The Bookseller's Secret

by Catherine Jordan

  Thuzien sat and immediately launched into what sounded like a prepared speech. “I think we’re overlooking a very important detail in these juju cases. And that would be Mr. Mason Barry.”

  “He’s an American,” Dusu said, interrupting, “from New York State, working to make an international name for himself as a writer.” Dusu spoke loud and without hesitation. “His most recent assignment was in Mexico, which apparently ended badly for him. He was involved in an undercover story about drug running. Several of his colleagues were murdered.”

  “How did you come across this information?” Thuzien asked. “I conducted an inquiry into Mr. Barry’s background and found out where Mr. Barry was born, where he had lived, where he went to school, and what he did for a living. The file on the man dried up several years ago. No known whereabouts, no writing. I assumed Mr. Barry had gone undercover, which was all I had been able to discover.”

  “I have very competent people in my department,” Dusu said.

  “What are you suggesting?” Thuzien asked, leaning forward, nostrils wide and eyes filled with fury.

  “I am suggesting I have resources at my fingertips you might not.”

  52

  Dusu leaned back into his chair and studied Thuzien for a moment. The man had a hard look, his jaw tense. His squared shoulders aligned perfectly with the tightly folded hands in his lap.

  “You have resources I do not?” Thuzien asked. He leaned forward. “What resources?”

  Dusu sighed. “You have already said you have no respect for my division. So, allow me to say only this: our resources are not the same.”

  “You mean you use magic?” Thuzien asked. A smirk twitched on the edge of his mouth. “A sangoma with a crystal ball told you Mr. Barry had been in Mexico? Now I see why you think you don’t need me. And to think, you gave up early retirement. For this? I should hope not.

  “Tell me, Inspector, how do you plan to get rid of this idiot and stop the circus procession he caused on Victoria Road? Do you know I have a senator on my ass? He knew Edward.”

  Was? Dusu noted Thuzien used the past tense when referring to Edward. Edward had not been spotted in public in years, and he had become more of a recluse before he retired. Since Edward had not been reported missing, the Unit had to presume he was living the last of his years holed up on the estate.

  “He was a good friend of Edward's, and his last words to me were, ‘Shut up this reporter or I will launch my own investigation into the incompetency in your department.’ And that, Inspector, is something I will not have.”

  Edward van Hollinsworth had been a citizen of The Kingdom of Lesotho. He had no good friends. Any close friend of Edward’s would have known about Edward’s involvement in the occult. No government would want national attention in regard to the juju within their politics. Whether magik played any role at all was not the problem; it was the perceived ignorance and the embarrassment amoung the international power players. Dusu had heard more than one official voice concern over how South Africa could be taken seriously when they bowed to the supernatural. Whereas another country might outsource muscle to settle issues—conspiracies abound over the mob’s involvement within the United States, Mexico, and the Middle East—who would deal with a country outsourcing to sangomas? The country would be laughed at, not feared.

  “Americans and Europeans find juju pointless and unnecessary,” Dusu said. “Few realize how it affects our everyday lives—crimes, politics, medicine. Juju is a prolific business, yes? Most citizens embrace the supernatural. It has been a part of our history, and no one wants to take that away. However, I can assure you,” Dusu met Thuzien’s hard gaze, “as an officer of the Unit, I will thoroughly investigate all leads without bringing embarrassment upon your police force. I think we should be working together on this,” Dusu said. “All of us, including Mr. Mason Barry. An outsider allows for a different perspective. Have you ever been to the van Hollinsworth house?” Dusu asked.

  “No.”

  “Have any of your officers? Edward van Hollinsworth might have invited or needed the police at some point, for whatever reason. It would not be unusual for—”

  “No,” Thuzien said louder.

  Dusu believed he was telling the truth. The exact location of the van Hollinsworth house was unknown. Its general vicinity on Victoria Road was no secret to the Unit, and Dusu surveyed those few kilometers regularly. The black Rolls had been spotted coming and going, but it was impossible to find the entrance, the gate, or any sign of a drive. It was as if the Rolls magically appeared and disappeared on the road.

  Thuzien took in a deep breath and filled out his chest, reminding Dusu of a rooster flaring its feathers before a cock fight. “Have you spoken to Mason Barry?” Thuzien asked. “He has quoted the both of us, yet, I can’t seem to remember any point or place where I have spoken with him.”

  “I have met him, yes, but I never commented on any investigation, and not to him.” Dusu had met Mason Barry after a disturbance had been called in to the police by the hotel manager. All incoming police calls were screened by the Unit for red-flag words, magik phrases, names of people prominent within the Unit, registered sangomas, witch doctors with a police record, and any van Hollinsworth family name or known business associate. When the hotel manager called the police complaining about foul odours, banging and yelling, those red-flag words filtered the call upstairs to the Unit. The hotel did not press charges, so the police had disregarded the call. Thuzien had no way of knowing the Unit had immediately started a file on Mason Barry.

  It wasn’t long after their meeting when Dusu began following Mason. Mason left at night, never before eight. He usually parked on Victoria Road where he stood for hours, unmoving, then drove back to his hotel. His footprints left indentations on the ground. Dusu had stood in those same spots on several occasions, examining the area, but saw nothing out of the ordinary and could not figure out what entranced Mason. Sometimes Mason visited the shanties and conducted a quick interview before going back to his room. Yet Dusu had never interfered with his nightly jaunts.

  “Have your resources found any evidence supporting Mr. Barry’s claim about the missing person?” Thuzien asked. “Caroline van Hollinsworth, in particular?”

  “We’re working on that,” Dusu said. “However, to the best of our knowledge, Caroline is deceased, buried in an unmarked grave so no one would dig her up.”

  “I want you to bring Mr. Barry in for questioning,” Thuzien said.

  “On what charge?” Dusu asked.

  “Think of something,” Thuzien replied. “Anything. And you are to keep me informed, understood?”

  Thuzien had no right to make such a command, and Dusu figured Thuzien knew it. Dusu replied, “As a courtesy, I will keep you informed of everything necessary for us to perform our job.”

  Thuzien stood abruptly. “I don’t like your answer. I want to know everything, regardless of whether or not you deem your findings necessary. Don’t take this man and his nonsense seriously. He is too brazen for our liking.” Thuzien walked out the door.

  Dusu swiveled around in his chair, thinking. He had intended to speak with Mason before Thuzien had told him to bring him in. Face-to-face discussions often proved valuable. Dusu wanted a conversation to take place under calm circumstances, and without Thuzien’s watchful eyes.

  Dusu rang Thuzien’s office, knowing he would not have had enough time to get back to his office. If Thuzien found out Dusu visited Mason without consulting him, he could at least say he tried to reach him and had acted on a hunch.

  53—Father Charles Thurmont

  There was nothing Charles could do on his own accord. He had thought he’d seen it all through his years and experience as an exorcist and in the confessional. But he hadn’t seen anything until he came to South Africa.

  Eva was beyond malevolence. By revealing herself to him, she had actually strengthened his faith in God. He believed she was the spirit of Lilith, the tree demon, the anti-Christ. A d
evil of all devils.

  There was a Catholic church four miles outside of Llandudno. Charles needed a Eucharist and holy water. Fight fire with fire, the supernatural with the supernatural. Since South Africa was her territory, he would gather water and hosts blessed by a South African priest in a South African church.

  Charles pulled into the church parking lot. Our Lady of the Flight into Egypt, also known as Saint Mary’s Cathedral, was built in 1851 and in the traditional Cape Dutch style. Charles might have assisted at one of the masses, had circumstances not been what they were. He had not called before visiting, because his trip had not been planned. He didn’t want to disrupt or take the vicar away from his duties. So Charles was surprised to see a man waiting for him outside the door.

  The tall, slender man wore a white, three-piece suit, shoes, and sunglasses. His short hair was slicked back. His pale chiseled face looked like something carved out of marble.

  “Hello,” Charles said as he approached the door. The day was hot as usual, and, God willing, the church would be nicely air conditioned. Charles wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and smiled politely.

  The man smiled back. It wasn’t a real smile, only a curved lip frozen in place. Charles sensed a familiarity he couldn’t place.

  A strong, acidic taste filled Charles’s mouth. Dread washed over him in one big wave. The man looked sickly, and Charles kept his arms at his side, not wanting to offer a hand to shake.

  The man stepped aside and opened the door. “I decorated,” Charles heard him say. “Heh, heh, heh,” he chuckled.

  “How nice,” Charles said and ducked inside.

  The doors closed with a soft click. The church was cold and empty. Charles shivered, but he was happy to be alone. Most importantly, he was grateful the strange man in white had not followed him inside. Charles was either paranoid, or the man was indeed one of her minions.

  Charles dipped his fingers in holy water and looked straight ahead at the large crucifix hanging directly behind the altar. He blessed himself, sniffing when hit with a sweet, musty odour. He sniffed his fingers again, but the scent was gone.

  A red, traditional carpet led to the altar. A lectern stood left of the altar with an open Bible on its stand. Behind the lectern was a tall, wooden sign with three rows of numbers. Each row displayed a page number in the missal for daily hymns at mass.

  After a short prayer, he walked the carpet to the altar where he found the chalice and tray. Something is not right, he told himself. The altar should have held nothing except a tablecloth. During the mass, the priest performs a miracle called transubstantiation where the wine and unleavened bread wafers are turned into the blood and body of Christ. The wine and wafers keep their appearance, but faith dictates they are now the true body and blood of Christ. Anything left over in the chalice after mass is usually consumed by the priest, wiped clean, and put away. Leftover hosts are preserved in the tabernacle until the next mass.

  The tray and chalice on the altar were empty, but he smelled spoilt meat. His skin broke out in goose bumps, and it felt like a million insects were crawling all over his flesh.

  At once, Charles opened the curtained tabernacle behind the altar. With great relief, he found undefiled hosts inside a brass bowl. He removed a small, round container called a pyx from his pocket. He placed one host inside the pyx and tucked the pyx back in his pocket. He stepped off the altar and took a second glance at the missal numbers on the sign by the altar. Dear God, they read 6, 6, 6. The book on the lectern was not a Bible. It was oversized and askew. The cover was metal. Without getting any closer, he saw it was her book.

  Charles’s heart raced, and he took long quick strides down the carpet. He had intended to fill his plastic container with holy water from the font on the way out, but he knew not to bother. He dipped his fingertip in the water, then put his finger under his nose, confirming his suspicion. Urine.

  He threw open the church doors and jogged toward his car, not stopping to look back at the man still standing outside.

  It suddenly occurred to Charles what the man had actually said before Charles stepped inside the church. Not, “I decorated.” He had said, I desecrated.”

  54—Mason, the Reporter

  “What do you think about these grave robberies?” I asked Lowther. “Is she personally digging up the bodies, or are the sangomas doing her dirty work?”

  “She doesn’t leave her house unless she has to,” Lowther said. “Not every sangoma is in league with her. Only a select few. She has given them the power; they don’t need to bring bodies to her. If she wants someone, then she takes them. She has doctors and hospital personnel in her employ. Everyone does her dirty work.”

  “Let’s do a stakeout,” I said. “We could pick a cemetery close to her house.”

  “I don’t like graveyards,” Lowther said, backing into his dark corner. “The graveyards are being watched by the police. And not to mention all those priests.” Lowther shuddered. “The priests are blessing the grounds. They sprinkle salt in the caskets, burn incense, and place crosses on the tombs.”

  “I’ll go by myself,” I said, stubborn.

  “I’d be in big trouble if you did,” Lowther said.

  “You would?” I asked, raising my eyes, curious. “From whom?”

  “From the one who sent me,” Lowther said with a sigh of exasperation. “George died so violently. He doesn’t want the same fate for you. He wants me to watch over you.”

  “George.” I said the name as if invoking a saint.

  “Haven’t you seen the light around me?” Lowther asked.

  I looked Lowther up and down. I squinted and asked, “You mean, like an aura?”

  “Correct,” Lowther said, nodding, like I had given the winning answer to the million-dollar question. “An aura. You are not safe in the graveyards. The ones digging up graves are taking risks. Besides, all you’d miss is a man digging a hole. Boring.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “The action is at her house. Good. We’ll hop the gate this time. Jeffrey will probably be there. Son of a bitch has my book.”

  “We are supposed to wait for McPhee,” Lowther said.

  “I’m done waiting. I need my book. Maybe I can make a deal with Jeffrey’s daughter. I’ll write a tell-all exactly as she wants, portray her as Glenda the Good and make her home as beguiling as the Gingerbread House. Fuck ghost hunters. This will be epic.

  “How awesome would it be to prove this woman really exists? I’ve seen almost everything except her. If this girl is the devil Jeffrey says she is, then … I’m not sure what to expect trolling through those woods. What do I have to be afraid of with you at my side?”

  “Okay. Remember one thing; time moves strangely on her land. Day and night come and go in the blink of an eye.”

  I bent over and put on shoes. “Let’s go,” I said.

  55—Inspector Tseme Dusu

  The hotel Mason stayed in was conveniently situated in the heart of Cape Town. It drew most of its business from wealthy tourists and business people. Limousines and luxury vans picked up and dropped off their riders with efficient courtesy.

  When Dusu had first come in response to the manager’s call, he had been asked to park in the garage and was ushered in discreetly through a back elevator. This time around, Dusu parked his patrol car a block away.

  It was after seven in the evening, and he dressed in conservative, everyday clothing. He sat in the lobby and checked his watch, pretending to be waiting for someone, hoping not to be recognized by the manager.

  Forty five minutes later, Dusu made his way by elevator to Mason’s floor. A definite odour hit him as soon as the doors opened. Even when he had first visited Mason, there had been a lingering fragrance in the air.

  Dusu stepped off the elevator and paraded the hall quietly, listening. The floor was quiet as usual. To anyone else, the scene may have been uninteresting. But to Dusu’s trained senses, turmoil was right beyond the door.

&nb
sp; He didn’t want to knock, but observe.

  Dusu had discovered there were no other guests in the same hall, perhaps because guests picked up on something amiss and asked for room changes. Why the manager never asked Mason to leave remained a mystery.

  Dusu heard Mason’s door handle click. He had been examining the exit door to the staircase and ducked around the corner as Mason’s door opened. Feet headed toward the exit door, toward Dusu.

  Dusu opened the exit door and tiptoed up one flight of stairs. He pressed himself against the wall, remaining close enough to listen and far enough away to be unseen.

  He didn't hear the exit door open.

  Dusu waited patiently.

  He dared to lean over the railing and look down. There was no sign of Mason.

  This time, he would not follow. Instead, he walked down to Mason’s floor.

  Dusu removed his badge from his pocket and adhered it to his lapel. Dusu then withdrew his master key, the one he obtained from a hotel staff member. He looked around Mason’s room and gasped. The mess, the upheaval. The smell was strong, even though the window was wide open. The bed was upside down. Thousands of pieces of ripped paper littered his floor. The carpet was threaded and pulled.

  How was it the cleaning staff never came into the room? Again, perhaps the manager thought it best to avoid.

  Dusu pulled out his cell phone and took pictures.

  A laptop sat on the desk, opened.

  Dusu turned on the computer. He searched the files and found nothing. The computer’s search history was blank. Mason wrote stories, no doubt, and then deleted them after he sent them.

  Dusu walked over to the bed. He examined the room from Mason’s perspective the morning they met.

  Excrement piled and urine pooled in the corner where Mason had stared. Worn footprints sunk into the carpet. There were scratch marks on the walls. Dusu snapped more pictures.