here whenever you need me—you know that.”

  “Oh, there’s one more thing, another name—Hanna Jaffrey, a U of Pennsylvania student. Could you try to find something on her too?”

  “There’s someone else? It’s beginning to sound like you’ve got the whole world mad at you.”

  Seventeen

  After saying goodbye to Corinne and retrieving the chip I hailed a cab and soon reached the area Tomas had mentioned at theextreme west end of Thirty-fourth Street. It was a bleak terrain, a dark little corner piece in the glittering jigsaw of Manhattan.

  I asked the driver to slow to a crawl. On my left the wide plain of the West Side rail yards stretched into the distance. Opposite it was a church with a red brick facade, a Romanesque arch in white limestone, and a gothic window above that, closed up with cement blocks. This wasn’t a commercial building, but I asked the driver to stop for a minute anyway—I could see the Hudson from here so we had to be close. A sign by the doorway read ST. MICHAEL’S CHURCH, WORSHIPING IN THE ROMAN CATHOLIC TRADITION SINCE 1857.

  A statue of Jesus stood outside the church. Full-size, encased in clear Plexiglas like a see-through coffin, he stood on a pedestal, gazing down on the passersby. He was fashioned entirely of white plaster, one hand outstretched, the other touching a large gilt filigree over which was superimposed a golden cross and a white human heart. Above the case, in Roman capitals, were the words “Come to me all you that labour and are burdened. I will give you rest.”

  It could have been written for me.

  In the next block I found it, a nondescript stucco building about five stories high. At street level was a chalky blue door of wooden slats that appeared not to have been used for years, and farther on, a ribbed metal square the size of a garage door. Beside that I saw the five planetary symbols etched on a simple brass plate affixed to the wall.

  The driver spoke up. “If we go any farther we’re going to hit the highway. What do you want to do?”

  “I’ve seen enough. Take me to the Port Authority.”

  He growled what I took to be an assent, jerked his vehicle around, and sped off.

  He dropped me off at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where sidewalk vendors still had their wares out—used books, women’s purses, fragrant oils. One of them uncorked a bottle and held it toward me. A faint scent of jasmine floated through the air, colliding with the odors of sidewalk blight.

  A homeless guy approached me with his hand held out. He had on a pair of torn gym shorts, Nike sneakers, and a baseball cap crowning long dreadlocks. His pale eyes centered on me. His smile revealed the rotting teeth of a meth head. I handed him a couple of quarters. He doffed his cap as I moved on.

  The last time bus travel resembled anything close to upscale had to have been between the two world wars. No matter what the city, all bus terminals had that same sad, left-behind look. The Port Authority was a champion of the breed. A skin of sludge-brown ceramic tile surfaced the floor, walls, and massive square pillars. There seemed to be a conspiracy to keep the light as dim and forbidding as possible. The exception was a giant artwork of glittering aluminum and multi-colored facets on the south wall. It hung there like a beautiful child abandoned in a public washroom.

  I made my way to a ticket counter, thinking I could save cash by test-driving Samuel’s credit card. The agent gave me a baleful stare. “Can I help you?”

  This was the standard phrase taught to all sales reps before they got ready to skin you alive.

  “A ticket for the next bus to Philadelphia, please.”

  “One way or return?”

  “One way.”

  “That’ll be twenty-three dollars.”

  I thrust Samuel’s American Express through the wicket. The woman swiped the card and waited. Making slits out of her eyes, she peered at her screen. She turned back to me. “I’m sorry, sir, this card’s no good. Says the cardholder’s deceased.” She eyed me. “You don’t look too bad for all that.”

  I mumbled an apology and asked where the bus bays were located. She rolled her eyes and pointed to a cluster of signs. “That’s what the signs are for. Read that over there.”

  My idea had been to leave the tracking device somewhere on a bus so that my pursuers would think I’d left town. I never got the chance. On the way to the bus bays I spotted the man I’d seen ogling Laurel in Washington Square Park—a sharp-featured guy with skin white as a cadaver and jet-black hair, a red tattoo on his left wrist. Not a coincidence to see him here now.

  He came after me. The bus bays suddenly seemed deserted and no
Port Authority police were around. I charged out of the building and sprinted down Forty-second. At Tenth Avenue I caught the tail end of a yellow light. By the time the jester reached the intersection, the light had turned red and traffic surged in front of him. When I reached the West Side Highway I headed north before turning up Forty-fourth, gasping for air, knowing I couldn’t keep this pace up much longer.

  Where the street breached the West Side tracks a band of jagged black rock fringed the steep banks, creating a man-made gorge for the railway. The sheer drop of about twenty feet to the rail lines and the solid-block wall of buildings across the street reduced my options. Barbed wire enclosing a truck storage lot gave me no opportunities either. Behind me, the Intrepid, a massive gray ghost of a battleship, loomed on the Hudson. Beside it was anchored a black submarine, and behind that a smaller ship crowned by half a Concorde. The mélange of old ships and planes offered plenty of hiding spaces, but at night the site would be closed off.

  My insides threatened to burst from racing so hard. Seeing the jester turn the corner, I searched for some way to get off the street. It was a minor miracle I’d kept ahead of him this far. To my left was an area with broken and bent sections of fencing. I squeezed through a gap and tried to lose him in the thicket of trucks. The wire bit through my shirt, slashing my shoulder as I passed through. I wove between vehicles, trying to dodge him.

  The sound of his pursuit stopped abruptly as if he’d suddenly taken flight. Was he circling around or had I lost him? I emerged onto Forty-fifth, down the street from a white low-rise. The building’s cavernous entrance gaped open. I whipped inside. It was, of all things, a stable, stinking of damp, manure, and old oil. Off to one side I could hear the rustle of hooves and the swish of tails. Rows of ornate white and brightly colored carriages stood empty. It looked like a gypsy convention with all the drivers on lunch break. The carriages they use in Central Park, I thought, that must be what they were.

  I crouched behind the fourth in a row of five carriages on the greasy floor, breathing in the straw dust, listening to the soft nicker of the horses. I couldn’t risk using my cell. If he’d tracked me inside, he’d hear my voice immediately and know my exact location. A new sound alerted me. Footsteps moving among the carts. I pulled in my breath, hoping he’d wander in another direction, but the tromp of his boots came from only two carriages away. I ran for it.

  A heavyset guy with big wet patches staining the armpits of his work shirt looked up in amazement as I bolted out from behind the carriage. Not the jester after all. My luck held.

  Once on Tenth Avenue, I checked to make sure he was nowhere in sight, hugging the little storefronts to be less noticeable. Right before I reached an outdoor café filled with people socializing on the warm summer night, something that felt like the butt end of a screwdriver jammed into the small of my back. One black-sleeved arm gripped me.

  “I thought you’d pull some dumb shit like that, Madison.”

  I tried to yank myself away. He pushed me against the glass window of a bakery. None of the passersby took any notice.

  “You’re going to shoot me right here? In front of all these people?”

  “No, we’re going across the street to the deli where my car’s parked.”

  “And what if I won’t?”

  “You ever been shot?”

  “No.”

  “I have. At first you can’t feel anything. Just a punch. Like someone took a shovel and rammed it into your back. Then you get a weird burning sensation. After that, your legs won’t hold you up any longer.”

  “So when we get to your car, she’ll be waiting, right?”

  “Eris? Oh yes she will. With open arms.”

  Before I could respond, I heard a sound like a tire exploding. The world slowed to a crawl. I felt the guy pull away from me. My legs began to melt. I pressed against the window glass, trying to hold myself up. I waited for the burning sensation to assault my lower back. A wail built deep in my throat.

  A woman at the café table nearest me lurched out of her chair and screamed. A yellow cab braked hard. A guy passing by pulled out his phone and started punching in numbers. The café tables emptied. People ran away from me. I stretched out my hand. No one reached back.

  Eighteen

  The crowd collected around something at the curb. I curled my hand behind my back. Nothing out of the ordinary. No burning, no gaping hole, no sticky ooze of blood. My legs felt stronger. I pushed myself away from the window and found I could still walk.

  The first of the sirens began to scream and a fire truck steamed in, stopping in front of the café with cruisers right on its back. After that I lost count of the number of emergency vehicles. I pushed to the front of the crowd and saw a graffiti-scarred cargo van stopped at a strange angle to the curb. In front, a man lay flat out on the pavement, his shorts torn and one of his sneakers ripped off, blood welling around his torso, streaming down his legs.

  Uniformed men formed a circle around him. One of them leaned over, hands clamped together, and began to apply the steady push and release of life-saving chest compressions.

  I peered at the crowd for any sign of the jester but he’d disappeared. Understandable that he wouldn’t want to conduct his business that close to half the NYPD. I remained there for some time, feeling protected by the group. What had happened? Was the accident a pure stroke of fate? Had my assailant’s shot gone wild, hit the van, and caused the collision?

  People scattered when a couple of cops walked up and ordered the onlookers back. I checked for the jester one more time before climbing into a cab stuck in the gridlock. The accident that had saved me brought the memory of my own crash rushing back. Exhaustion overwhelmed me, but the sharp edge of panic wouldn’t let me rest. I sensed myself slipping, afraid I could no longer cope with the turmoil Hal had plunged me into. I needed help. Somewhere in the precinct of Penn Station, Rapunzel, an old acquaintance of mine, ran a catering truck. There, I hoped to find at least temporary salvation.

  Rapunzel was so named because his hair was cropped short except for a blond tuft at the back of his head hanging down to his butt. He’d never heard of the fairy tale, so when he learned Rapunzel was a woman’s name he shortened it to Rap. He’d been in business for more than a decade. In that time his locations had changed but not his service. He’d stiffed a couple of people I knew and sold one guy some stuff with impurities nasty enough to put him in the ICU.

  I found him standing next to his truck, listening to music pounding out from the speakers. “Hey, Rap, I see you still have bad taste in tunes.”

  He grinned and put down the sandwich he’d been chewing on. “Good to see you.” He checked out my torn shirt and the bloody cut on my shoulder. “What’s up with that? You been dating rough trade again?”

  “Very funny, Rap. Listen, I need to make a purchase.”

  “I’ve got some cool turkey sandwiches. Mom cooked the bird and wrapped them up herself.”

  “You’re a joker, Rap. You missed your calling.”

  “I make too much coin doing this, even though I work like a dog. Speaking of which, this heat is a bitch.”

  “I’m light today. Can you be my banker for a spell?”

  “A spell?”

  “Maybe a week or so.”

  “Do you see me wearing Armani? There’s an ATM right over there.” He pointed vaguely to the north.

  It wasn’t a big stretch from drugs to weapons, so I thought it a good bet he’d have what I wanted. No one was looking over our shoulders but I lowered my voice anyway. “Look, a situation has come up. I need a gun.”

  His eyes widened.

  “And some uppers—I need them too.”

  “I never read you as a gangster, Madison. Art business not going well?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I said. “How about it?”

  “I’ve got some serious stuff in. You know what I’m saying? How much do you want?”

  “Enough for a week or so.”

  “Hold
on.” He grabbed his cellphone, half-chewed sandwich, credit card machine, and cash box, then motioned for me to follow him into the cab of the truck. He reached down and pushed my feet away to lift a polyethylene mat off the floor. Underneath was a lid crudely cut out of Masonite. In the depression below lay a couple of pistols.

  He slapped on some latex gloves and picked one out. “It’s a Glock. I take it you don’t know how to shoot.”

  I shook my head.

  “This is the best for people like you. You’ve got seventeen rounds.” He showed me how to load it. “If you’re really planning to whack someone you’ve got to get close.”

  “How come?”

  “You’d need a thousand practice shots to be any good longer range. You’re looking at a grand and a half for this. Ammunition’s free.”

  “I’m good for it. Just not right this minute.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “What about the bennies? Come on. I used to buy exclusively from you.”

  “Got some Dexedrine. Just as good, really. That’s around three hundred.”

  “Just for a few hits of it? Any truck driver has that stuff.”

  “Don’t see any truck drivers around here at present. It’s pharmacy grade. I’m not some charity, Madison.”

  I took off my watch and held it out to him. “Omega Speedmaster. Worth a couple thousand. Take it on loan for the two of them, the Glock and the stimulants.”

  He picked the watch up and turned the stainless steel band around in his hand. “Watch looks in pretty good shape. I’ll keep it for the pistol only. And final sale, no loan.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “It’s human, man. We all need money. It’s a human thing.”

  “So I should take my business elsewhere?”

  That produced a belly laugh. “We’re running out of time here.”