“What do you mean?”
“Eh, probably nothing, but Ramirez thinks he’s got someone shadowing him.”
“He can’t flush them out?”
“No—he’s a rookie.” Both men laughed. “Seriously, keep an eye out—I told Ramirez I’d follow him tonight after we knock off and see if I can pick up his tail. Must be good if there is one. The kid is actually pretty sharp.”
“Yeah, he seems to be,” agreed Jamie. “You take care too, Cal.” Jamie hung up, and then looked at the dog, who opened one eye as if opening both would require too much effort. “Okay, banjo butt. I’m getting cleaned up and heading out. You’re going to have to go outside or into your crate.”
Finn raised his head. He recognized both “outside” and “crate” and seemed to understand that he was being given a choice. He chuffed indignantly, got up, stretched, and yawned. Then he sauntered to his dog door and went outside, giving Jamie a dirty look as he left.
“You’ve got no idea how good you’ve got it, dog.” Jamie called Lucy, who said she had been planning to give Jamie a call. She had someone she’d like him to meet. Jamie said he’d be over in an hour.
Thirty minutes later, the older woman answered the door immediately after Jamie had knocked. “That was quick. Come in, lad, come in.” She ushered him inside, where Jamie found a man already seated upon the paisley couch. The other man was younger, in his twenties, thin as a rail, and shorter than Lucy, with long blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail that dangled past his shoulders. He stood, nervously jerking to his feet, and then held out his hand. “Jamie, I’d like ye to meet Ríordán. Ríordán, Jamie.” After the two men shook hands and seated themselves, Lucy poured Jamie some coffee, black, without asking. “Ríordán is a fili. Do ye know that word?”
Jamie nodded as he took a gulp of coffee. “Yeah, doesn’t it mean ‘poet’ or ‘philosopher’?”
Lucy beamed. “See? I told ye this one was a prize, now didn’t I?”
Ríordán nodded slowly, giving Jamie an appraising glance. “So it would seem. However, I think of myself as more of a seeker of truth. Lucy tells me you’re a cop and that you’ve been rash enough to take on Sedecla Aba.”
“Rash?” replied Jamie. “I don’t think I’d call it rash. Sedecla’s connected to one of my murder investigations. I don’t care if she thinks she’s the Wicked Witch of the West—if she’s involved, I will find out and see that she’s brought to justice.”
“Ohh,” said Ríordán, mockingly. “An idealist, too? Wherever did you find him, Lucy?”
“Marie Hanover pointed Jamie and his partner in my direction.”
“I don’t know whether to thank her or scold her at our next gathering,” Ríordán said. “Well, Mister Law-and-Order, I don’t think you fully appreciate the nature of the woman you’re going up against.”
“So enlighten me,” Jamie said tonelessly.
“First things first, boyo. First things first.” Lucy waved a tattooed hand in front of Jamie. “On the phone, ye said ye’d found out both the words the evil woman used on ye as well as their meaning?”
“Yes we did.” Jamie unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to Lucy, who read it, then passed it to Ríordán without comment. The fili’s face grew grim as he read the words, and then handed the paper back to Jamie. When neither of them said anything for a moment, Jamie spoke up. “Oh, don’t tell me you think there’s anything to this.”
“A hard-headed, learned idealist no less,” said Ríordán with a smile. “You are quite a fellow, Jamie Griffin. So if you cannot see it, cannot feel it, hear it, taste it, or touch it, it does not exist. Is that how you see things?”
“Not exactly,” disagreed Jamie. “I do believe in God and in the existence of life after death, neither of which I can see or touch. My partner is the one who buys into this supernatural song-and-dance.”
“So ye believe this woman, Sedecla, is a fraud, then?” Lucy fixed her dark green eyes on Jamie’s.
Jamie hesitated. “I’m not sure yet, Lucy. I don’t have enough information to form an opinion. As a cop, I try to avoid jumping to conclusions. However, I also rely on my instincts, which tell me that whatever Sedecla may or may not be, she is probably quite dangerous.”
“Well, there’s that much, at least,” said Lucy, shaking her head.
“On the phone, you said you wanted me to meet young Master Ríordán here. I’m assuming it was for more than just warning me about this curse?”
Ríordán gave Jamie an appraising look, and then nodded. “Luiseach hoped I might be able to shed some more light on both Sedecla and on this curse she’s laid upon you and your partners. Whereas Mistress Lucy is a keeper of the old tales and an accomplished herbalist, I am more of a scholar and practitioner of minor magics.”
“Minor magics,” Jamie said slowly, trying each word on for size.
Ríordán sighed. “Yes, remember—you’re going to try to keep an open mind here?” Lucy asked with a glare. He just nodded and motioned for Ríordán to continue.
“I am already familiar with the woman who styles herself the ‘Witch of Endor,’ and I can tell you that she is formidable, in both the mundane and the magical sense. There have been whispers that she is engaging in ritual sacrifice. It has always been suspected of her, but of late, it appears that she has been conducting more of these sacrifices than she has in the past.”
“For what purpose?” asked Jamie.
“For power. In the end, the ultimate goal of amassing great amounts of either money or magic is actually the need for power. It has long been rumored that Sedecla is a necromancer, and that if she is, in fact, the actual Witch of Endor, she has kept herself alive throughout the ages by consuming the life force of others. It is a dark and vile magic.” Ríordán’s face showed revulsion.
“I’m trying really hard to keep an open mind here,” Jamie stated, “but you have to admit this is way beyond the pale.”
“Agreed,” said Lucy, “but ye are involved in it, whether ye wish it or no.”
“The seanchaidhe is correct, Detective Griffin,” observed Ríordán. “You will have to deal with the supernatural aspects of this investigation, even if you maintain your disbelief. The people you are pursuing deeply believe in those supernatural aspects.”
“Okay,” Jamie said with a scowl. “I’ll do my best. So why would Sedecla be increasing the number of these sacrifices? If you are correct, she’s been doing this for years without being detected. It was really only the number of recent cases with similarities that allowed us to connect them.”
“I can think of several reasons,” replied Ríordán, “but I have information that leads me to believe that the Witch is engaged in a new practice, one even darker than her usual necromancy. From what I have learned, if she is successful in her quest, she would become far more powerful and possibly be a threat to believers and non-believers alike.”
“What would that be?” Jamie asked evenly.
“Are you familiar with a branch of Judaism known as the Kabbalah?”
“Isn’t that the crazy Hollywood religion based on some science fiction writer’s beliefs?”
“No, that’s Scientology. Kabbalah is an esoteric school of thought within Judaism. Let me give you a brief overview. One of the beliefs followed by students of Kabbalah is called the Sephirot. The Sephirot are believed to be the ten emanations and attributes of God with which He continually sustains the universe. It has deeply complex connotations within Kabbalah and is closely tied to the vision of one’s soul, incorporating both the masculine and feminine aspects of God.”
“Okay,” said Jamie, “I’m with you so far. How does all this tie into Sedecla?”
“Well, I’m sure the Jesuits taught you that there is a balance to everything. For every good, there is a corresponding evil.”
Jamie laughed. “Yeah, Father Cavanaugh beat that into my head many times.”
Ríordán smiled. “It is a universal truth, no matter what religious beliefs one may
have. So opposite the Sephirot, sometimes called the ‘Tree of Life,’ we have the Qliphoth, which some call the ‘Tree of Death.’”
“Colorful.”
“Hush, boyo,” Lucy remonstrated.
“It’s not so far removed from your own religion, Jamie,” replied Ríordán. “The Tree of Life is mentioned in Genesis and the Book of Proverbs. In Kabbalistic terms, the ten spheres of the Sephirot are contemplated by adherents to develop an ethical process through which compassionate actions can be used to advance the soul and understand the revelations of God’s will.” The fili paused a moment to let Jamie absorb what he just said. “Now, on the other side, stands the Qliphoth or Tree of Death. Just as the Sephirot contains ten spheres devoted to morality and understanding God’s word, so the Qliphoth contains ten spheres. Some scholars, myself among them, believe that the spheres of the Qliphoth represent a path to evil, and an understanding of God’s archenemy, Satan.”
“Whew.” exclaimed Jamie. “It’s getting deep in here, no matter what I believe.”
Ríordán nodded. “These are indeed highly esoteric concepts, but believe me, I have simplified them for this discussion. Now, the last thing I want to discuss will lead us to what I believe is behind Sedecla’s increased sacrifices.”
“Praise the Lord,” muttered Jamie.
Lucy fixed him with a flinty gaze. “Do not try me further, laddie. Ye are the one seeking my help.” Jamie nodded in apology.
“The students of the Sephirot,” continued Ríordán, “believe that there is an eleventh sphere, called ‘Da ’at’. If an adept can walk the twenty-two paths connecting the spheres, she will achieve Da ‘at, or mastery of the other spheres. By achieving Da ‘at, an adherent would be granted a glimpse into the process by which God creates both the physical and metaphysical worlds from an infinite number of possibilities. Further, mastery of Da’at would grant great power, so much so, according to some, that achieving Da’at might allow one to open the doors to these other worlds. In effect, the person can become almost godlike. On the other side of the coin, successfully walking the twenty-two paths of the Qliphoth would result in mastery over the Qliphotic spheres. This would lead to an evil unity, which some call Abaddon, or the Abyss. Certain obscure texts state that mastery of Abaddon would create an Abysm Stone, or Black Diamond. Whoever possesses it would command a black hole to another universe, which would allow her to become a dark god.” Ríordán paused and looked at Jamie. “So you can see how this would be very attractive to someone like Sedecla.”
Jamie nodded contemplatively. “Yes. I’m still reserving my right to healthy skepticism, but clearly, if Sedecla believes in this, then she must be increasing her ‘sacrifices’ in order to build her power to the point where she can master this Qliphoth and create the Black Diamond. No matter what I believe, I still have an obligation to prevent her from taking human lives.”
“Agreed,” replied Ríordán. “That is the essence of it. Now, as to the curse she placed upon you, Lucy tells me that you have developed a chronic, debilitating illness.”
“Yes, but as I told Lucy the last time I was here, I was already sick before she cursed us.”
“As I told ye last time, ye might have been sick already, but whereas ye might have gotten better before being cursed, it may now be something that lingers.”
“Lucy is right,” added Ríordán. “I’m sure you’re maintaining your precious skepticism about this curse as well, but I ask you—what harm is there in considering this aspect of your illness?”
Jamie said nothing for several moments. “So you are saying that you might be able to help me get better?”
“Not me,” Ríordán replied, “but I do know of one who might have the ability to deal with this, if you would like me to speak with him.”
Jamie laughed. “Sure, why not? I’ve allowed the doctors to poke and prod me in a hundred different ways and I’m still no better. How can this hurt?”
“Very well. I’ll contact him, and Lucy will call you when we have a meeting set up.”
“Agreed,” replied Jamie, standing up slowly. As he started to take his leave, his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said to Lucy and Ríordán. “Griffin.”
“Jamie?” Cal sounded upset. “Where are you?”
“I went back to see Lucy. I’ve got some more information that might be helpful.”
“I sure as hell hope so,” said Cal grimly. “This has just escalated.”
“What happened?”
“Ramirez was just run down on a routine call.”
“Jaysus.” Jamie swore. “Is he alright?”
“No,” replied Cal with a heavy breath. “He’s dead, Jamie. Now we’re dealing with a cop killer.”
* * * *
Tucked in beside the Boston Opera House, just blocks from Boston Common, FELT was not, despite its ultra-modern, eclectic décor, one of Boston’s elite nightclubs. It was, however, a popular nightspot located in Downtown Crossing, attracting locals and tourists alike. The club also featured a third floor VIP level, which is what made it one of Cal’s favorite places to shoot pool. He belonged to fancier clubs, but FELT’s VIP level on the third floor allowed Cal to “slum in style.” It gave him a place not only to hustle pool games, but also to watch people, both on this level and from an overlook by the bar. The club also provided him with a perfect place to meet with confidential informants, undercover cops, or other shady characters without attracting unwanted attention.
At the moment, Cal was not working—he was just eyeballing a difficult shot. Cal Cushing was a passionate, but not a professional, pool player. Despite what the movies show, professionals never drank while playing. Cal always drank while playing. Cal drank Sam Adams if he was in a beer mood, or, like tonight, if he wanted something harder, he ordered his favorite cocktail, a Bombay Sapphire Martini, an expensive mixture of Blue Curacao, dry vermouth, and Bombay Sapphire Gin. There were two martini glasses at the far end of the table from Cal—one upright and empty, the other upside down and clean. The waitress, seeing that Cal was still considering his shot, picked up the empty. “Another one, Cal?”
Cal nodded. “Thanks, sweetheart.” He watched the curvaceous woman walk away, and then cleared his thoughts for his shot. He crouched, one knee bent, and carefully sighted down the length of the maple shaft of his custom designed Skull and Dragon Richmond cue. The cue and case had cost him the better part of a grand, but Cal felt they were worth every penny. After sliding and sighting a couple of times, Cal exhaled softly, then shot the cue ball. He watched with satisfaction as the ivory ball shot across the length of the table, hit the near side cushion, and spun neatly to the other side. It kissed the nine ball lightly into the corner pocket, then struck the twelve with the right angle and amount of spin to send the twelve out from pocket and leave the cue ball a couple of inches from the rail.
When he looked up, Cal saw that the waitress was back with another martini. She had waited to deliver it until he was finished with his shot. She was tall, five-ten, and had enough meat on her to avoid looking like an emaciated fashion model, with all the right curves in all the right places. Her long blonde hair was curled, and she smiled with a twinkle in her blue eyes and said, “Nice shot. Here’s your drink, Cal.” She placed the refill right next to the upside down glass.
“Thanks, Sam,” Cal replied. She looked at him hopefully for a moment, and then turned away with a swish of her hair. Cal had taken Sam out a couple of times, but nothing serious. She reminded him too much of Franny. Sighing, Cal walked to the other end of the table and took a long pull on the martini. Cal had been married for three years, to Frances Endicott. Both of sets of parents had encouraged the match as “appropriate” for them. Fran’s family was also wealthy, so money was not a problem in their marriage. Love was the problem. Cal and Fran had married after college, mostly out of a sense of duty. Cal had enrolled in Harvard Law, but quit after only a week, much to the chagrin of both his parents and his in-laws. He had always believed that he co
uld make a difference by becoming a lawyer. However, as Cal went through college and became active in political affairs, he became disillusioned. He had drifted into Harvard Law School because he had no other idea about what to do with his life.
One day, after reading a feature story in the Globe about the successful conclusion of a huge undercover drug operation, Cal decided that he could make a difference in law enforcement, not law. Fran had initially supported his decision to withdraw from Harvard and enroll in the BPD Academy, even in the face of negative reactions from both sets of parents. While he had been an average student in college the courses on law, conflict resolution, driving skills, and firearms proficiency fascinated him. The physical training had been the most difficult part for Cal. He had never been athletic, but the academy training program had hardened him. Six months later, when he graduated with honors and received his first assignment, Cal knew that he had made the right choice.
However, the stress and hours that came with the job led to a divorce with Fran after three years of marriage. They had parted company by mutual agreement, and while they both still had feelings for each other, Cal and Fran had done their best to move on. Still, whenever Cal went out with someone like Sam, who resembled Fran Endicott, he had a hard time.
Just means I gotta stick to redheads and brunettes, he thought.
Cal’s musings were interrupted by someone picking up the inverted martini glass and setting it upright at the end of the table, a standing signal to anyone interested in playing. He preferred to put cash on the line, but Cal was always willing to play for drinks—any sort of stakes made the game more interesting. Cal looked up and was surprised to see that Timmy O’Neill had picked up the glass. “Timmy,” Cal said. “I haven’t seen you here before. Out for a night on the town?”
O’Neill shrugged. He put the martini glass on a nearby table, and then selected a house pool cue. “I try to get out of Dorchester on occasion, just to break things up.” Finding one he liked, Timmy stopped at an empty table as he walked back to roll the cue across the bed to make sure it was true. Satisfied, he walked back to stand before Cal. “What are the stakes?”
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