Incubi

by Edward Lee

  “Bugger them,” Jack said. He knew what Randy meant, though. The people upstairs were axmen. Don’t give them a reason to chop off your head.

  A few minutes later, Faye Rowland straggled in, briefcase in tow. She looked disheveled and tired. Jack introduced her to Randy, then cleared room for her at his desk. “Well?” he said, and put a cup of coffee in her hand.

  She took one sip and pushed it away. “I identified the term aorista and its applications to the occult. It took all day.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Jack asked.

  “Let’s just say your killer is into something very authentic.”

  “You identified the ritual?” Randy asked.

  “Aorista denotes a process that doesn’t end?” Then she said to Jack, “You were right to apply the term directly to the ritual, you were exactly right. The word is a general reference to a type of sect, cult, or schismatic religious unit that practices a specific ritual in a manner that is philosophically indefinite. Just think of it as a general term — an aorist sect. They were big in the Middle Ages; in those days the ruling classes were unduly influenced by the Catholic Church, so if you weren’t in the Church, and if you weren’t nobility, you were a peasant. Witchcraft and demon worship grew out of a rebellion to organized Christianity. Devil worship was the social counterculture of the times, the poor man’s way of striking back against his oppressors, and the aorist sects were the most extreme mode of this rebellion. While the average peasant was saying Black Mass, the aorists were killing priests, burning churches, and sacrificing children. They were the transitive component of a belief that was largely intransitive.”

  “Action instead of words,” Jack speculated.

  “Right. The aorist sects were to satanism what the Jesuits are to the Catholics.”

  Randy loosened his tie. “What about the sacrifice angle?”

  “Mankind has been making sacrifices for the last thirty thousand years. The only way I can identify this specific ritual is if I’m lucky enough to match its protocol to your crime scene.”

  “What do you figure your chances are?” Jack asked.

  “Not good,” Faye Rowland admitted. “The fund of information is too obscure. There aren’t any reference books I can just whip open and identify our sect. It’s like a needle in a haystack.”

  Jack crushed out his Camel and lit another. He was thinking, thumbing his eyebrows. “Protocol… Ritual… Our forensic tech determined that the knife used on Shanna Barrington was made of some kind of brittle stone. Flint maybe, or obsidian.”

  Faye looked at him baldly. “Many civilizations, once they’d begun to develop organized religious systems, believed that fire was a gift from the gods. Flint sparks, so they used flint for their sacrificial implements. The Toltecs are the best example, and the Seleucids of Asia Minor. And a lot of the aorist sects used knives chipped out of volcanic glass—”

  “Obsidian,” Jack muttered.

  “—for a similar symbolic reason. They worshiped demons, which they believed lived deep in the earth, so they crafted their tools out of materials that came from the same place. They were using what they’d been given to exalt the giver. Gifts of the devil to people of the devil.”

  Jack felt a weird chill run up his back, the same chill he felt anytime he asked himself how far madness could go. Madness could have order, couldn’t it? It was a creepy thought.

  “They were called dolches,” Faye added. “Not knives. Dolches.”

  Randy looked disgruntled. “We were hoping it was just some crackpot or a random nutcase who’s into the occult.”

  “Oh, no,” she assured. “Whatever your killer is into, it’s not something he read in some paperback occult manual. It’s very deep and very intricate. The aorist sects were the ultimate form of religious sedition in the Middle Ages. They butchered babies, roasted virgins on solstice feasts, gutted priests like deer.”

  “Great,” Jack sputtered.

  The pale lamplight made black punch holes of Faye Rowland’s tired eyes. “This guy’s no crackpot, Captain. He’s the real McCoy.”

  Chapter 12

  Becky reread the lines she’d scribbled in her book:

  Evil kisses, or angelic sendings?

  I want to be in a bed of beginnings,

  Not endings.

  She turned her nose up at it. Here was the next one:

  THE GHOST

  Remnants never vanish

  but give spawn to loss

  and banish all I care for

  on the earth. Does this

  last ghost give birth to a

  new me, or another

  impassioned catastrophe?

  The things I do to make things

  rhyme-Jesus! — what a crime to

  time and art and the cooling ashes

  of the broken heart. But it should

  be fun at least to see what

  midnight passion beckons me next

  to the next caress of faith.

  Becky knew her poetry wasn’t very good, not from a poet’s standpoint anyway. She didn’t care, though. She wrote poetry for herself. She’d picked up a guy last week who wanted to know about it. This was unusual because guys generally didn’t care about aspects of her that didn’t involve coitus. “You should try to get it published,” he’d said. “That would be unthinkable,” she’d returned. “Why write it if other people can’t read it?” “Because it’s not for other people. It’s for me. Poetry is how I define myself.” What a moron. He hadn’t even come close to understanding. At least he understood how to put his penis into her. That’s all she’d wanted him for in the first place.

  The mirror reflected back her thirty-one years like an inner eye of all that her past had led to. Becky Black assayed herself nude. Minuscule bikini marks resembled white satin underthings against the dark tan. She worked hard to keep trim; she stood 5’6” and weighed 107. She was lithe, not skinny. Long sleek legs ascended to a sculpted contour of hourglass curves. A thought from the past lingered when she looked at her breasts. Cupcakes. They were firm as lemons, with soft-pink areolae. Philip had referred to them as cupcakes during his efforts in the bedroom. He’d used all kinds of silly, adoring little pet names for her body parts. Her breasts were “cupcakes.” Her navel was her “Becky button,” and her vagina was her “little lamb.” This aspect of his adoration amused her. Philip was arcane and very loving, but little else. “I love you more than you ever have been loved or ever will be loved,” he often cryptically remarked. This was probably true, but so what? Their one-year marriage left her bored and unimpressed. His love did not scratch her itches, so why should she feel guilty? She’d cheated on him like a she-demon at the merest turn of his inept back, the poor fool. Frequently, she had called him at work while handsome strangers put the blocks to her. Marriage seemed a silly — even embarrassing — blight that too many people let crawl over their lives. It seemed like a mistake. Philip’s love did not change the way she viewed her desires. Love did not give her completeness; adventure, risk and physical diversity did. Once she’d been talking to her friend Debbie, and said, “Marriage is like going to McDonald’s every day and eating a fish sandwich. Sometimes a girl wants a Big Mac,” which may have been the first time in history that fast food assumed a philosophical application. Philip was a fish sandwich. The marriage fell apart in a year.

  Release! She thought of birds soaring from the prisons of their cages. She was free. Without the millstone of marriage about her neck, society became her own private playground. It amazed her how easily the lure of sex transformed mature, capable men into mindless marionettes with erections. She could walk into any bar at any time and leave with another pinch of the spice her life needed. She picked up all manner of men: young, old, rich, poor, conventional, eccentric. The McDonald’s theorem held true; it was variety that fulfilled her, not complacency. Becky Black didn’t want love. She wanted fireworks every night, a new Roman candle to explode in her, and catherine wheels of flesh to light the fuse o
f her lust.

  She didn’t care how shallow her plight might truly be.

  * * *

  The night seemed to ripple with waves of energy, charging the City Dock into a carnival. Becky parked across from the Harbour Square Shops. Frolicking droves of revelers moved from one bar to the next. Pedicabs carried lovers away under the moon, and music beat in the air. Becky’s sheer, clinging dress inspired a periodic whistle; four midshipmen in summer whites leered as her long legs carried her across Randall Street, high heels clicking. A new place called the Map Room beckoned her with cubistic neon squiggles in the window; she entered into a crush of young lawyers and upper-class floozies. Another clique bar, where people came to pretend to be chic and paid eight dollars for a mixed drink. New Order beat bleakly from high speakers; more neon lights flashed. At the long black marble bar, men stood leaving their Porsche and Jag keys in plain view, while their dates sat perched alertly on Art Deco stools, laughing at jokes they didn’t get. The waitresses looked like an old Robert Palmer video, and the barkeeps looked like genetic hybrids of Mickey Rourke and Morrissey. False pretenses raged; Becky liked the place.

  “Excuse me, miss—”

  The sparsest of accents, sexy in reservation.

  She turned around.

  “May I buy you a drink?”

  She stared through the utter failure of trying not to. The urge was a summons.

  He was beautiful.

  “Yes, you may,” Becky replied as the clock struck midnight.

  * * *

  Veronica sat up late in the vast living room, sharing her company with Amy Vandersteen. Very little in life came easily, Veronica reasoned, but disliking Amy Vandersteen was an exception. She was arrogance, pride, and ego all wrapped up in one.

  “I’m doing a short screenplay, a melange,” Amy said. She stretched rudely on the couch with her feet up. “I’m not clear yet as to the leitmotif, but Erim suggested I use my dreams as the basic thematic premise.”

  Erim, Veronica thought. She still didn’t know how to assess Khoronos; her initial physical attraction seemed to be restructuring itself into something more complex. Yet whatever the attraction, she still had to confess an incontrovertible jealousy.

  She didn’t, for instance, like the way Amy said Erim. The lax, easy tone implied they’d known each other for years, which she undoubtedly wanted everyone to think. “So what do you think of…Erim?” Veronica finally asked.

  “Oh, he’s absolutely awesome,” Amy replied, wriggling her toes in the plush couch upholstery. “He’s the most aesthetically sagacious person I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something, considering my own creative status. He and I get along famously.”

  Veronica’s frown menaced her face. “Famously, huh? How long have you known him?”

  “Oh, just a few weeks. He came to my latest opening, Princess Sex and Death. It doesn’t matter that we haven’t known each other long. Truly great relationships often begin spontaneously.”

  Veronica wanted to howl. Relationship! All she wanted to do just then was dump her iced-tea right into this silly woman’s lap.

  “He told me he’s from Yugoslavia,” Amy went on. Her face was a smugly content mask within the frame of ridiculous white-dyed hair. “I don’t know about the other two, but who cares, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gilles, Marzen — they’re babies. You can have them, you and your novelist friend. Me, I prefer an older man, more mature and sophisticated. I’m gunning for Erim.”

  Veronica, hot not to scowl, reserved comment, though several rather articulate ones came to mind. This “retreat”—the entire idea of it — perplexed her more and more. So far it was a bust. They’d had a few communal meals together, a few conversations, and that was it. In fact, Veronica hadn’t seen Khoronos and his two protegés all day. She hadn’t seen Ginny either, not since morning.

  She picked at a tray of cold hors d’oeuvres they’d found in the refrigerator: handmade Korean egg rolls and spiced cabbage. No dinner had been prepared tonight, which made her wonder further. Khoronos might be mysterious and intellectual, but as a host he was striking out. With her fingers, she ate several pieces of cabbage.

  “This stuff’s not bad,” she remarked. “You should try it.”

  Amy Vandersteen grimaced at the tray. She dug in a pocket, extricating a tiny steel pipe, a lighter, and a vial.

  “You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Veronica groaned.

  “Why? It’s a free country.”

  “Someone could walk in.”

  “Who? Just your novelist friend, and I haven’t seen her. Erim left with Marzen and Gilles hours ago. He has a beautifully restored Fleetwood, all black. He said they won’t be back till morning.”

  This, too, puzzled Veronica. “Where did they go?”

  Ms. Vandersteen tapped white powder from the vial into the steel pipe. “Business, he said.”

  Business? At midnight? Just what kind of business was Khoronos in? “Did he give you that shit?” she asked.

  Amy laughed chidingly. “No, he did not give me this shit. Frankly, I don’t think Erim uses coke, none of them do.”

  “You should take an example.”

  Another dismissive laugh. “A prude, are you, Veronica?”

  “I’m not a prude. I just don’t think it’s too cool to come into a man’s home and freebase cocaine without his knowledge.”

  Amy Vandersteen was heating up the pipe. “It’s not Erim’s house, it’s a friend’s, some investor who’s out of the country for a while. Didn’t you know that?”

  Apparently there was a lot Veronica didn’t know. Hadn’t Khoronos implied it was his house?

  “Erim vacations here a lot. That’s what he told me.”

  “Where does he live, then?”

  “All over — he told me that too. Kind of strange.”

  Yes, it was. Suddenly Veronica felt steeped in questions, and this made her jealousy worse. Amy Vandersteen seemed to know everything about Khoronos. What made her so privileged? “Do you know what he does for money?” she finally summoned the nerve to ask. Rich friends. Living from place to place. Business at midnight. And what had he said their first day here? Faith bestows treasure upon the faithful? “Is he involved with drugs?”

  “You’re so paranoid. Erim is not involved with drugs. He’s independently wealthy — old, old family money.”

  Veronica watched in loathsomeness. Amy brought the tiny pipe to her lips and sucked until the flame sublimated the cocaine. Then she relaxed back on the couch, grinning dopily. “Class A,” she said.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “You want some?”

  “No thanks. I’d prefer not to contribute to the denigration of our society.”

  Amy Vandersteen chuckled tightly, eyes closed in the sudden infusion of bliss. “You’re unique, Veronica. A conservative artist.”

  “I’m not a conservative, I just don’t break the law.”

  “But laws are only for the inferior minority.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Because I’m superior enough to handle it.”

  “Tell that to the two million cocaine addicts in this country. They thought they could handle it too. The same people you buy that shit from are the same people who sell crack to elementary school kids. It’s all part of the same machine.”

  “Other people’s weaknesses aren’t my problem.”

  “That garbage ruins people’s lives, and it’s shitheads like you who lend a helping hand every time you buy it. Maybe you’ll have kids someday, Amy. Maybe the same slobs you buy from will get them hooked. See how you feel about it then.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll never have kids. And I’ll ignore those remarks. You know why? Because I like you, Veronica. You have conviction, and I like that.” She sat up again, to prepare the pipe. “I even think you and I could be friends.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Veronica replied. She got up and headed for the stairs.

 
* * *

  His name was Fraus, which sounded German. He was dreamy and handsome; he was different. He carried an air of the genteel — a lost prince — yet his first kiss had shown her a robust and very fervid passion. The kiss had taken her, and that’s what Becky wanted. To be taken.

  At the Map room they’d talked about poetry, which he seemed to know a lot about. His favorites were Shelley, Jarrell, and Seymour. But Becky didn’t dare tell him that she was a poet — he might ask to see her work. He had rather short black hair, slightly mussed, which added to the image of the lost prince. His body must be magnificent beneath the tailored Italian suit. And he must have money — which always helped. The suit looked expensive, and he’d thought nothing of ordering a bottle of Perrier-Jouet for $145. “Like sipping rainbows,” he’d said. Strange, though, that he’d consumed none himself.

  Her attraction to this man had put a caul around them, closing out the Map Room’s din. Fraus gestured his words with periodic touches. He told her with his hands what he wanted, and Becky liked that too. His hands transcended words — they told her he needed to touch.

  Of course he’d agreed to the “nightcap” at her place. Becky maintained her front, letting him in, locking the door, getting the drinks. She chatted about her job as he surveyed her abode. But that was where the game ended.

  They broke at the same time, sensing each other. His kiss was first delicate, then explosive. His big hand gripped the back of her head, and his mouth devoured hers. A great finesse enabled him to continue kissing her as he stripped her right there in the living room, shedding his own garments alternately.

  All he left on were her stockings.

  The brashness of his desire excited her. When the door closes, the masks come off. The closed door left them to be what they really were: night creatures pursuing their own lusts. What was wrong with that? This was the new century, the age of assertions, and she could tell, stripped bare by a perfect stranger, that her little lost prince was a very assertive man. She was already thinking of the poem she would write: “The Lost Prince.”