by T. Frohock
Next to the newspapers were several typewritten sheets bearing Ferrer y Esperanza’s emblem of crossed rifles. Names and job titles were listed. Any workers with associations within either the CNT or the more moderate Socialist workers’ union, the UGT, carried a black mark beside their name.
So Ferrer fires the union members before they can make trouble. That should give Guillermo the information he needed about the industrialist’s political leanings. It was troubling but not unexpected. Having watched the landowners in Andalusia starve the farmworkers into compliance, Diago hadn’t expected a man like Ferrer to be any different.
As he replaced the papers, he noticed one of the desk drawers was partially open. Inside, a heavy manila folder marked “CONFIDENTIAL” caught Diago’s eye. He removed the memo. Then he carefully replaced the folder in the drawer.
The short message indicated three men were to deliver a shipment of firearm primer to a destination in El Raval. As Diago puzzled over it, he kept coming back to the address, which made no sense at all. There aren’t any factories in that area.
What the hell was Ferrer doing?
The front door banged open. Diago jumped at the sound. He whirled toward the door and banged his bandaged hand on the corner of the desk. Oh, shit, shit. Pain throbbed up his arm and into his shoulder. Can this day get any worse? He folded the memo and quickly jammed it into his coat pocket. Maybe Guillermo could make some sense of it.
“Elena!” It was Señora Ferrer, and from the pitch of her voice, Diago knew she was irritated at some perceived affront. “Is my husband still home?”
May God help him. Cradling his injured hand, Diago looked over the briefcase and the papers. Satisfied everything seemed as it was when he’d entered the room, he went to the pocket door and leaned out.
Elena hurried into the foyer from the direction of the kitchen. “He is, Señora.”
“Take these packages.” Señora Ferrer clacked down the hall on her precariously high heels, wavering slightly. Knowing her fondness for sherry, it didn’t take much to guess she was drunk. “Salvador!” she cried out. “Why have they canceled our account at Santa Eulalia?”
Santa Eulalia. No wonder Ferrer was going broke if his wife shopped at such high-end stores.
In the foyer, Elena juggled the packages. One thin box slid from the pile. The maid knelt to retrieve it and glanced toward the office.
Diago ducked back inside; in doing so, he jarred a picture on the wall. He caught the rosewood frame and righted it. Encased behind the glass was a manuscript fragment. Judging from the reddish color of the ink and the amber coloration of the paper, the document was ancient.
The fragment was small, no more than eight centimetres wide and ten tall. The edges were charred, as if someone had tried to push it into a fire with a poker.
A sigil was drawn in the center of the page. Scorch marks obliterated most of the details, yet Diago clearly made out an “X” superimposed over a cross. The left and right arms of the cross bore crescent moons facing away from one another. The position of the opposing moons told Diago the glyph was for a daimon.
But which one? And why would Ferrer have a daimonic sigil hanging in his house? Very few mortals knew or cared about the Nefilim, and of those that did, none hung glyphs openly in their homes. Mortals who engaged in supernatural activities were more secretive than Los Nefilim.
Intrigued, Diago reached out with his left hand to lift the frame from the wall.
“Señor Alvarez.” Ferrer’s voice was loud and close.
Diago started and looked up at the industrialist. Ferrer was built like a bull, broad-shouldered and still somewhat narrow at the hips in spite of middle age thickening his paunch. He towered over Diago.
This is awkward. Think of something. He pointed at the fragment. “This is an extraordinary piece. I didn’t know you collected antiquities.”
Ferrer was nonplussed by the compliment. “I don’t. It was a gift from one of the old families in the Gothic Quarter. Iniguez was the name.”
“Don José Iniguez?”
“Why, yes. He stopped by yesterday and presented me with the fragment as a gift. He is interested in investing in Ferrer y Esperanza. Do you know him?”
Clearly not as well as I thought. Diago never imagined José would be interested in investing money in anything other than whores and gambling. He realized Ferrer was waiting for an answer. “I rented a room from his mother Doña Rosa. I had very little contact with Don José, but Doña Rosa is an honorable woman.”
Ferrer nodded. “Good to know.”
“Why hang such a lovely gift in the dark?”
“Don José said to keep the fragment in the shadows in order to preserve the ink.”
I’ll bet he did, Diago thought. Nothing rendered a daimonic sigil impotent like too much sunlight. “It’s an intriguing document. Did he say where he found it?”
“No.” Ferrer’s tone indicated he didn’t care either. He’d probably only accepted the gift and given it a token place in his home in order to court José and his money.
Diago wondered how José had come into possession of the document. Prieto? Maybe. The angel had paid José to trick Miquel. He’d also promised Doña Rosa he would divert José from his self-destructive behavior. Maybe Prieto had made good on his agreements. But why give José a daimonic sigil? Was Prieto trying to hide it from the daimons or for the daimons? And why here?
So many questions . . . and not nearly enough answers . . .
Ferrer interrupted Diago’s speculations. “Elena said you wanted to see me.”
“Ah, yes.” Diago reined his questions under control. There would be plenty of time to puzzle through the mystery later. “I came to repay you.” He withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket. “You gave me a most generous advance, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to continue as Enrique’s instructor.”
Ferrer took the envelope and thumbed through the banknotes. No amount of restraint could hide the pleasure in his eyes. “It’s no matter. We sold the piano. Enrique showed no interest in it. I’d be happy to give you a referral.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve secured employment elsewhere.”
“Really? With whom?”
“Don Guillermo Ramírez. He is a landowner just outside of Barcelona.”
“I’ve heard of Ramírez. Isn’t he something of an artisan?”
“He does ornate metalwork on commission.”
“A blacksmith.”
“Like Gaudí was in construction.”
Ferrer grunted and didn’t look impressed. He went to his desk and opened the file drawer, removing the CONFIDENTIAL folder. Diago’s pulse kicked up speed. He almost didn’t hear Ferrer’s next words. “I understand from Inspector Garcia you stopped an anarchist from setting off a bomb near a child.”
Diago nodded and barely managed to move his numb lips. “That is true.”
Ferrer placed the folder in his briefcase alongside the ledger. “CNT?”
Some of the tension loosened in Diago’s chest. “It all happened very fast, but Inspector Garcia assured me the anarchists were involved. He asked I not say too much, because they’re still investigating.”
“I understand.” Ferrer snapped shut his briefcase, and Diago’s heart rate returned to normal. “Thank you for coming, Alvarez.”
Ferrer’s abrupt dismissals used to rankle Diago to no end. Today he felt nothing but relief. He bowed his head in Ferrer’s direction. “Please give my regards to your wife and son.”
“Thank you.” Ferrer rang for Elena.
Diago followed her to the door, trying hard not to step on her heels. He expected Ferrer to call him back into the office to explain why he’d been pawing through the man’s private papers.
They had reached the foyer when Señora Ferrer’s voice called from the kitchen. “Elena! Don’t we have anot
her bottle of La Gitana?”
“An excellent sherry,” Diago said as he aimed himself toward the door. “I’ll see myself out.”
Elena’s jaw tightened with irritation.
He didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he fled the apartment and headed for the elevator, quite happy to be done with the Ferrers once and for all. Except for the fragment. That might necessitate a return trip. He would let Guillermo decide what to do with the information.
Diago rode the elevator to the main floor and exited the building. Outside, Garcia was nowhere to be seen. Either he had hidden himself well, or he was off on another task for Guillermo.
Relieved, Diago turned toward the Gothic Quarter and decided to avoid the metro. Another encounter with Alvaro was the last thing he needed.
He had just crossed the street when a police car rolled to a stop beside the curb. Had Ferrer discovered the missing memo? Diago made a conscious effort to keep his hand away from his pocket.
The youth behind the wheel cranked down his window with ferocious speed. “Excuse me, Doctor Alvarez!”
Doctor? Oh Jesus, what now? Diago bent over and saw Garcia’s terse face glowering from the passenger side of the car. This day was not getting better.
Garcia emerged from the car. The urgency in his step alarmed Diago. His concern shifted from the stolen memo to Guillermo and Miquel. Had something happened to them?
Garcia rounded the bumper.
“What’s the matter?” Diago asked.
Garcia clenched Diago’s bicep and propelled him to the car’s back door. “You’re a doctor now, do you understand?”
Diago twisted free and lowered his voice. “Don’t touch me again.”
“Just get in the fucking car.”
“At least tell me what kind of doctor I’m supposed to be.”
“An alienist.”
Diago calmed somewhat. Guillermo was in no danger if he had sent for Diago to play the role of a criminal psychiatrist, and that likewise meant Miquel was safe.
Whenever mortals were involved and his friend had needed someone to read the patterns of a daimon attack, he’d called on Diago and passed him off as an alienist. Now that he was Los Nefilim, Guillermo must have decided wining and dining him was no longer a necessary component of the request. “And what kind of crime am I investigating?”
“We don’t have time for questions.” Garcia jerked the door open. “Get in.”
No use arguing. The sooner he got inside, the sooner they’d arrive . . . where? There could be only one place. Guillermo had mentioned a visit to Doña Rosa Iniguez. Diago got in the car.
Garcia slammed the door hard enough to rattle the window in its frame.
Diago caught the young mortal’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “What’s happened?”
The young man licked his lips. “He killed them all,” he whispered. “He’s insane.”
Garcia rounded the right bumper.
Diago resisted the urge to lean forward. “Who?”
The officer clutched the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. Before he could answer, Garcia jerked open the door and got in the front seat.
“Drive.”
Chapter Three
The lump, which had settled in Diago’s stomach outside the Casa Milà, grew heavier when they stopped at the corner of Carrer de les Magdalenes and Carrer de Montsio. A few doors down Montsio, two young officers guarded the entrance to Doña Rosa’s home.
Don’t assume the worst. Maybe Doña Rosa escaped whatever calamity befell her house. She could easily have been at church, or out with friends. Diago didn’t ask. He didn’t want his illusions shattered too soon.
Their driver stopped the car in front of one of the barricades. More police blocked both ends of the street and held back a crowd of spectators. Death didn’t just draw the ravens anymore.
Diago got out and followed a few steps behind Garcia. They had only gone ten paces when a photographer stepped away from the crowd and aimed his camera at them.
Just what I don’t need. Diago dropped his head and angled his hat to obscure his features. Judging from today’s adventure, Ferrer read the papers extensively. What if he saw Diago’s picture and a caption identifying him as an alienist investigating a crime scene? Christ. Garcia should have brought them in through the alley behind Doña Rosa’s house. Too late now. Diago gritted his teeth.
The flash popped and spun back the shadows. Garcia shoved the camera into the man’s nose. The crunch of cartilage was loud enough to carry over the murmurs of the crowd. A spectator cried out at the sudden violence. The man dropped his camera and clutched his bleeding face.
Garcia ripped out the film. “Arrest that man. I’ll deal with him later.”
Brutal but effective. Diago didn’t wait for Garcia. The inspector caught up with him faster than he would have liked.
“Was that really necessary?” Diago muttered.
“Mortals are like dogs, Alvarez.” Garcia straightened his sleeves. “Make an example of one”—he gestured over his shoulder at the photographer, who was being shoved into a police car—“and the rest of them stay out of our way.”
Diago wasn’t sure if Garcia’s “our” referred to the police or Los Nefilim; although knowing Garcia’s contempt for mortals, Diago guessed it was the latter. He would have argued the point, but they had reached the front door. Both of the older mortals guarding the entrance gave Garcia twin smiles of tacit approval over his handling of the photographer.
Diago had to admit Garcia knew how to manipulate their allegiance. Maybe he does know what he’s doing, but it doesn’t mean I have to approve of his tactics.
One of the officers opened the door. “It’s ugly.”
“I’m sure the doctor has seen worse.” Garcia gestured for Diago to enter first.
Inside, the smell hit his sinuses like a club. Diago withdrew his handkerchief and used it to cover his nose. The thin cotton did little to mask the odor of feces and rotten flesh. The first analogy entering his mind was Valencia during the plague years, but that was wrong. The plague had left a definitive odor of illness in its wake. There was no smell of sickness here.
This was a charnel house. A fly dragged its bloated body along the scuffed wainscoting. The telephone stand was crushed to splinters, the telephone itself lost somewhere beneath the rubble.
When Diago had sufficiently gotten his gag reflex under control, he lowered the handkerchief. Like the touch of a ghost, he detected the faint scent of Doña Rosa’s talcum. The smell hung in the foyer and left a sickly sweet taste on his tongue.
Garcia closed the door on the street sounds. Silence descended over them. Diago thought of tombs and the quiet dead.
He looked at the blood-spattered walls. Notes of a black song inched across the wallpaper. One sound wave fluttered beside the banister, buoyant as a moth. In it, Diago heard the echo of a moan. He thought he recognized the voice of one of Doña Rosa’s other tenants: Anselmo was his name. That was all Diago could remember about him—his name and his love of sour candies, the wrappers of which followed him like a trail. The echo of Anselmo’s death touched a bloodied handprint on the wall, then slithered into the stain to disappear beneath the wallpaper.
Diago glanced at Garcia, who made no sign the sounds bothered him. Just like on the train, the inspector was less receptive to the resonances than Diago. So while Garcia might glimpse the vibrations from the corner of his eye, he wouldn’t see them as clearly as the daimon-born. Too, in a place as old as Barcelona, the Nefilim had learned to tune out the darker sounds as a matter of self-preservation. Those who listened too long, or too deeply, sought suicide as a release from the echoes of grief.
Like the others, Diago detached himself from the darkness around him, but he didn’t blind himself to the shades of death. Blindness creates mortals like Ferrer. Or Nefilim like Garcia. It was better
to see clearly. Even the ugliness of the world had its place.
Eventually, the death-song in Doña Rosa’s house would fade. Only the most sensitive mortals, perhaps those with a touch of daimon in their soul, would perceive something bad ever happened in this house. Decades from now, the dark sounds would be gone, washed away by time and the resonances of new lives.
Diago looked away from the ghostly whispers. “What happened?”
“José murdered his mother and the two tenants.”
Diago felt as if he’d been punched. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping poor Doña Rosa wasn’t dead. He recalled the sympathy in her eyes when he told her he’d never known his father. She didn’t deserve such an end. A touch of anger filtered into his voice. “When?”
Garcia shrugged. “The coroner is working out a time frame. We know they’d been dead for several days. A neighbor called about the smell. The police found José up there this morning.” He nodded at the stairwell. “Writing on the walls. Don Guillermo got here and charmed his way inside. Chief Inspector Mieras knew I had business at the Casa Milà. He sent a car to find me while I was babysitting you.”
That explained Garcia’s rage back at the Casa Milà. He had missed being first on the scene. Babysitting apparently kept him from his more important duties. “Where are the bodies?”
“They’ve already taken them to the morgue. What was left of them.”
Diago winced. “José?”
“They’ve taken him to the hospital.”
“Which one?”
“Holy Cross.”
The lunatic asylum.