by R. L. King
“Thanks. Gus—did you see anyone come out of the back room? Tall chap, long black coat? Or perhaps see him back there sitting at my table?”
Gus shook his head. “Didn’t see nobody, mate. I checked on ye a couple o’times but you looked like you was thinkin’ hard about summat, so I left y’alone. Why?”
Stone waved him off. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When Stone got to campus Monday, he had voicemail waiting in his office.
He’d spent most of Sunday catching up on sleep. It wasn’t by choice: he’d planned to spend the day on some reading and research, but apparently the vivid sensation of being crushed by a train had a stronger effect on his psyche than he’d anticipated.
Raider had nearly pounced on him when he’d arrived home, fixing him with a Where have you been? expression that would have made him feel guilty if he hadn’t been so wiped out. Despite the fact that it was only seven o’clock in California, he barely took the time to scoop the cat’s litter box (not a pleasant task after nearly two days) and top up his food and water dishes before trudging upstairs and falling into bed. Surprisingly, Raider hadn’t committed any obvious acts of destruction, though Stone suspected he’d find more subtle examples when he had time to check more thoroughly. When he awoke from his deep, dreamless slumber late Saturday afternoon, he found the cat curled up on his pillow next to his head.
Maybe the little beast wasn’t so bad after all.
The message at his office was from Maria Alvarez, and she’d left it Sunday evening. “I’ve got something for you about your construction site,” she said. “Let me know if you can meet for lunch tomorrow and I’ll give you the details. Faculty Club sound all right?”
He checked his calendar and found he had a meeting with Mortenson, but called to reschedule it. Archie couldn’t wait any longer. The faster he could get to the bottom of where the spirit, or demon, or whatever the hell it was had come from, the sooner he could start working on how to get rid of it.
At least Archie hadn’t killed anybody else while he was gone—at least not that he knew of.
He had a hard time concentrating on his morning lectures, and showed up at the Stanford Faculty Club fifteen minutes early. “I hope you’ve got something good,” he said when Maria arrived shortly after.
“Well, I guess that depends on what you were looking for. It’s interesting, anyway, in an academic way.”
They got their food and settled at a small table near the window overlooking the red-tiled courtyard, and Maria pulled her briefcase into her lap and removed a folder. “Since you told me about the box you were interested in, I confined my research to more than a hundred years ago, and concentrated on anything to do with the Church. It looks like that entire area belonged to the Catholic Church back then. There’s a mission in Milpitas, but it didn’t really get going until the late 1880s. Before that, the church ministered to the local Native American and Mexican population, but it was more spread out.”
Stone nodded. That didn’t surprise him, but it was nice to have it confirmed. “Any idea what that box might have been? It looked too small to be a cremation urn…”
“They didn’t cremate their dead back then,” she said. “Maybe it was buried with someone, though it seems unlikely since you didn’t say anything about any bodies being dug up. That would have been all over the news anyway, plus they’d never have been allowed to continue with the construction.”
“Hmm…” Stone said. “And they had cemeteries near churches, right? Holy ground and all that?”
“Usually,” she confirmed. “But we’re talking about a period where they didn’t even really have churches in the area yet.” She pulled a photocopy from her briefcase and slid it across the table. “Before the Mission was built up there, they used to have a thing called a penitencia, which was a small adobe building where the priests from the nearby churches could go to hear the locals’ confessions. There’s even a creek in the area named after it.”
Stone skimmed the article. “Do you know where this place was?”
“Nobody knows for sure. The prevailing thought is that it was somewhere near the creek, but that still covers a pretty a big area.”
“Hmm…” Stone said. He hadn’t brought a map showing the location of the construction site, and had no idea if any creeks were nearby. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that the box was buried at the location of this—what did you call it again?”
“Penitencia.”
“Penitencia. That would be considered holy ground, right?”
She shrugged, smiling. “Maybe? Hey, I’m Catholic on paper, but I haven’t been to mass since I was a teenager. If you want my advice, I’d go talk to the folks at one of the big churches, maybe the one in downtown San Jose. The Church keeps a lot of historical records, so they might be able to give you more information.”
“Not a bad idea. Did you find anything about the box?”
“Still working on that. I’ve got a couple of calls out, but they haven’t come back yet. I’ll let you know if they do.”
“I appreciate it, Maria.” He nodded at the paper. “May I keep this?”
“Sure. Sorry I didn’t find any massacres or mass murders or anything this time.”
In truth, Stone was a little sorry too—that would have made the whole thing a lot easier, especially if it meant he could track down news stories with names in them. But if somebody had buried Archie’s heart beneath holy ground while also including a cross carved with Enochian protective enchantments, that meant a few things he’d suspected were probably true: first, it all but confirmed that Archie had been here before, and Maria’s research had narrowed down the timeframe; second, that whoever had defeated him the first time had to possess some heavy-duty magical chops. Had one or more of the priests in the area been practitioners? That was going to be a hard one to question anybody at the modern-day church about, given its current attitudes about magic.
For that matter, had the person or people who’d put Archie down even been working in conjunction with the Church? It wasn’t outside possibility that he was looking at one or more rogue mages who’d operated outside the Church’s purview, or perhaps even without its knowledge. You didn’t have to be a formal member of a church to be a devout believer, and mages had good reasons to stay away from organized religion, especially back in the days when it wasn’t uncommon for “witches” to be put to death without a trial.
Either way, it appeared that all current roads pointed toward Archie having some connection, however tenuous, to the Church. That meant he’d need to have at least one uncomfortable conversation, and the sooner he did it, the better.
Chapter Thirty
“The big church in downtown San Jose,” Stone soon found out, was the Cathedral Basilica of St. Joseph on Market Street. He drove down that afternoon following his office hour, discovered that trying to find parking in downtown San Jose on a weekday afternoon was a nightmare, and eventually ended up heading back on foot after finding an empty space nearly four blocks away.
As he entered the church through the open front door, he was reminded once again of the gap between his native home’s cultural perceptions and those of his adopted one. The Basilica was a beautiful building to be sure, large and impressive by California standards, but Stone had grown up in and around London, in the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and other world-renowned and historically important houses of worship. Even as an avowed agnostic, his interest in history and the supernatural meant he’d spent his fair share of time in many of these old cathedrals.
He smiled a little, wondering what Aubrey would think if he could see him now. The old caretaker, a lifelong Anglican, had made numerous attempts to interest Stone in giving the faith a try, mostly back when Stone had been a child and young teenager, before he’d begun his apprenticeship. Aubrey still dropped
hints occasionally during the rare times when Stone came home for longer than a day or so, inviting him along to Sunday services. So far, it hadn’t taken. He’d relented once, shortly after his father had been killed, but almost instantly found his mind wandering during the service in favor of examining the intricate artwork on the ceiling and the stained-glass windows and speculating about the history of the people buried beneath its floor. Aubrey hadn’t said anything, but it was more than ten years before he’d offered another invitation.
The cavernous nave was lit only by the afternoon sun streaming in through the large stained-glass windows, illuminating a holy-water font and rows of pews flanking a central aisle. Stone spotted a few people sitting interspersed among the pews, mostly individuals but a few couples and mothers with small children as well. His footsteps rang softly on the inlaid wooden floor.
He paused a moment, realizing once again that he didn’t have the faintest idea what do to now that he was here. Perhaps he should have called ahead and requested an appointment, but what would he have said? “Yes, er, I’d like to talk to a priest about a piece of land where I think a demon might have been awakened by a construction guy digging a hole?”
Yes, that would have gone over great.
Probably better to do it in person.
It took him a bit of asking around, but eventually he found someone who could point him at one of the priests who wasn’t busy. He followed the woman down a hallway, and she knocked on an office door. “Father Reed? Someone here to see you.”
Stone wasn’t sure what he thought a priest’s office would look like, but somehow he thought it would be more…ecclesiastical. Sure, a few trappings fit: the large crucifix on one wall, a framed painting of the Virgin Mary on another, but mostly it just looked like the kind of place where work got done. The stacks of books on the desk and overflowing wooden bookshelf reminded him of his own office back at Stanford.
The man behind the desk looked up and smiled, removing a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses and closing the book he’d been reading. “Welcome,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “I’m Father Reed. How may I help you?” He was perhaps fifty, with dark, graying hair and an open, friendly face. He wore a black short-sleeved shirt over a clerical collar.
Stone shook hands. “Hello, Father. Alastair Stone. I work up at Stanford, and—well—I’ve got a few questions for you, if you have a moment.” He offered his business card.
Father Reed studied it. “Department of Occult Studies. That’s one I hadn’t heard of.”
He didn’t look at Stone as if he shouldn’t be here. In fact, he didn’t even seem disturbed by the idea. That was something. “Not surprised—we’re quite small.”
“Why don’t we walk?” Reed came around the desk and indicated the door. “I was about to go get a cup of coffee—would you like one?”
Stone couldn’t decide whether Reed was serious or just wanted to get him out of his office, but he supposed it didn’t matter. “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.” As the priest exited the office, Stone caught a quick look at him with magical sight. His aura was a strong, pulsing gold.
Reed headed off down the hall, moving at a leisurely pace. “So—what can I do for you, Dr. Stone?”
“Well…” Stone considered how to phrase his question so as not to raise Reed’s suspicion about his motives. “I understand the Church keeps records regarding land it used to own. I’m interested in finding out about a particular area, for a…project I’m working on.”
Reed nodded. “There are indeed extensive records about that sort of thing. What area are you talking about, and why do you want to know, if I may ask?” He pushed open a door and waved Stone inside.
It was a break room, much like every other one of its type Stone had ever been in. A counter on one side had a couple of coffee makers, a bowl of fruit, and a microwave; next to it were a refrigerator and a small vending machine. A young woman stood at the microwave, waiting for something to finish cooking.
Stone waited until Father Reed got two cups of coffee and headed for the farthest of the three tables scattered around the room, near another bookshelf and an elaborately framed print of the Last Supper. “It’s an area near Milpitas,” he said. He pulled a map from his briefcase and spread it on the table, indicating the area in question. “It’s a construction site now, but a colleague at Stanford tells me it used to belong to the Church.”
Reed examined the area. “I’d need to check our records, but given where it is, wouldn’t be at all surprised if that used to be Church property. Not any time recently, though. What time period are we talking about?”
“Mid to late eighteen-hundreds, probably.”
“Yes, quite possible, then,” he said. “We didn’t have a Mission in that area, but there was still a heavy Church presence to minister to the local population.” He tilted his head. “If you don’t mind my asking, Dr. Stone, why do you want to know this? Does Occult Studies include the study of the Church?”
“Not…per se.” Stone regarded him for a moment. He seemed like a reasonable guy, and so far his aura hadn’t wavered. “Father…” He pulled the photo of the stone box recovered from Dennis Avila’s house from his briefcase, along with the one showing the wooden cross and its Enochian carvings. He’d made second photocopies of them, cropping them down and removing everything that made them look like police photos. “Have you ever seen something like either of these?”
Reed took the photos, holding one in each hand. He focused on them a lot longer than he had the map, and when he looked up, his expression was thoughtful. “Where did you get these, Dr. Stone?”
“From a colleague.” It wasn’t a lie—he and Johnny Cheng had been colleagues, of sorts. “They thought I’d be interested in them due to the odd carvings on the box and the cross. Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“Does your colleague have these items?”
Careful. He’s sharp. “No. Only the photos. In fact, part of why I want to find out about the area in Milpitas is that I’m trying to track them down and I think they might have originated in the area. So—have you?”
Reed examined the photos for almost another full minute, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two. Finally, he put the photo of the box on the table. “I’ve seen things like this before. It’s not local craftsmanship—by that I mean the Native American and Mexican people who lived in the area. Their art styles are very different. This is obviously quite old and it looks like it had been buried for a long time, but the craftsmanship is beautiful. I’d say it was hand-carved by an artisan, and almost certainly one who belonged to the Church.”
“Do you have any idea what it’s used for?” Stone leaned forward a little. “Does it have a specific purpose?”
“Not a specific one, no. Though those I’ve seen were often used to house sacred objects or other items with spiritual significance.”
Stone nodded. “What about the cross? Do you recognize the carvings?”
Reed pulled his reading glasses from his pocket and settled them into place, pulling the second photo closer. “Yes, but I can’t read them.”
The fact that he even knew what they were surprised Stone. “What do you think they are?”
“They’re crude, but they look to be an ancient language called Enochian. It’s reputed to be the language of the angels.” He looked over his glasses at Stone. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, given your occupation. Or perhaps,” he added, tilting his head, “you did know that.” It was almost, but not quite, a question.
Stone inclined his head. “Touché. I didn’t know if the Church still taught about Enochian. It’s fallen out of favor as a topic of study in the last few decades.”
“Can you read it, Dr. Stone?”
“I can, yes.”
“Would you be willing to share your knowledge?”
Stone paused. This conv
ersation was going in an entirely different direction than he’d planned, but Father Reed had still shown no signs of being put off by it. Perhaps he’d found one of the rare clergymen who didn’t find talk of the occult disturbing, or at least was willing to view it with an open mind. “Let me ask you a question first, Father, if I may.” He glanced over toward the young woman who was the only other occupant of the room; she sat at the table farthest from them, eating something from a plastic container with a book open in front of her. He dropped his volume so his voice didn’t carry. “Do you have any experience dealing with…demons?”
“Demons?” Reed didn’t drop his volume. The young woman glanced up, then quickly returned to her book as if embarrassed to have overheard them.
Stone waited.
“Well…” Reed said carefully after a moment. “I think you’ll need to be more specific, Dr. Stone.”
“Do you believe in them?”
“Would you mind telling me why you’re asking this? We’ve moved quite a distance from questions about former Church property.”
Stone nodded toward the photo of the cross. “You asked me what the Enochian script read. It’s a warning, Father. Since from what I understand the cross was found inside the box, I believe the Enochian message was included as a warning to beware of whatever else was inside, and possibly as an attempt to ward against its power or keep it contained.”
“And you think the box contained a demon?” Reed frowned. “Dr. Stone—”
“No, no. Nothing like that,” Stone lied. Apparently he’d reached the end of the father’s willingness to consider the supernatural. “I teach Occult Studies, I don’t, as you Americans say, ‘drink the Kool-Aid.’ I don’t even believe in demons. This is all purely academic. But given that I think the people who created the box and carved the cross did believe, I’m examining all possible research paths to help me understand what might be going on here.”
Reed gave him a long look as if trying to gauge any ulterior motives. “As you probably know, the Church does on occasion have to deal with…demonic entities. But it’s not common, and if you’re envisioning something like The Exorcist…well, I won’t say it doesn’t happen. Exorcists do exist, and they do grapple with cases of demonic possession. But there aren’t many of them left, and most of them are quite old. It’s…not a doctrine that’s universally accepted these days, and not a calling popular with the younger members of the clergy.”