Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  The two units responded.

  “Culligan, you and Marsten can park at opposite ends of the block, on opposite sides of the street, out of sight. I didn’t see any signs of lookouts when we drove past, but you never know.”

  “What about covering the back?” Culligan asked.

  “There’s no way we can do it,” I answered. “Not at night. The property backs up on waste land. We’d need fifty men, to secure the perimeter. Which means that our only real chance is to take him out the front. Which is why we have to con him.”

  “Does Justin know he’s a suspect?” Culligan asked.

  “I hope not. If he does, we could have a problem. Incidentally, if it should hit the fan, and they all start running, it could be a mess. They’re all look-alikes. They all wear long white robes, and they all wear medallions around their necks, depicting the sun. But remember that, as far as I know, Justin is the only one in there with long hair. The rest of them either have their heads shaved, or else their hair’s cropped close. And Justin’s medallion is at least twice as large as the others’. Justin is twenty-three years old. Slight build, sallow complexion. He’s got sandy hair coming almost to his shoulders. He’s got a beard, too.”

  “What about guns?” Culligan asked. “Do they have any?”

  “As far as we know, there aren’t any guns. There’re three or four guards with spears. But that’s all.”

  “Spears?” It was Marsten’s voice, incredulous.

  “Right,” I answered. “Spears. Any other questions?” There were no questions.

  “All right, then. Let’s do it.” I clicked off the walkie-talkie, and gestured for Canelli to start the engine.

  As we got out of our car and began walking slowly toward the crumbling old mansion, I checked my watch. The time was exactly nine-thirty.

  Back from her Sunday outing with Dan and Billy, Ann was waiting for my call.

  I’d tried to phone her an hour ago, without success. So, before leaving the Hall, I’d asked Friedman to call her, at nine-thirty.

  “It sure seems quiet,” Canelli said, sotto voce. “Deserted, almost.”

  We were about fifty feet from the portico, with its sagging overhead beams and missing pillars. A faint flicker of amber light shone through the door’s beveled glass panes. Of the four tall rococo windows across the front of the house, three were completely dark; only one glowed with faintly reflected lamplight.

  Except for the pale golden light flickering from behind the door and the window, nothing stirred.

  Was the place deserted?

  Were we too late?

  Twenty-five feet from the front door, I gestured Canelli to my side.

  “See anything?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  I pointed to the lighted window. “I’m going to try and see inside. Here—” I gave him the radio. “Check in with Culligan. And keep your eyes open. It’s too quiet.”

  In the darkness, I saw him nod fervently. “You said it, Lieutenant. It feels wrong. All wrong.”

  Not replying, I stepped off the driveway and began picking my way through the weeds and vines that grew thick and tangled between the eucalyptus trees that surrounded us. The night sky was starless, overcast by a thick fog that had come in from the ocean during the twilight hours. Overhead, a cold wind blew through the thick-growing eucalyptus foliage, rattling the leaves with a sound as dry and brittle as paper crackling high above. I hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps from the driveway before the trees and undergrowth closed in around me. I was alone, separated from Canelli. Suddenly I felt a small, stomach-tilted tremor of fear. I was a pavement cop; my instincts were tuned to the sounds of urban life. I’d trained myself to calculate the odds of surviving in the city. I was a professional hunter, and I’d learned to read the signs I found in back alleys, and in dark doorways, and in the foul-smelling rooms that sheltered my prey.

  But here, surrounded by trees that grew so thick that they could have been part of an ancient forest, I felt cut off from something essential. The wind in the eucalyptus leaves confused the cues that could protect me from danger. The vines and brambles clutching at my trouser legs seemed to throw me dangerously off balance as I walked.

  I unbuttoned my jacket, and loosened my revolver in its holster.

  The cold touch of the gun helped—but only a little.

  Then, suddenly, I emerged from the undergrowth to find myself facing the lighted window. Three strides took me to the shoulder-high windowsill. Looking through a cracked pane, I saw that the soft amber glow of light came from a hallway outside the room, not from the room itself.

  And then, above the sound of wind, I heard the soft, undulating murmur of voices speaking in unison. As I listened, the sound of the voices grew slowly louder, gathering momentum. From somewhere inside, I heard the same phrases repeated—once, twice, three times.

  It was a ritual chanting.

  Looking to my left along the side of the house, I saw the thick, awkward figure of Canelli. He was standing just short of the portico, watching me. It was a reassuring sight.

  I pointed to my right, signaling that I intended to move toward the far corner of the house. The sound of the chanting came from that direction. Perhaps, around the corner, I could see more through another window.

  Canelli nodded; he understood. Now he pointed to himself, then toward me. Did I want him to come along? I shook my head.

  Moving slowly and cautiously, picking my way over the uneven, rubble-strewn ground, I made my way to the right. I looked back at Canelli, waved once, and stepped around the corner. On this side of the house, three windows were lighted with the same soft golden glow. The last two windows were larger than the first, which was more ornately framed. I remembered the huge ballroom I’d seen earlier in the day, opening off the hallway to the right. If the whole cult had gathered, it was probably in the ballroom.

  I was right. Peering through one of the leaded panes in the first window, I saw a large group of white-robed figures clustered in the center of the ballroom, crowded close around the small plywood platform I’d seen earlier. They were speaking in unison, repeating some short, unintelligible phrase over and over. Head bowed, arms folded, a single figure stood on the platform. The scene was dimly lit by guttering, smoking flames dancing above a half-dozen huge oil-filled braziers. Except for the Victorian ballroom’s elegant embellishments and the incongruous makeshift platform, I could have been watching some strange medieval rite.

  The platform was still thickly banked by branches and boughs, as I’d seen it before. But, tonight, hundreds of flowers had been entwined among the branches. As I watched and listened, the sounds of the chanting diminished, fading into silence. Quickly counting heads, I estimated the group at about forty. Some of them were standing, some were kneeling on the ornate parquet floor. Others were crouched on their knees, foreheads pressed to the floor. Each of them was facing the improvised platform, waiting expectantly.

  Now the single figure slowly raised his head and spread his arms wide, palms up—eloquently accepting the silent homage from those pressing around him. It was Justin Wade. He stood with his face lifted high, long hair falling back away from his face, eyes fervently raised. It was the pose of someone communing with heaven.

  Now his mouth opened. He was beginning to speak.

  One of the leaded panes was broken. Standing close to it, I heard Justin say:

  “Tonight—now—after the ceremony of initiation and acceptance, I have a vision to share with you. The images are disturbing—dark, ominous shapes watching us from the shadows.” As he spoke, he lowered his eyes, looking out over the faces of his followers, now upturned to him. The faces were rapt, already transfixed as they listened.

  “But first—” he continued, speaking in a calm, melodious monotone. “First, we welcome Sister Katherine Brand among us. She comes to us from a long way—from New Canaan, Connecticut. She’s been with us, sheltered while she healed, for almost three weeks. All of you know her. You kn
ow her story—or, at least, you know some of her story. You know how she went blindly toward the West, escaping. It’s a path many of you took. But, like many of you, Katherine found that even at the edge of the great, cleansing Pacific, she found no peace. She was tortured by demons that raged within and without. She was pursued by men who tried to harm her—the men her parents hired to follow and capture her. She was harassed by the police. She was arrested for a vagrant, a common criminal.

  “And then, finally, she found us. It was an accidental meeting. She was in Saint Francis Park, downtown. She was dirty, and she was hungry. So, bench to bench, she was begging. Then she saw Sister Amy and Brother Michael. They were begging, too. But they were begging for all of us—for Aztecca. In that moment—that one sudden, magic moment—Katherine recognized the faces of friendship. She took their outstretched hands, and came with them—here. To Aztecca. This house became her refuge and her fortress. The men who followed her came to our door, and tried to take her from us. But the guards protected her—as they protect us all. Her pursuers were defeated, and they ran away.

  “After that, Katherine Brand joined us—with her spirit, not just her body. She learned the same lessons we all learned—that our only strength is the strength we have together. If they separate us—catch us unawares—then we’re powerless.

  “She learned, too—as we all learned—that there is no sin, so long as we’re not ashamed. She learned that, together, we live in a perpetual state of innocence, released from the conventions of this world, with our psyches free to wander through the dark, vast void—the universe that I discovered, and will help you to enter with me. She learned to cleanse her body and her mind. She learned how to liberate her spirit from the restraints of society’s taboos. She learned that the body is a temple, a place for celebration. She learned that certain substances can help us in the ceremonies of liberation and celebration.

  “And lastly, she learned how to render these substances from the fruit and the plants of the earth, as our ancient spiritual forefathers did, to free us for travel beyond the restraints of this earth, seeking ultimate truth for us all.”

  As he spoke of his forefathers, Justin used both hands to lift the big sun symbol away from his chest, extending it out toward his followers. Then, still holding the symbol suspended on its golden chain, he turned to face the entrance to the ballroom. At the same time, the audience parted before him, making a pathway to the door.

  Carrying gleaming, broad-bladed spears, two of the cult’s guards appeared in the doorway. Tonight, the guards wore Mayan-style helmets, painted a gleaming gold. They stood motionless in the doorway, at rigid attention, eyes front.

  “As a symbol of her trust,” Justin intoned, “Katherine comes to this ceremony pure in mind and body, as innocent as the day of her birth.”

  With the words, a naked girl came out of the hallway and stood between the guards. At the same moment, the crowd began the same chant I’d heard before. This time, I could make out the words:

  My—ah My—ah

  In—Tu—Tami

  As the guards and the girl came toward the platform, the chanting became louder, repeating the same incantation over and over. With my vision adjusted to the guttering light, I could see more clearly into the faces of the cult members closest to the window.

  Even in the uncertain light, I could clearly recognize the drug addict’s fixed, blank-eyed stare.

  They were an assembly of white-robed, shaven-headed zombies, mindlessly repeating their meaningless chant.

  In front of the platform, the guards stopped. Moving like a robot, the naked girl mounted the short flight of three stairs to the platform. Physically she was unattractive, with broad, flat hips, sharply tapering shoulders, thick thighs and long, sagging breasts. Her face was narrow, with a small, sullen mouth and eyes set too close together. Her head was shaven.

  Her eyes were as empty as a sleepwalker’s.

  On the platform now, she faced Justin. The two stood barely a foot apart, staring deep into each others’ eyes. Justin reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew a small sun symbol. He ceremoniously placed the chain around the girl’s neck, and held the medallion out for her to kiss. Then, his hands on her shoulders, he turned to face the gathering. Raising his widespread hands high above her head, Justin spoke in a clear, ringing voice:

  “From this moment, Katherine Brand no longer exists. From this body, on which I now place my hands”—he lowered his hands again to touch her shoulders—“the woman Franchesca is born, known to all those here as Sister Franchesca, one of us.”

  The hands were raised in final benediction. “Now, with Sister Franchesca, we number forty-three.” As he spoke, the girl descended the three steps and stood with head fervently bowed while two women covered her with a robe. When the sun symbol fell in place between her breasts, the cultists began chanting:

  My—ah My—ah

  In—Tu—Tami

  Justin stood with his head bowed, arms at his sides, utterly motionless. Slowly, inexorably, the voices grew louder, more fervent. As the chanting gathered intensity, the lifeless, masklike faces surrounding the platform began to change. Deep in the blank, dead eyes, sparks of passion kindled. A note of hysteria crept into the litany. Soon the eyes were blazing fanatically. Repeating the meaningless words, the formless mouths drew tight and cruel. All heads were turned toward the figure on the platform. In moments, the dull, passive group had become a mob.

  My—ah My—ah

  In—Tu—Tami

  Through it all, Justin still stood motionless, head still bowed, arms still rigid at his sides.

  Then, as if the chanting had generated some strange energy that pulsated through his body, he began to tremble. He was shuddering visibly as he raised his head, struggling against the strange force that possessed him. His eyes were tightly closed. His jaw was clenched. His face glistened in the dancing light, streaming perspiration. Now, suddenly, he raised his outstretched hands. Instantly, the crowd fell silent. Eyes still closed, Justin began speaking in a low, strangely disembodied voice:

  “I have just been away from you. I have just journeyed far from this time and place, across the great, empty mists that separate this world from the one farther out, beyond infinity.

  “And it has been a terrible journey. Because it has shown me the faces of our enemies.” As he said it, Justin’s eyes came open. The blaze in his eyes matched the manic light dancing in his followers’ eyes, all around him. His voice was deeper, suddenly more compelling:

  “My pathway was lined with their faces,” he said. “Each turn I took, they pressed closer. I saw their arms raised, ready to strike at me. At first, the faces were strange to me. But then, as they came closer, I could recognize them.

  “I saw them for who they are—those same monsters who have followed us all through all our lives…who followed us here, to Aztecca…

  “And who…”

  He paused, traversing the crowd with his zealot’s stare as he used both hands to lift his sun symbol away from his chest, holding it high.

  “And who”—he repeated, dropping his voice to a low, vengeful note and pacing the words with slow, dramatic emphasis—“are preparing to attack us here, at Aztecca.”

  On cue, the protesting voices swelled to an ominous chorus of deadly, purposeful anger.

  At that moment, something hard and sharp was jammed into the small of my back.

  “Don’t turn around,” a voice said. “Just step back from the window. Two steps. Slow.”

  I sighed. “Listen, you’ve—”

  This time, pain shot up my back. “Put up your hands. Move.” Once more, he jabbed me.

  “All right. Take it easy.” I stepped back two slow, careful steps, holding my hands shoulder high. Then, without waiting for another command, I pivoted to face one of the thick-shouldered, flat-eyed guards. He was holding a short spear against my stomach, pressed just above the naval.

  “I saw you today,” I said. “Earlier. I’m
a police lieutenant. Put the spear down, or it’s your ass.”

  In response, I saw his fists tighten on the spear’s shaft. Even in the dim light from the tall leaded window, I could see a bright, dangerous light glinting in his eyes.

  “What’re you doing here?” His voice was low and hoarse, roughened by suppressed rage.

  “I came to talk with Justin. He’s been helping us with his stepsister’s murder. We need him downtown.”

  “How many more are there?”

  “One more. At the front door.” I tried to speak steadily, reassuringly. As I spoke, I slowly lowered my hands.

  “Put your hands up.”

  But this time he didn’t jab with the spear.

  Once more, I sighed. Trying to pitch my voice to a casual note of patronizing boredom, I said, “Listen, friend, I’d like to remind you that I’m a police officer, acting in the line of duty. Now—” I nodded at the spear, an inch from my stomach. “Now, I’m not going to come down on you for that. You’re acting as a guard, and I looked like an intruder. There’s no problem. However, that was two minutes ago. Now I’ve identified myself. And if you continue to threaten me, as I said, it’s your ass. If you’re not careful, you’ll spend the night in jail.”

  He’d shifted into the shadow I cast, so that I couldn’t see his eyes. But I saw the point of the spear drop slightly.

  Irrationally, I thought that, at the very moment Ann and Pete were probably talking amiably on the phone, I was facing a shaven-headed, blank-eyed fanatic who was threatening me with a homemade spear.

  “I’m going to give you exactly ten seconds,” I said. “And then I’m going to—”

  “Drop the goddamn spear. Now.” It was Canelli’s voice. He’d stepped out of the trees directly behind the guard. As the guard whirled instinctively, I grabbed the spear with both hands, stepped close and swung my knee into his crotch. He grunted and bent double. Then, holding himself, he sank to his knees and knelt in the darkness, rocking silently from side to side.