"The incomparable Jacques Pascal, ladies and gentlemen!" cried the announcer.
There was another flash of bright green light, accompanied by a puff of smoke, and Pascal was standing center stage, taking his bows. He gestured to the wings and the sacrificial victim, the priest and the peasant dancers came out to take their bows with him.
"It's gone now," Modred said.
Wyrdrune and Kira could feel it, as well. The sensation of the Dark One's presence was no longer there. Kira took off her leather glove and looked at her palm. The stone was still glowing, but only dimly now, reacting to the presence of Pascal, the acolyte, one who'd been touched by the power of the Dark Ones.
"What did you make of it, Ambrosius?" Modred asked, turning to Billy.
"Taken individually, there was nothing terribly demanding about any of those spells," said Merlin. "Except for the shapechanging, which might have been real or merely an illusion. But when you take all of them together, many of them cast simultaneously at a distance through the medium of astral possession, which in itself requires considerable energy, it was really quite impressive. A display of thaumaturgical ability and control worthy of an archmage."
"That good, huh?" Wyrdrune said glumly,
"Much more than merely good," said Merlin. "With a display like that, Pascal cannot avoid attracting the attention of the B.O.T. If he's a registered adept, they'll want to know how he suddenly came by the abilities of a full-fledged archmage. There are only four registered archmages in the entire world and he isn't one of them. The Bureau will be extremely curious about that, as will the I.T.C."
"And you think that was the purpose?" Wyrdrune said.
"The general public will not realize the true significance of what they have just seen," said Merlin, "but a member of the Bureau or the I.T.C. would be sufficiently advanced to recognize the full extent of the abilities Pascal has demonstrated. They'll check their files and find out one of two things; either that Pascal is a registered adept who has demonstrated powers far beyond his level, or that he isn't registered at all, in which case they'll be even more curious about him. Either way, they'll want to bring him in for questioning."
"And it would be a way for the Dark Ones to get close to someone in the Bureau or the I.T.C.,",said Modred. "If they could gain control of people in the Bureau or the I.T.C, it would give them a great deal more power. And at the same time, make things that much more difficult for us. The rune-stones are the single greatest threat to their existence. It would be to their obvious advantage to use the Bureau and the I.T.C. against us."
"Then we'll have to make certain that they don't get that opportunity," said Wyrdrune. "But taking out Pascal won't solve our problem. The Dark Ones can easily get themselves another acolyte, if they haven't got others already, and by moving against Pascal, we'd only be announcing our presence to them."
"Assuming they don't already know we're here," said Kira.
"So what's the answer?" asked Jacqueline.
"It seems there are no easy answers," Modred said. "It will be hard enough trying to defeat the Dark Ones without the Bureau or the I.T.C. getting in the way. Yet if we follow Pascal and prevent him from claiming yet another victim, the necromancers will be alerted to our presence and Max Siegal will remain in jail."
"But we can't stand by and do nothing while Pascal kills someone else," said Wyrdrune.
"We may not have a choice," Modred said.
"No," said Wyrdrune, shaking his head. "We can't. We've got to stop him, even if it means alerting the Dark Ones to our presence."
Modred nodded. "I suppose you're right. But it does reduce our options."
"What's the name of that cop who's in charge of Siegal's case?" asked Wyrdrune.
"Armand Renaud," Jacqueline said.
"Maybe we can talk to him," said Wyrdrune. "The police have resources we don't have access to. Blood helped us in Whitechapel and Rebecca Farrell made things a lot easier for us in L.A. If we could convince Renaud to speak with them, we might be able to get him to cooperate with us."
"It's worth a try," said Kira.
"Perhaps," said Modred, "but it still doesn't solve our immediate problem. What do we do about Pascal?"
"We can't let him kill again," said Wyrdrune.
"Then there's only one way we're going to stop him," Modred said. "And there's only one of us who can get close to him without the Dark Ones sensing the power of the rune-stones."
He looked pointedly at Jacqueline.
Renaud stood in the alleyway, looking down at the corpse lying at his feet. He reached into his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and lit it. He noticed that his hand was steady. His mind was in a turmoil, but his emotions were under control. He had seen a great deal of violence in his years on the police force, and he had never grown immune to its effects. He always experienced the feelings of outrage, the anger and the sense of loss, but it had lost its ability to shock. His stomach no longer contracted, not even at a sight as grisly as this, and he no longer felt physically sick. His reactions to it were those of a moral man affronted by the animal nature of the baser members of his species, but these were essentially cerebral reactions, under control. Cold and logical.
He still remembered what it had been like when he had seen his first murder victim. No police officer ever forgot. The first one was always the worst. The sight of all the blood, the spectacle of a ruined human being, had a visceral, elemental effect upon the soul. The body reacted with revulsion, the stomach heaved, nausea became overwhelming, as if the physical act of vomiting could somehow regurgitate the horrible reality, expel it from the gut. No officer could ever predict how he would react until the first time he confronted it. Some became ill and vomited upon the spot. Others became numb with shock, staring helplessly with frozen fascination at the dead body of a fellow human being. Still others couldn't face it, recoiling from the sight, weeping uncontrollably. Invariably, they all became embarrassed by their reactions, but there wasn't a single experienced cop anywhere in the world who would ever hold that against them, who wouldn't understand. No matter how tough any of them thought they were, nobody was that tough.
Occasionally, though it happened rarely, they would run across a cop who would confront the sight of his first murder victim and not react at all. Then, if that cop had never before been in situations where he had been exposed to such things, if he had never been a soldier or experienced some kind of street violence in his youth, if it was the first time he had ever witnessed such a thing and it still failed to move him, his fellow officers would always be uneasy around him from then on. It would mean that something inside of him was missing, something very important. And it didn't matter that at some point in their experience, they all became accustomed to seeing death. It was something that they had in common with people like doctors and morticians. Eventually, they all developed a certain callousness, an ability to look at the ravaged remains of what had once been a human being without breaking down emotionally, because if they did not develop that ability, they could never continue doing what they did. Yet there was always that precious memory of the first time, precious because it was something they could cling to that reassured them of their own humanity, that kept them from thinking that they had become unfeeling brutes, no matter how accustomed to it they became. They could take refuge in the fact that they had learned to handle it only because they'd seen it so many times before, but that the first time, it had really gotten to them. That memory was precious to them because it was what made them different from the animals that were capable of doing such things.
Renaud thought about that now especially, because the first officer on the scene had been a rookie and this had been his first dead body. His first murder victim. It was a hell of a way to lose your police virginity, he thought. The corpse was that of a pretty young prostitute. Her short skirt was hiked up, revealing her thighs, and there were long, bloody scratches on her legs. Her bare arms were wet with her own blood. So
much blood. Her throat had been torn out and her wide, sightless eyes stared up at the sky. Her blouse had been torn open to her waist and the area around her breasts and abdomen was mutilated with the same bloody symbols that Renaud had seen on the bodies of Joelle Muset and Gabrielle Longet. The same peculiar thaumaturgic runes that Jacqueline Monet had drawn for him on a paper napkin in the cafe across the street from the police station.
"The same as in the other killings," said Legault, standing beside him. "Only the symbols appear to have been burned in. Siegal couldn't have done this one."
"Obviously not," Renaud said. "Only in the other victims, the throats were not torn out."
"True," said Legault. "Still, there are the markings. . . ."
"Yes," said Renaud, "there are the markings." He glanced back to where the first officer on the scene stood leaning against the wall a short distance down the alleyway, which had been roped off. "Let's go have a talk with him," he said.
"First one?" said Legault.
Renaud nodded. "Can't you tell?"
"You can always tell," Legault said.
They approached the young officer, who immediately straightened up when he saw them coming and made an effort to compose himself.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said sheepishly. "I . . . I'm afraid I became ill." He looked away from them. "I couldn't help it. I just . . . didn't know. . . ."
"It's all right," Renaud said understandingly. "We've all been through it, every one of us. The first time was just the same for me. It's nothing to be ashamed of. The first time you must confront the body of a murder victim or the first time you have to kill someone in the line of duty—let's hope you will be spared that—it always hits you right in the gut. There's no way you can be prepared for it, no matter how many times you think about it. It's never like what you think it will be."
The young officer nodded. "No. It was nothing like what I expected. It ... it just hit me, before I could do anything about it."
"You'll get over it," Renaud said. "And the next time, it won't affect you quite as badly. And the time after that, less still. But there will always be the feelings, even if you do learn how to control them. And thank God for that. What's your name?"
"Officer Jean Cassel."
"What have you got for me, Officer Cassel?"
"We responded to the call shortly after midnight," he said. "It was an anonymous report to the station of a woman screaming. We found the victim as you see her. She couldn't have been dead for long. I ... I became ill when I saw her. My partner told me to wait down here and secure the area, then went to question the neighbors. That's all I know. I'm sorry I couldn't have done better, but. . ."his voice trailed off.
"That's quite all right, I understand," Renaud said. "Where is your partner?"
Cassel turned. "Here she comes now," he said.
Renaud and Legault saw a young uniformed policewoman moving purposefully toward them. She wasn't much older than her partner.
"Inspector," she said with a curt nod at Renaud. "Sergeant," she added, greeting Legault.
Renaud knew her and struggled to recall her name. "Officer DuFay, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir." She glanced at her partner and drew them off to one side. "It's his first time," she said.
"Yes, I know," Renaud replied.
"He's embarrassed, especially because of me," she said. "Being a woman, I mean. His breaking down like that and my remaining in control. He's a good cop, but he's new and, well . . ."
"Yes," said Renaud, "I understand. Don't try to make him talk about it now. Just leave it be. Afterward, when you've gone off duty, go have a few drinks together. That often makes it easier."
She nodded. "I wasn't much better my first time," she said. "I couldn't stop crying." She sighed. "It gets easier, but it never goes away completely, does it?"
"No, it never does. Did you come up with anything?"
"Not really," she said. "A number of people heard the victim screaming, but no one will admit to having seen anything. At least a few of them called the police. That's something, I suppose."
"Yes, at least that's something," said Renaud, knowing that there were others who had heard the victim's screams and done nothing whatsoever, except perhaps to pull their windows down.
"The medical examiner says she couldn't have been dead more than half an hour or so," Officer DuFay continued, checking her notepad. "She was still warm when we found her. The victim's name was Catherine Tourney. She was a prostitute. We don't know much more about her at this point. I assume she had a record of arrests, but there's been no time to check yet. The motive was apparently not robbery; we found her purse near the body and there were about a hundred and fifty francs still in it and some change. No jewelry was taken, though what she's wearing can't be worth much. We found no murder weapon. At first, I thought some animal must have attacked her, because of the scratches on her legs and the way her throat's been torn out. A rabid dog, perhaps. But then there are those marks burned into her chest and stomach. . . ." She hesitated. "Similar to that case that you were working on, Inspector."
Renaud grimaced. Word of the mutilations might not have leaked out to the press yet, but it had obviously gotten around the department. Which meant that it was soon bound to get out to the press.
"Yes," said Renaud without elaborating.
"Didn't you have a suspect in custody?" she said.
"Yes," he said again. "Have your written report ready for me first thing in the morning." He turned to Legault. "I want the Bureau called in on this one right away. Have them check for thaumaturgical trace emanations. Tell them I have reason to suspect the possibility of necromancy. If they find anything, they can decide whether or not to bring in the I.T.C. And I want a warrant issued immediately for Jacqueline Monet, wanted for questioning as a material witness."
"What about Max Siegal?" asked Legault.
Renaud pursed his lips. "I'm not taking any chances. Let his lawyers spring him. We have only circumstantial evidence against him and after this, they may be able to get him released, but that's a decision I'd rather not make. He could still be guilty. Except for the mutilations, the murders are not similar. There could be several killers. Monet knows much more than she's told me. I intend to find out what else she knows. See to it that she's found and brought in at once."
He turned and started to walk away.
"Where are you going?" said Legault.
"I'm going to have a drink. Most likely, more than one. And then I intend to make several telephone calls," Renaud said. "One to Scotland Yard and one to the Los Angeles Police Department."
Jacqueline sat in the small dressing room of Jacques Pascal, watching as he sat before a mirror, removing his stage makeup. He had changed into a green and purple paisley silk robe and ascot scarf. Jacqueline did not have any trouble getting in to see him. Even if she weren't confident that the waiter she'd sent the note with would tell Pascal that she was extremely attractive, she had known that the expensive bottle of champagne would do the trick. And it had.
He had greeted her warmly and charmingly, thanked her effusively for the champagne and insisted that she share it with him. They made small talk while he removed his stage makeup and Jacqueline proceeded to come on like a starstruck woman on the make.
"I've never seen anything like it," she said in an excited voice. "You were simply wonderful!"
"I'm pleased that you enjoyed the show," Pascal said, wiping off his face with a towel.
"It was positively thrilling!" Jacqueline gushed. "And it was so much more than just the sort of tricks that most adepts perform on the stage. There were so many things happening at once! And there was so much style to it, such an exciting element of ... of sensuality. When you wrapped your cape around that girl and she disappeared, it was as if ... as if she'd been absorbed by you! And when you shapechanged at the end ... it was incredible! It was the most brilliant illusion I've ever seen!"
He glanced at her. "What makes you think that it was an illusion?" he
said.
"You mean it wasn't?" she said, making her eyes wide.
"What do you think?" he said with a smile.
"I honestly don't know what to think!" she said. "I was simply overwhelmed by it! I decided I just had to meet you."
"And now that you've met me?"
"Well, I'm certainly not disappointed," Jacqueline said with a sultry smile.
"I'm so glad," said Jacques. "And did your friends enjoy the show as much as you did?"
"Oh, I came alone," Jacqueline said.
"A woman as attractive as you are?" said Jacques, raising his eyebrows.
"Well, at the moment, I'm sort of between relationships," she said.
"Indeed? Well, in that case, if it's not too late for you, I know a quiet place not far from here. Perhaps you'd care to join me for a drink?"
"I'd love to," Jacqueline said.
"I'll call a cab," said Pascal.
"Oh, no, let's walk," Jacqueline said. "It's such a lovely night."
"All right," Pascal said, removing his robe and putting on his jacket.
Jacqueline tried to hide her anxiety as they left the club together and started walking down the Rue de Seine, heading away from the Boulevard Saint-Germain and moving toward the river. She felt the comfortable weight of the 10-mm semiautomatic in the shoulder holster underneath her jacket, but she felt safer knowing that the others were following somewhere close behind. But not too close. The display that Pascal had put on back at the club had required a considerable expenditure of energy on the part of the Dark One who had possessed him and it was possible that the necromancer had not been able to detect the presence of the runestones close at hand. But she had little doubt that the necromancer would not resist the opportunity to feed on her life energy and that was what all of them were counting on. She tried to keep up a steady stream of idle conversation, peppered with sexual innuendo, to keep Pascal distracted. She wondered how long it would take for him to make his move. She did not have to wonder long.
[Wizard of 4th Street 04] - The Wizard of Rue Morgue Page 9