Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  “You’d better listen to Máthair, Da. You’re not going to win, you know that.” Riona gave her father a crooked grin. “We all know that.”

  Jamie raised both hands in surrender. “I’m staying home. I’m being a good little patient.”

  “You may be staying home, but you’re a bad little patient,” replied Eileen.

  Jamie shook his head. “I’ll rest, I promise. I’ll rest. I will, honestly. I do not feel good at all.”

  “Then why won’t you let me make you an appointment with Doctor Jasinski?”

  “I’ll make you a deal. If I still feel this bad tomorrow, you can call Jerry and make an appointment. Deal?”

  Eileen looked at him and shook her head. “I guess. ‘Tis probably the best deal I’m likely to get.”

  “Indeed,” replied Jamie.

  Jamie went upstairs and changed into navy blue ND track shirt and pants, then made his way one slow step after another back downstairs to the oversized sectional couch in the family room. He lay down and closed his eyes, then was surprised when he felt Eileen feeling his forehead with her hand. “Woman. I just lay down and here you are fussing over me.”

  Eileen looked at Jamie with even more concern in her eyes. “Jamie, you lay down here two hours ago. I’m getting ready to head to the store and wanted to check on you before I left.”

  Jamie sat up and then stood, but swayed on his feet and dropped gracelessly back to the couch. “Ah, shite.” He held his head and waited for the waves of dizziness and nausea to subside.

  “Are you going to be okay here alone?”

  “No, I’m going to slip into a coma and spontaneously combust from my fever.”

  Eileen shook her head. “Tsk, tsk, man. See if I show any concern again. You must be the worst patient in the world.”

  Jamie reached up and grabbed her hand. “I know I am. I just hate being sick, my love.”

  Eileen squeezed his hand. “I know, but you’re not Superman, not matter how hard you try.”

  Jamie nodded. “Alright then. I have some online work to do for Cal, but other than that, I’ll rest as much as possible.”

  Eileen raised one eyebrow, a trick Jamie envied. “Work? Did I just hear you say you were going to do some work?”

  “Peace, woman. I can’t sleep all day. When I feel up to it, I’m going to use the laptop to do some research for Cal on our current case. I promise not to overdo it, but I’m letting him down as it is.”

  “I give up.” Eileen turned and picked up her purse and keys. “I love you, Jamie Griffin. You need to take care of yourself.”

  “I will. Honestly.”

  Jamie waved as his wife harrumphed and walked out of the family room and left for work. Eileen owned her own business, a music store called Ceoil Scoil, Irish for “music school.” Eileen had started giving music lessons in their home as a way to fill her time and earn extra money once the girls were in school all day. Several years ago, she became successful enough to take out a business loan and open a studio in Dorchester with a storefront. Ceoil Scoil was a passion in her life and was doing very well financially, which helped immensely with education and family expenses.

  Jamie sat on the couch for a while, trying to will away his dizziness and nausea. After several minutes, he stood again, this time managing not to stagger or stumble as he walked across the family room to pick up his laptop. Jamie weaved a slight amount as he made his way back to the sectional.

  When Jamie had agreed to stay home, he had told Cal that he would do some online research into the strange mark the medical examiner had found on the woman’s neck. She had been identified as Kris Taylor, a thirty-year-old book editor. According to family members, Taylor often jogged, going over the same circuit—from her apartment at the Lofts to Neponset, the park, then back through the cemetery and home. Only this time, she never made it out of the cemetery, Jamie thought grimly. Marie Hanover, the ME, had found a strange mark on Taylor’s neck. It looked like a circular burn mark and showed a snake looping around head-to-tail, with a lion, a bee, and a scorpion inside the snake. Hanover had never seen anything like it, nor had Jamie or Cal. One of the beauties of the Internet. For all its faults, it sure makes our job easier when we need to research something like this.

  Looking at the symbol, Jamie typed key words into a search engine. After several permutations, he found a hit. Bingo. Jamie found that the symbol was called a “skandola,” a magical iron signet ring said to have been brought back from the underworld by Hibil-Ziwa—primal man, whose consort was Zahriel—also sometimes Lilith. Some less credible sources also cited a belief that a skandola can be seen on images of the Shroud of Turin. Regardless, plenty of credible evidence convinced Jamie that he was looking at the image of a ring that originated in the Middle East in the time of Christ.

  Wow. That’s not something you see every day. Cal’s gonna have a field day with some of this crap.

  Unlike Jamie, Cal Cushing was a big believer in the supernatural. Jamie refused to believe in such claptrap, but Cal went in for all sorts of ghosts, demons, and spiritual crap. For someone with Puritan ancestors, Cushing has some wild views. Nothing to be done, though. This image is clearly a skandola, whatever the hell it means.

  Jamie called Hanover and told her what he’d found. “Have you ever heard of something like this, Marie? I know you and Cushing are big believers in this supernatural crap.”

  “No,” replied Hanover, “but if you want any assistance from me, you’ll kindly refrain from referring to this kind of stuff as crap.”

  “Okay, okay,” growled Jamie. “Do you know anyone I could contact to learn more about this ring?”

  Hanover was silent for several seconds. “I might, but I’ll need to talk to her first and see if she’s willing to speak with you.”

  “Hey. I’m not that bad of a guy.”

  “No, but she’s very protective about her beliefs and doesn’t suffer non-believers patiently. I’ll talk to her and give you a call if she’s willing to meet.”

  “Alright. Thanks, Marie—I owe you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Griffin. I’ll add it to the sizeable tab you’ve already run up with me.”

  “I’m good for it.”

  Jamie clicked off his cell phone and logged in to the police database to search for any other cases that might have noted this symbol. He had been at the search for a few minutes when he could no longer keep his head erect. The pain behind his eyes started to feel like someone was shoving in an ice pick. Jamie put the laptop on the floor and lay down flat on the sectional, with Finn curling in beside his legs. I just need to rest a bit.

  When Jamie awoke, he was disoriented and groggy. What the hell time is it? He sat up, and the room spun around madly, causing him to place his hands on either side of himself to keep from falling. He glanced at the clock and was dismayed to see that it was mid-afternoon. Jaysus. I’ve been asleep for hours and still feel like crap.

  Jamie got up and staggered to the bathroom, got some 7-Up from the refrigerator, then wove his way back to the sectional, the dog following along like a second shadow. Jamie set his soda on the end table then fell onto the sectional again. I just need to get some more rest. This feckin’ flu bug is kicking my ass right now, but I’ll get over it soon enough. I always do.

  The thought had no sooner passed through Jamie’s mind than the image from his nightmare the other morning came blowing in to shatter his confidence. What if I don’t get better? What if that’s what the nightmare was trying to tell me? Jamie turned this thought over in his mind for several seconds, and then dismissed it. Nah, that’s the kind of stuff Cushing and Hanover believe in. It was just a nightmare, nothing more, nothing less. Still, as Jamie settled back to try to get some more rest, his heart was heavy and a bitter taste filled his mouth.

  * * * *

  Sedecla awoke to reddish, dawn light flooding through her windows. What is the old saying? Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. Sedecla stretched b
ack and forth in bed. While she could see Old North Church and Boston Harbor from the windows of her top-floor living quarters, Sedecla could not see the ocean. It has been too long since I last sailed upon the water. Far longer since I have sailed upon the Mediterranean, the waters of my youth. Clad in a simple purple chemise, Sedecla arose and walked to the window that faced the harbor. She appeared to be about thirty, with dark skin and hair and a slim figure. Perhaps we shall go sailing today.

  She was just completing her morning workout, a strenuous routine that took her through all movements of the seven categories of the Abir fighting technique, when she heard her door open. Sedecla turned to see her maidservant enter. Afya was the latest in a long line of Sedecla’s maidservants. She was twenty years old, of average height and weight, dark skin and hair. “Is my Mistress ready to prepare for the day?” Afya had her eyes downcast and hands spread.

  “Yes. Attend me.” Sedecla moved into her private bath and allowed Afya to bathe her, comb and braid her hair, and dress her for the day. Sedecla’s fashion tastes were simple: a dark red and brown tunic, which was made of expensive material, and a gold belt. The only jewelry she wore was a black ring she wore on the ring finger of her left hand.

  After dressing, Sedecla descended a wide spiral staircase, with Afya trailing behind at a respectful distance. The staircase wound down to her private offices on the next floor and then to her main living quarters. Her private offices occupied the entire third floor of her building, just as her bedroom, bath, and exercise space comprised the top floor. The second floor consisted of a gourmet kitchen, dining room, formal living room, study, and home theater. All rooms featured restored brick on the outer walls, golden oak or tile floors, and ten-foot ceilings. Sedecla sat at her table to her usual breakfast of bread, porridge, grapes, figs, purified water, and strong, dark kafeh. The latest model iPad sat beside her food, which she used to check morning markets and news. Following breakfast, Sedecla went to her private study to perform her morning meditation for an hour.

  When she emerged from her study, Sedecla gestured to Afya, who was waiting impassively in a corner of the main room. “Yes, Mistress?”

  “Send word to my managers—I wish to sail today. We shall meet aboard my boat, so notify the ship captain as well. Tell Abida to have the Maybach ready to take me to the pier in an hour.” Of the dozen cars in her collection, Sedecla preferred the luxurious Maybach Landaulet sedan.

  “As you command, Mistress.” Afya left the room to carry out her instructions.

  Sedecla’s “boat,” the Suf, was a 200-foot Trinity tri-deck luxury yacht, moored at Battery Wharf. Her captain and crew lived aboard ship, always on-call for the times when Sedecla wished to sail.

  It was mid-morning by the time Sedecla and her managers set sail. Sedecla told the captain, Thomas Proulx, a large, ruddy New Englander to sail at a leisurely pace through the islands just outside Boston Harbor, then south to Cape Cod Bay, and back due north into open ocean before heading back due west to Boston. The trip would take the rest of the day at the pace she had ordered, which gave her time for her weekly meeting with her managers. Before starting, Sedecla gave her orders for lunch and dinner to the chef. The Suf was equipped with a kitchen that would put many restaurant kitchens to shame.

  She met with her managers on the upper deck of the boat—it was covered, but open on three sides to allow them to enjoy the summer day. Sedecla sat with her legs curled beneath her upon a small sofa with her back to the open water. The three men who served as the managers of her enterprises sat before her on padded chairs around a small, wooden coffee table. There were drinks and snacks at the wet bar on the starboard side, and while each man had a drink, Sedecla could tell that they were, as always, on guard beneath their veneer of casual easiness. Each man held an iPad similar to Sedecla’s.

  After they had been underway for some time and passed the first of the harbor islands, Sedecla nodded her head to the short, dark, thin man seated in the leftmost chair before her. “You may begin your report, ibn Ezra.”

  Achan ibn Ezra was a man in his late forties, in a dark red and brown tunic similar to Sedecla’s, with a silver belt. Gray threaded ibn Ezra’s close-cropped black hair and beard, and he wore a black velvet kippa upon his head.

  He nodded his head and spoke in a thin, reedy voice. “As you wish, Qedesh. I am pleased to report an increase in all levels of membership in the Disciples. Our outreach program continues to draw in new members of all ages, from our youth groups to our adult disciples. Fundraising is also progressing at a brisk pace.” ibn Ezra provided a detailed accounting of the activities of the Disciples of Endor, of which Sedecla was the leader.

  Sedecla listened patiently to his report, and then asked him some detailed questions, dealing with public relation efforts for the sect and some legal matters being attended to by the sect’s attorney. While Sedecla was the Qedesh, the head of the Disciples of Endor, ibn Ezra was the sect leader, handling the daily activities and administrative duties associated with the organization. Few people outside her inner circle of the Disciples ever saw her. After satisfying herself about the status of the sect’s ongoing activities, Sedecla inclined her head to ibn Ezra. “Very good, Achan. Please keep me apprised of any further legal actions against the sect.”

  “As you command, Qedesh.” ibn Ezra bowed deeply, lowering his dark eyes from his mistress’ gaze, and then returned to a sitting position.

  The man sitting in the middle chair opposite Sedecla was Rufus Choate, a fair-skinned, obese man with a thin fringe of short white hair ringing the back of his head. Pale blue eyes stared out from the recessed folds of Choate’s face. Despite his girth, he wore an immaculate, tailored tan suit with a black silk shirt and tie—a tan fedora with a dark brown band and a single stylish feather sat beside him on a small table. Choate waited for Sedecla to invite him to speak.

  “Rufus, please tell me the latest about our properties.”

  “Indeed, Mistress. If you will open the document I emailed to everyone, I will review our latest sales and acquisitions.” Choate’s basso-profundo voice rumbled through the business activities of Samuel Properties, the organization owned by Sedecla through a maze of shell corporations and the legitimate arm of her businesses where she invested a great deal of her wealth. Choate was only in his thirties, although he looked like an older man. He concluded his report by detailing several opportunities he had become aware of that he believed might be of interest to Sedecla.

  After perusing the prospectuses, Sedecla tilted her head toward Choate. “Which of these opportunities do you recommend, Rufus?”

  Choate paused, licking his broad lips and mopping his forehead with an immaculate white handkerchief. “I would advise against purchasing the competing pawn shops. They are for sale because ours are doing quite well, and I do not believe the additional revenue generated would offset the acquisition costs. The coffee shops also seem to me to be a losing proposition. They are never going to rival Starbucks, and the operational costs are extremely high. My recommendation would be to go with the townhomes and the strip mall. While the purchase costs are high, the resulting income, as we have seen in our other properties, is quite good and tends to be stable.” Choate spoke with a precise, clipped New England accent.

  “Very good. Make it so.”

  Choate nodded his head deeply. “Consider it done, Mistress.”

  The third man, seated in the deck chair to Sedecla’s right looked at her. He was a tall, red-haired man of middle age dressed in a business suit. However, where Choate’s suit was impeccable and very expensive, this man’s suit was off-the-rack and rumpled. He waited with practiced patience, his dark green eyes returning Sedecla’s intense gaze.

  “And you, Timothy? How fare the operations of the Mazzimah?”

  “They fare well, Mistress. My lieutenants are all growing their operations while maintaining a low profile.” The Mazzimah operated a number of front groups that purported to be legitimate businesses, such as betting p
arlors, escort services, delivery services, auto repair shops, and pawnshops. In reality, the Mazzimah groups each fronted an extensive network of illegal activities: bookmaking, prostitution, drugs, auto theft and chop shops, and the theft and disposal of stolen goods. The Mazzimah generated a huge amount of dirty income, which Sedecla funneled through offshore accounts and back into stable investments and properties. A substantial portion was also “donated” by her shell corporations to the Disciples of Endor. Timothy concluded his report with an update on several Mazzimah members who had been arrested in various activities.

  “These men are all loyal?” asked Sedecla.

  “Any who are not will not live long,” replied Timothy with a small smile. “My men know how to take care of business.”

  Sedecla inclined her head and spread her arms, palms up. “How so? Did I not learn of the clumsy disposal of our most recent sacrifice?”

  Timothy did not avert his eyes from his mistress’ fierce gaze. “You did indeed, Mistress. However, I believe it wasn’t clumsy so much as unfortunate.”

  “Really? Please explain.”

  Timothy slid forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees as he spoke. “I believe we need to start disposing of the bodies in a different location from where they were taken.”

  “Why do you believe that?”

  “Well, when we were only engaging in this activity on an occasional basis, disposing of the bodies back where they were taken was not a great risk. Since our recent increase in the number of abductions, disposing of the bodies in the same place as the abduction greatly increases the chance of a timely discovery.”

  “Why would that be the case?” Sedecla asked in her slow, contralto voice. While not overt, if one listened closely, a trace of a Mediterranean accent emerged.

  “Easy. Once someone is reported missing, the police immediately start looking in the places the person is known to frequent. This results in the body being discovered and identified potentially much faster than we wish.”

  Sedecla nodded and steepled her fingers. “So you believe this problem is due to my increased requirements?”