Doctor Orient

by Frank Lauria

  “It seems to fit now, doesn’t it?” Orient said.

  “I’m afraid it does, Owen,” Redson sighed.

  “What do you mean, gentlemen?” Levi asked.

  “The only man who can perform a Black Mass is a fully ordained priest,” Orient explained. “His fingers are consecrated when he receives the sacrament of Holy Orders and endowed with the power to change the wafers and wine into the actual body and blood of Christ.”

  “It’s called transubstantiation,” Redson filled in.

  “How does all that affect non-Catholics?” Simpson demanded. “Are you saying that the Catholic Church is the true religion after all?”

  Orient smiled weakly; he was used to being kept neutral by Simpson. “Not exactly, although I’m sure that Bishop Redson can give you a good argument on that point. As I was telling Hap earlier, there are many forms of the same power. Catholicism is a very strong form. You must remember that in the Western world the Church managed to hold the franchise on much of man’s recorded knowledge through a thousand years of destruction and ignorance. The black mass itself can be a tremendous generator for evil energy, being the reverse of the Holy Mass, which calls upon the powers of light and good. Every action has an opposite and equal reaction.”

  “D’Te is a scoundrel,” Redson blurted out suddenly, “and I’m afraid we’re in for a bit of trouble.”

  “How’s that, Bishop?” Levi asked mildly.

  Redson regarded the bearded dentist for a moment. “Because,” he said finally, “the man was one of the most brilliant theologians I have ever encountered, and he has a tremendous knowledge of the occult.”

  The room was quiet for a few seconds. ‘

  “That explains how Malta was first trapped in her trance.” Orient reflected aloud. “D’Te has been conducting a black mass and generating his energy field here in New York. Malta was drawn in to D’Te’s field and held.” “But why did he have to kill her?” Hap’s anguished voice broke into Orient’s theory.

  “I don’t know,” Orient said softly, “but I promise you we’ll find out.”

  “That might be difficult, Owen,” Redson said.

  “Yes,” Orient took the silver case from his coat pocket. As he lit his cigarette the smoke’s acrid odor imbued the room. He studied the case as he spoke. “Yes, that’s true, but we must help that girl. She still isn’t safe… after all she’s been through.”

  A door slammed somewhere in the house.

  “Remember now, that D’Te has been inside your home through the girl and through Hap,” Redson warned. “Sordi was involved and by now that devil knows all about you and me.”

  “That will make tracking him rather tricky,” Orient agreed.

  “And extremely dangerous.”

  “Perhaps you’d better tell us something about this classmate of yours,” Orient said.

  “The fellow came from France. Brilliant, had a great career ahead of him, exceptional student, everyone thought highly of him. He had a bit of the rebel about him and sometimes bordered on the heretic. Almost got himself suspended a couple of times. The man managed to step on more than a few toes.”

  “What did he look like?” Levi asked.

  “Short, stocky, wavy hair, thick eyebrows. He might look different after all this time. God knows, I do.”

  “Anything distinguishing about him?” Orient asked.

  “His eyes, quite piercing. And he had a terrific temper. A willful man.”

  Orient pressed, “Did you spend much time together?”

  “None. We didn’t get on from the start. We just did our studying and kept out of each other’s way.”

  “And you never kept in touch?”

  “No. Of course the clergy is a small world. I heard bits of gossip from time to time. He was involved in some special work and then I heard was suspected of performing some sort of heretical experiments.”

  “Occult experiments?” Orient asked.

  “They must have been. These matters are always highly confidential, but the man was always obsessed with the subject. Even when we were at the archives he seemed to be more wrapped up in the old manuscripts of deviltry than he was in his devotions.”

  “Can you run some sort of a check on him?”

  “I’ll do that, but you’ve got to promise me something.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you move from this house this very night. I say none of you are safe here.”

  Orient smiled at the bishop’s concern. “Agreed.”

  “The whole bunch of you telemumbo scalawags can stay with me at the archdiocese for as long as I can stand you about. I’ve got all the conveniences there. You won’t have to pack even a handkerchief.”

  As Redson issued his invitation, the lights suddenly dimmed.

  “Hey,” Argyle said, “you paid your bill, Doc?”

  Orient’s face went grave. He held up his hand for silence.

  From another room came the high tinkle of breaking glass. A door slammed violently.

  Orient started to get up. “Bishop Redson!” He called out as the lights flickered weakly then went out completely, plunging the whole house into utter darkness. Almost immediately, objects began to fly around the room at tremendous speed. “Duck,” Orient cried, as a book smacked against his shoulder, spinning him off balance. The room reverberated with the crashing of ricocheting objects. Chairs, bottles, inkwells, ashtrays all whirled madly about the study, shattering as they connected with the walls, the fragments pelting the crouched occupants with stinging force.

  Redson realized immediately what was happening, but before he could act his neck and shoulders were seized with a numbing paralysis. He couldn’t speak. Fishlike, he opened and closed his mouth, vainly trying to squeeze the words of dismissal through his constricted throat. When he tried to move, his limbs refused to respond, and he fell sprawling to the floor.

  Orient also knew what was happening.

  His home was being attacked by malevolent spirits. Poltergeists. Finding himself unable to function physically, he withdrew into himself and attempted to contact the others telepathically. It was arduous, he couldn’t send freely, he had to maintain a field of protection around himself because of his sensitive state. His hand went to the Carnelian stone around his neck. Using all his concentration, he shut out the turbulence around him and steadily sent instructions to the others huddled in the roaring blackness.

  For a long time he pushed against the cottony fabric of resistance and then, at last, he broke through, to Levi.

  “Keep the image of a golden swastika set in your thoughts… ” Orient sped his silent commands, sending out a mind picture of the symbol that had preceded the cross as the prime sign of faith. “… Think of the image bathed in a blue light.”

  Levi caught the picture and used his own power in conjunction with Orient’s to assist in reaching Argyle, then Hap, until the four men were all concentrating on the same image, the golden swastika.

  The intensity of the attack increased. A low, terrible moan pierced the darkness. The heavy table overturned. Doors continued to slam. The mansion shivered with the sounds of splintering glass. The telepaths held their concentration, each helping the others from wavering.

  Redson, lying flat on the floor, felt the crushing weight on his back desist, and suddenly found his voice. For one panicky moment he was unable to recall the words he sought. His brain buzzed with confusion. Then his head cleared and he remembered.

  “Apage Satanus!” he cried out, his voice cracking. “Lord deliver us, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost… Apage Satanus.” The turmoil began to diminish.

  Orient broke off telepathic communication and began to speak. “Adonay Tetragrammaton… ” He called out the ancient words of dismissal from the Grimoire of Honorious.

  The noises stopped. Instantly all was still, except for the contrapuntal sounds of Orient and Redson intoning the rites of departure.

  The lights came up, blinding the s
ix men momentarily.

  The room looked like a beach after a hurricane. Nothing had been left standing. The floor was littered with haphazard debris of papers, books and cracked glass. Windows were broken, furniture was overturned and smashed. The foul stench of decayed meat hung in the air.

  Orient helped Redson to his feet.

  “It looks as if you’d better get out right now, Owen,” the bishop said, surveying the wreckage.

  White-faced and dazed, Sordi staggered into the study. Levi rushed to assist him, setting him down on a large pillow before examining him for possible injury.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Sordi shook his head sadly. “It’s fantastic.”

  “Sordi, you’ll be staying with the rest of us at the bishop’s home for the time being,” Orient said.

  His secretary nodded numbly.

  “Well, come on now,” Redson said. “We can’t lose any time.”

  Argyle and Levi took hold of Sordi and helped him to his feet. “But Doctor,” Sordi protested, “I can’t leave the house in this condition. I’d better follow.”

  “Don’t worry,” Orient said, “everything will be taken care of in the morning. Right now it’s important you rest.”

  They filed out through the scattered rubble. In the few minutes that the poltergeists had been present, they had reduced the entire mansion to a shambles. In the garage tools and parts had been wrenched from storage and thrown randomly to the ground. The walls were scarred where the heavy metal implements had struck.

  Even the Rolls had not been spared. Not only was the once-gleaming machine covered with a film of dust, but it had been dented and scratched in a dozen places. Inside, the glove compartment had been forced open and its contents strewn around the floor.

  For a moment Orient felt a dull twinge of dismay as he saw the condition of his favorite toy. He shrugged the feeling off, reminding himself that such is the way of all things physical. Everything is born, lives and dies. The only constant is change, and to expect objects to preserve their newness is to beg certain disappointment. He started to open the door.

  “Wait,” Redson ordered. He took a vial of Holy Water from his black bag and sprinkled it over the limousine, whispering in Latin as he moved around the car. Orient understood that the bishop was protecting the car from further attack. It would be disastrous if the poltergeists reappeared while the car was in motion.

  When Redson had finished, the six men piled into the Ghost and made their departure from the Orient mansion.

  “One thing, Doc,” Hap ventured as they pulled away. “Why did you tell us to concentrate on a golden swastika?”

  “What swastika?” Redson demanded.

  “During the excitement I managed to contact our pilgrims telepathically,” Orient explained; “I gave them a pagan but effective sign for the dismissal of evil spirits. As you know, Bishop, the swastika was a common sign of faith before Christianity gave us the cross.”

  “And before Hitler twisted its meaning,” Simpson added.

  Redson shook his head slowly. “Telepathy,” he muttered.

  No one spoke again during the short drive. Orient brooded. The muscles in his back ached and his brain throbbed with defeat. Malta was dead. He had been called to help and he had failed. The jangling edge of an insistent tune cut through the nerves at the base of his skull, mocking his emotion. He shifted his thoughts to the mechanics of his situation. While in Tibet he had earned the robe of an adept but he had long neglected the arts of magic. He had devoted all his attention since that time to the science of parapsychology, experimenting only with telepathic and telekinetic phenomena. This was his work. He was certain that with the use of these dormant senses men could eliminate fear. His method of education was almost completely devised now. But all that would have to wait for a while. D’Te would never stop until all opposition was eliminated. And there was no one else besides Orient and his pilgrims who could offer any kind of resistance—damned small resistance at that. He would have to get himself back into psychic shape, limber up his spells and procedures. More than that, he had to prepare the others for the coming changes.

  They arrived at the bishop’s home exhausted.

  “How do you know that same jive typhoon won’t hit this place?” Argyle demanded when they got inside.

  “This house is built on consecrated ground,” Redson explained. “And there’s a chapel downstairs. No spirit or elemental would ever dare enter a consecrated house of God.”

  “I want you all to settle yourselves and try to sleep,” Orient said wearily.

  “Go into a receptive state before you do so I won’t have any difficulty communicating with you during the night. There isn’t any danger of entry while you’re here, so you can relax completely.”

  For once the three pilgrims were too tired to ask questions. Orient and Redson went to the library, while the others were taken to their rooms.

  “What now, bucko?” Redson’s curiosity was insatiable. “What are you planning to do tonight?”

  “Simple,” Orient said. “While they’re asleep I’ll communicate with them telepathically and teach them some of the defenses and spells they’ll need to fight your friend DTe.”

  “Like a mystical Berlitz record, eh?”

  “Exactly.” He managed a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get to it before I run out of ectoplasm.” He fell into a deep armchair and went into concentration.

  He began, as always, with his breath, charging his psyche With the energy he would need to send out a sustained message.

  He transmitted the knowledge that he had accumulated as a second hierarchy neophyte in Tibet. These forms incorporated most of the lore that could be found in the books of Solomon, Honorious and Albertus Magnus. It also took in certain spells not available to Western occultists. In this way he thought to perhaps confound D’Te, who was obviously a dangerously advanced adept. He hoped it was enough to protect his pilgrims.

  He worked for a long time, sending and resending so that the new information would become permanently and precisely imbedded in the consciousness of the sleeping telepaths.

  When he was finished he found himself alone in the library.

  He went to sleep right there, on the worn leather armchair.

  XI

  The room was in perfect sync.

  Seth coolly surveyed the inflamed crowd through the glass of the control booth while his fingers stoked the fires of their excitement. Mute the drums. Bring the bottom guitar up. Hit the button for one color wall. Cut the other lights and play the wall against the funk. The kids on the dance floor responded. They muted their movements, keeping close to the guitar. Everyone. Even the bartenders had respect. The heads at the tables bobbing in time. He brought the drums back up and flooded all the walls with splashes of color. At the same time he shifted the recording level. He pulled the organ forward and blended both guitars with the drums. As the weight of the rhythm coaxed new meanings out of the lewd blues line the organ was laying down Seth started the overhead colors rotating and the crowd began making noises. Everybody; the dancers, the sitters, the waiters, the barmen. Their human sounds kicking the feeling up. Sync. He opened the recording level, and let the sound spill over the edge of the tape before he cut. A perfect take.

  The control booth was Seth’s latest innovation for the Seventh Door. The twelve-track board coordinated with the lights and made the room into a recording studio. Everything live. He touched the electronic altar of his particular ritual lightly with his fingers. He was finished with the performer change. Now he was the man. Producer, director and creative arranger. He was ready for the next phase.

  He looked out across the room at Addison, sitting in the rear, deep in conversation with a boy. The bird sure eats them up, he mused as he saw the rapt devotion on the boy’s face.

  Another boy approached the table where the couple was sitting. He tried to speak to Addison. She shook her head, her face blank. The boy backed off, his shoulde
rs hunched with dejection. That was last week’s acquisition, Senator Dade’s son Alex.

  Seth smiled dreamily in the light-punctuated darkness of the control booth as he speculated upon the changes. Confusion. Resentment. Alex goes to Susej for some advice or perhaps a special favor. Susej soothes and provides. A new girl, a new scene, a position of prestige among his peers— they always grabbed for the prestige—and Alex is in. Sync. His yawn was like a wolf’s tongue flicking past his pointed teeth, his lips drawn tight and high. He snapped the switch, cutting the lights on the control board, and went out into the room.

  He headed for the bar where his current, and last, project was waiting for him—Joy. If heiresses were distributed in cans, hers would be labeled tall, thin and frantic. Her father was the largest arms manufacturer in the country, and he had raised himself one nervous child.

  “It was insane,” she stage-whispered. “Was it a take?”

  He grimaced and signaled for a drink.

  Joy watched his face for reaction, for some approval. Her hands fluttered on the bar.

  Deliberately, he swiveled on his stool and turned his back to her.

  He was bored. Any John could do this kind of work. After this one he could leave the physical seductions for the studs. He thought again of Addison. Substance. A heroine fit for him. But not right now, not until the Great Plan started to swing. He returned his attention to Joy.

  She gushed a smile of relief and touched his arm tentatively.

  As he went through the motions his mind kept drifting to the next few months, when the operation would be steamrolling. Susej going public, coming in direct contact with thousands of people. That was Seth’s contribution. The key to the plan. A man like Susej needed constant public exposure to maintain maximum effectiveness. The more worshippers of his mass the more juice he could generate. Susej had told him that if somehow the power could be maintained, even at a mediocre level, for a long period of time, then a new combination of consciousness could be achieved. And Seth’s answer had been a simple one. Television would keep Susej’s image constantly there, inside their heads. At the same time Susej makes his move, he begins his saturation of communications; the records, the films, all with their own special message, all created by him. Behind it a network of civil power; police, politicians, execs. And at the base, fueling the organism, would be the kids. His kids. All chosen for their special manipulative abilities and all well connected. A crack corps that would learn to rule an entire generation. With him at the top, piping the tune.