He glanced again at the twisted things in the illustrations. “You said demons have no corporeal form.”
Cabarrus nodded to him, impressed. “Very good, Detective. This is merely how we see them. A projection of evil and bestiality. Choronzon in particular is said to cause madness, chaos, and decay, by his very presence. He is variously described as the Lord of Hallucinations, the Dweller at the Threshold, the Demon of the Abyss, the Demon of Dispersion, ‘He who causes mental chaos,’ ‘He who blasts the flowers of the field.’ ”
Garrett sat up at this. “The flowers.” Tanith looked startled, and he realized he’d nearly shouted. “I’m sorry. Tell me about the flowers.”
She answered slowly, studying him. “It’s a quality associated with the demon—that it scorches the flowers where it walks.”
Garrett sat still and didn’t like the swirl of sensations he was feeling. “What else?” he asked tightly.
She gave him a strange look, but resumed. “The story is that in his later years Crowley, along with Victor Neuberg, a male initiate who was also Crowley’s lover, tried to summon and bind Choronzon in a magical triangle during a ritual in the Sahara Desert. The demon manifested in the triangle but was more powerful than Crowley anticipated and it took control of his body. It’s unclear what happened, but contemporaries said Crowley’s mind was never whole after the attempt. He became a slave to drugs and died in disgrace. And Choronzon . . . developed a taste for humans.”
Garrett sat back with his mind reeling. “That’s—quite a story.” It was a more coherent narrative than what he had read on his own, but no less disturbing. He sat in silence for a moment, then something occurred to him. “Do the numbers 333 mean anything to you?”
She stared at him. “It’s another sigil for Choronzon. Three-three-three is the number of the demon. What does Choronzon have to do with this investigation, Detective?” she asked tensely.
“I’m not at liberty to say—”
Tanith put her hand out and pointed at the page where Garrett had drawn the triangles. “Was this sigil what was carved into that girl’s body?”
Garrett looked at her with a jolt—and knew he had betrayed what he was thinking.
Tanith stood in agitation, smoothing her hands on her skirt. “So whoever killed her is trying to summon Choronzon. You don’t want that to happen, Detective Garrett.”
He stood as well. “I don’t want any of this to happen. It’s my job to prevent it from happening, and I’m good at my job, Ms. Cabarrus.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “I have no doubt. But in this case the killer is playing to your weakness, because you’re going to ignore evidence that you don’t want to believe.” Her words struck Garrett with a cold shock of truth.
“You’re right, I don’t believe in demons,” he answered her. “I think that’s a bullshit way of excusing the evil that people do all on their own, all the time. We have free will. We always have the choice.”
“I agree,” she said instantly, surprising him. “Demons may well be no more than concentrated and projected human desires.”
He looked across at her, trying to understand. “So you don’t think they’re real?”
“Real isn’t the question. Demons are, Detective Garrett.”
Her eyes went to the tabletop, to the page with the three triangles, and she began to pace the room. The candlelight gleamed off her silver and crystal jewelry. “If the killer carved that sigil into Erin Carmody’s body, he is using human sacrifice to summon the demon. For your purposes, it doesn’t matter if the demon comes or not. What you need to know is that the killer believes it, and he won’t stop killing until he gets what he wants.”
“We have a suspect in custody—”
She whirled on him, her eyes blazing. “You know a boy didn’t kill those three people—”
“I don’t know there are three, either,” he lashed back. But even as he said it, he was remembering his initial certainty that Erin’s murder could not be a first killing.
“Because you haven’t looked.”
“Are you sure you’re not covering for Jason Moncrief?” Garrett demanded.
She made a scornful noise in her throat. “Why would I do that?”
“You haven’t been straight with me, Ms. Cabarrus. Moncrief had numerous books by Crowley on his shelf. He got those books from your shop.”
She stared at him in what looked like genuine bewilderment. “That’s not true.”
“The stickers are on the back,” Garrett said.
“Then he shoplifted them. Crowley’s books are expensive, and they tend to walk away on their own. A certain kind of teenage boy . . .” She trailed off, staring at him. “Do you think I’m involved in this, somehow?” Her face was so incredulous he faltered.
“I think you’re a pretty staunch defender of someone you don’t even know,” he said flatly, and stood his ground.
“I don’t know him. I know what happened,” she flung back at him. “I understand what happened,” she amended, and there was a tremor in her voice.
“What happened?” Garrett demanded.
“He opened a door,” Tanith said. Her eyes were bleak. “And something reached through.”
Garrett stared at her. She must have realized she’d lost him, because her next words were deliberate and rational. “He’s a teenager who dabbled in something he doesn’t understand. But he didn’t kill her—”
“What are you saying, then, a demon did?” Garrett scoffed.
“Maybe,” she said seriously. “Or someone under its power.”
Garrett had an unwelcome flash of Jason’s coal-black eyes, that stretched-taut face. “Everything you’re saying about this ‘demon’ still points to Jason Moncrief. He had the books, he wrote songs about it, he had all the ritual items in his room—”
“Items any magician might have—”
Garrett’s eyes fell again on the book open on the table between them, the reptilian forms, and suddenly understood what he’d been trying not to think about.
“I saw it,” he said violently.
She stopped, stared at him, into him. His heart was pounding as if he had run a mile. “What did you see?” she asked softly.
He struggled with himself. “Something,” he said, with effort. “I saw . . . something.” In the mirror in Jason’s room . . . “I heard something . . .”
She moved a step closer, searching his face. “Tell me.”
“Voices. Layered on top of each other. On our interview tape.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized he was saying them. Across from him, her eyes were dark and still. “What does it mean?” he demanded.
She bit her lip. “It’s an early sign of demon infestation.”
“Possession?” he asked, incredulous. “You’ve got to be—”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been thinking?” she asked quietly.
“No,” Garrett exploded. “What I see is a disturbed young man with a history of antisocial behavior and what looks like a hell of an obsession with this—Choronzon. Whose ‘sigil’ just happened to end up carved in Erin Carmody’s chest. All the evidence points to Moncrief, Ms. Cabarrus—”
“Then why are you here?”
The truth of that froze him. Then he reached out and grabbed her wrist and it was like an electric shock between them, a shock he felt through his entire body. “All right. All right. Then give me something,” he said, and his voice was harsh.
She wrenched her arm away. “I did. The dates. There are three dead. Two other people have been killed on those dates I gave you—”
“There are no missing persons on the dates you gave me. Don’t you think I’ve checked?”
“Then you’re not looking in the right place.” She slammed her hands on the table, startling him. “He’s killing on the holy days. And while Jason Moncrief sits in jail—you have less than a month until Samhain.”
“Until the demon strikes again,” he mocked her, to make it less real.
“Un
til someone does.” Her eyes lasered into his. “Unless you do something about it, Detective.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Garrett woke to the sound of rumbling and a dismal day outside his window: thick black clouds threatening a downpour. And an even more dismal task in front of him.
It was the day of Erin Carmody’s funeral.
The last thing Garrett wanted to do was spend the day in a church with a dead girl, but he and Landauer would be there early, suited and shaved. It was standard operating procedure in a murder case; killers were often perversely moved to attend the funerals of their victims, and even when—if—the killer was locked securely away, mourners had been known to say things in the throes of grief that they might not ordinarily say, things that could make a case.
And Kevin Teague would be there. Alibi or not, Garrett wanted another look at him.
Garrett was not admitting aloud that he was troubled by Tanith’s insistence that there were multiple victims, and he certainly hadn’t told Land about his little trip up to Salem—not until he could make some sense of it himself.
But Teague was a loose end Garrett didn’t like.
The church was typical New England, a nineteenth-century stone structure on the outskirts of Boston, nestled in the middle of a thick grove of trees; the gravestones of the cemetery scattered over gently rolling hills. Inside the church, massive flower arrangements were everywhere; the scent was overpowering. The coffin, of course, was closed. The service was standing room only, the church overflowing with mourners, students rubbing shoulders with the crème of Boston society, come to pay respects to the Carmody dynasty.
Even in his best suit, Garrett felt painfully underdressed. Then he felt shame at the thought. You think the Carmodys give a good goddamn about clothes, today?
He forced himself to the task at hand, and scanned the crowd from his vantage at the end of a back pew.
Landauer sat on the other side of the chapel, looking as impassively uncomfortable as Garrett felt, and Carolyn was toward the front; not observing, as the detectives were, but present simply because this was her own social circle. By mutual agreement she and Garrett were not communicating while he worked the funeral, which was a relief; he was distracted enough already.
His pulse suddenly spiked as he spotted Shelley Forbes and Kevin Teague taking seats together in the Carmody’s pew, up-front.
Okay, then, jocko. We’re going to have a little talk, you and me.
Garrett settled back into the pew to wait out the service. These days he felt out of place in any church, but today it was particularly painful. The funeral seemed to him a total lie, the body within the coffin incomplete, missing the part that makes human beings most human.
Erin’s life had ended in a dark ritual, and the one going on before him seemed a flimsy and inadequate attempt to counteract the damage done. Whatever God there was had some explaining to do.
Garrett looked up at the stained-glass panels in the slanted ceiling to distract himself . . . only to find himself staring at a pane depicting winged Lucifer tempting a gaunt Christ in the wilderness.
He had a sudden clear image of the reptilian things that Tanith had shown him the night before. “Choronzon in particular is said to cause madness, chaos, and decay.”
Garrett’s stomach twisted. What century are we in? How can civilized people believe these things? He looked quickly away from the colored glass, letting the hymn block out his thoughts.
As the service concluded, Garrett caught Land’s eye across the chapel and nodded slightly toward Teague. Landauer nodded back and started out the door with the flow of mourners.
Outside the church the day was still dark, with scudding clouds and the threat of rain, a heavy feeling in the air to match the somber proceedings.
Mortuary attendants discreetly herded the funeral party out onto a winding path toward the grove that encircled the graveyard. Garrett walked at the edges of the crowd, following Teague, and when the young man drifted behind the Carmodys, Garrett stepped in front of him, cutting him off from the others.
Teague recognized him instantly; his eyes turned hooded and wary. Garrett indicated a side path with a jerk of his head. Teague glowered under those dark, full eyebrows, but stepped onto the path with him.
“So you’ve never been to Cauldron,” Garrett said flatly, as soon as they were out of earshot of the other mourners.
“No, I haven’t,” Teague snapped back, hostility seething in his voice.
“So I guess you didn’t attack Jason Moncrief in the parking lot there on September seventh.”
Teague’s lip twisted. “Who says so?”
Garrett paused. The only real witness was Jason; the bass player’s story was hearsay.
A smug look crossed Teague’s features. “You better watch those unfounded allegations, Detective.”
Garrett took an abrupt step toward the young man and the smirk disappeared from his face. “You better watch that mouth, Teague. I have witnesses who place you at Cauldron.”
“The night she died?” Teague demanded. Garrett didn’t answer and Teague shook his head, disgusted. “You’re tripping. If you think I killed Erin you’re as crazy as Moncrief.” He stepped back from Garrett, clearly knowing that he could. “Like I said. From now on talk to my lawyer.”
He strode off down the path, toward the graves.
Garrett felt a surge of anger and had to stand for a few minutes in the quiet circle of trees to compose himself. The wind whispered through the leaves above him.
When he was calm enough to rejoin the funeral party, the mourners were filing past the grave site, putting flowers and gifts—notes, stuffed animals, trinkets—on top of the coffin. A good number of the procession broke down in tears.
Garrett felt a tightness in his chest, a new fury—for Erin’s wasted life.
And then his pulse suddenly spiked as he caught sight of a familiar figure, unmistakable: a slim young man with heavy dark glasses who towered a full head over everyone else around him.
The bass player from Jason’s band, Danny Coyle.
He paused beside the coffin and lay a white, square envelope on the gleaming surface with the other gifts.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the musician, Garrett stepped into the line of mourners filing by the coffin. When his turn came he stopped on the fresh earth beside the bier and lay one hand gently on the surface of the casket as if in tribute, while he snagged the white envelope with his other hand and slid it into his coat pocket. He bowed his head for a moment longer, then turned and walked quickly away from the grave, following the bassist at a distance, weaving through the headstones and monuments. It was an easy tail, given the dispersing crowd and the height of his target.
As he followed the young man through the graves, Garrett pulled the envelope from his pocket and examined it. It was a CD in a white sleeve, with Erin’s name written on it. The CD inside was unmarked.
Garrett strode faster to overtake the bassist. “Danny,” he called. The young man turned around, and looked startled to see Garrett. He stopped beside a tomb and waited, with a hunch in his shoulders, as Garrett caught up.
Garrett stopped in front of him, smiled, spread his hands as he glanced back toward the grave site. “I thought you didn’t know Erin.”
“I don’t,” the musician began.
“Yet you come to her funeral and you leave her this?” Garrett held the CD up between his fingers.
Danny stared at Garrett, and Garrett saw a mixture of conflicting emotions on his face: confusion, a flash of anger, a hint of what looked like contempt.
“It’s from Jason,” the young man said.
Now Garrett stared at him.
“He called me and asked me to bring it here, today.”
“From where?” Garrett demanded.
Danny gave him an odd look. “From jail.”
“I mean, where did you get the CD? We cleaned out his room.”
“It was in our rehearsal space,” Danny said p
atiently. “He called me and asked me to get it.”
“What’s on it?” Garrett was furious with himself for not searching the room.
Danny stared at him stonily. “I didn’t play it. It’s private.”
“Do you not realize that this is a murder investigation and you could be charged with withholding evidence?”
Danny looked startled, then straightened his shoulders and said in a steady voice, “Jason is my friend, man. I can’t believe he killed anyone. Whatever he was into, I don’t believe that. He wanted her to have it”—he nodded at the CD in Garrett’s hand—“so I brought it.”
He met Garrett’s eyes and did not look away. And then Garrett nodded, dismissing him.
As Danny started off across the grass, Garrett suddenly called after him, “Wait.”
The tall young man turned back, impassive.
Garrett stood, for a moment just collecting his thoughts, unsure of what he wanted to say, only that there was something. And then he found himself asking a question that surprised him. “Did you guys do a gig on August first?”
The bassist thought for a second. “Yeah, in Saratoga.”
“Saratoga Springs? New York?” Garrett asked.
“Right.”
“Was Jason with you for that one?”
Danny frowned. “Yeah.”
“The whole time?” Saratoga Springs was at least a ten-hour drive.
Danny looked bewildered. “Yeah. We drove up together, did the gig, spent the night in a motel, drove back. Why?”
Garrett didn’t answer, because he didn’t quite know himself . . . only that August first was one of the dates that Tanith Cabarrus had given him.
He shook his head, and after a time, Danny turned and continued walking through the gravestones.
Book of Shadows Page 14