The Camelot Code

by Sam Christer

  The still liquid begins to tremble.

  The augur sees shapes in the fractured surface, like clouds blowing in a stormy sky, swirling and spinning, spiralling and disappearing. Clouds torn and eaten by a monstrous black bird with a stomach full of flesh and bones.

  Beneath the drifting grey islands, there is a woman with two faces. She is near a great lake, hiding in silence behind a giant shield of wood, wanting to be found by one but not another. She is full of love and confusion, the sun of the heart at odds with the moon of the mind.

  The old mystic’s legs sag. He understands what the vision means. Knows who the woman is and whom she is going to betray. The consequences of the act are clear to him.

  Darkness sucks oxygen from his lungs and starves his brain of thought. He slips shoulder first into the stone, then collapses onto the sacred tomb beneath it.

  The world sways around him. He floats out into the blackness, like a small boat pulled from shore by the tides of an ocean.

  12

  HRU CRIMES UNIT, SAN FRANCISCO

  Most of the city is still sleeping when Mitzi heads in to work.

  She likes that she missed the rush hour. The great red bridge is almost empty and all the more magnificent for it.

  Most of all, she likes that she’s not starting her day with an awkward face-off with Jack.

  She spent most of the night wondering if she should tell her sister. But tell her what? That her husband was drunk and made a pass? That he said he’d always preferred her to Ruth? Either of those things was likely to end their marriage and create a rift between her and Ruth.

  Hopefully, he got the message.

  She takes a coffee to her desk and starts up the desktop PC. Her mailbox is jammed with spam and a couple of messages from ex-colleagues wishing her the best in the new job.

  Before she starts work, she browses the Huffington Post. It has features on ‘Bondage for Beginners’, ‘Ten Reasons Why Women Like Bad Boys’ and ‘How Wearing Rubber Knickers Can Help You Lose Weight’. She works back to front, dismissing the pants story out of hand – she’d have to wear a truck tyre to lose the amount of weight she wants to. Bad boys are the last people she needs in her life. And she’s damned sure she doesn’t want her wrists wrapped up in cling film while some masked stranger spanks her with fifty-dollar paddles.

  About an hour later, there are noises in the corridor.

  Eleonora breezes in with wet hair and no make-up. She’s dressed head-to-toe in Fendi. A tailored military jacket in jade, and matching beltless pants cling to every perfect inch of her legs. A zesty yellow top is paired with a structured handbag in the same striking colour. She’s on her phone and drops a retro Diadora gym bag beside her desk while she talks intently.

  Mitzi silently curses. It’s just not right that Eleonora looks that good.

  The Italian finishes and glances across the desks. ‘Buongiorno, ’itzi. How are you?’

  ‘It’s Mitzi. M for motherfucker, then itzi. M-M-M-itzi.’

  Eleonora laughs. ‘I am sorry. M for M-itzi. How are you?’

  ‘I’m good. Now let me guess, you’ve been to the gym and you’re feeling absolutely amazing.’

  ‘No, I feel like shit. I always do after gym. Did you know Michelle Obama goes at four-thirty a.m. every day?’

  ‘I don’t even want to think about four-thirty, let alone go anywhere at that time.’

  Eleonora fingers her wet hair. ‘Guess I look a mess, yes?’

  ‘I wish I could say yes, but you look like you’re just about to strip off and model for Sports Illustrated.’

  ‘That’s a magazine?’

  ‘It’s a magazine. Guys say they buy it for the articles, but they’re not fooling anyone.’

  A flash of mischief illuminates Eleonora’s face. ‘Aah, now I understand. Men, they are such simple animals.’ She grabs her purse. ‘I am going to the restroom, then maybe I buy coffee before I meet Bronty. You want to come with us?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Bronty called last night. He met a priest who introduced him to someone in the Church of Satan and he knows our dead woman, Rea Masters.’

  ‘Knows as in sexually?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Though of course it is possible. Bronty said Rea started in the Church of Satan then found herself at odds with the grotto she joined.’

  ‘Grotto? You make it sound like Santa Claus.’

  Eleonora sits on the edge of her new colleague’s desk. ‘That is what they call the covens, or lodges. You know the Church of Satan’s founder lived not far from here. For maybe thirty years it was run from San Francisco.’

  ‘Anton LaVey. He wrote the Satanic Bible, right?’

  ‘Si. After he died the Church switched to New York.’

  ‘Hell’s Kitchen?’ jokes Mitzi.

  Eleonora misses the pun. ‘You want to come with us?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, I’d like to ride along.’

  The office door opens and Donovan sticks her head in. ‘Got a job for you, Fallon.’

  ‘I thought I had a job – this witchcraft case?’

  Her boss hands over a sheet of paper. ‘This has got your name all over it. Just in from Washington.’

  Mitzi takes the paper and looks at it. ‘What is this? Some kind of cross?’

  ‘Congratulations. I see why you made lieutenant and why you’re so valuable to HRU. It’s a cross that has been linked to a murder. The detective in charge has asked for our help. I said you’d be on the redeye and arrive tomorrow.’

  ‘That could be a problem. I need to fix childcare.’ She nods to the two girls in the photo on her desk.

  ‘It won’t be a problem,’ says Donovan. ‘Life fits around the job, not the other way round. Fracci and Bronty are working Masters, so you had better be on that plane – or find yourself another squad.’

  13

  WALES

  The stone of the chamber floor makes for a cold pillow, but Myrddin gladly endures it until he feels some strength creep back into his limbs.

  The seer’s head throbs and his bones crackle with arthritis as he gets to his feet. He knows what has to be done. His task is far from finished.

  Myrddin eyes the Font of Knowledge, aware of the dangers it contains. For many years, the ancient receptacle has drained his energy and spirit. It has taken from him and given to him in equal measures. Each experience has left him fuller in mind and less in body.

  He grips the bowl of the font. Braces himself for what is to come, tilts his head back and closes his eyes. ‘I am here, old friend. Standing firm and tall, ready for you again. Write your page of history and leave me fit to carry it to the fingers of the world, that they may turn it and move on.’

  The stone he holds trembles. A slight vibration at first, then a deep rumble. A growing thunder beneath Myrddin’s feet. Then the energy. Different this time: not slow and building. A sudden jolt. Electrifying. His mind fills with white. Snow white. Virgin white. Angelic white.

  The vision comes.

  A baby who becomes a man who becomes immortal. A child who grows faster and stronger than any human ever has. A young man who faces the world with the wisdom of a centenarian.

  Myrddin knows this man.

  He sees him surrounded by people but alone. He is caught in a moment of doubt. Trapped between the holiest and unholiest of men. He is troubled by two women. One very much known to him and one a complete stranger. Both are in danger; both will see death.

  Death. This time the old foe comes with a long list. He seeks out brothers and sisters, men and women. Seeks them out randomly and specifically. Some for good reason, others just for the joy of seeing their blood in the snow.

  The pure white snow.

  It’s falling now. At first, just flakes on the seer’s flushed cheeks. Cool, like the kiss of a maiden. Now heavier. Splashes of icy rain, chilly enough to start the shivers.

  An avalanche.

  A deadly whiteout erupts inside the seer’s mind. Knocks him t
o the ground. Covers him. Buries him. Suffocates him. His hands slip from the font and he stumbles backward. This time he doesn’t fall. The vision is complete. He understands and knows what he must do.

  A new phase of the Arthurian Cycle has begun.

  14

  KENSINGTON, MARYLAND

  Twenty-three-year-old Dwaine Velez wishes he’d taken a leak before he got in his Ford Wagon.

  If that little bitch’s pops hadn’t turned up shouting the odds ’bout the sanctity of his daughter he’d have been able to use their goddamned bathroom. Instead, he ended up hopping down the drive with one leg in his pants and the rest of his clothes thrown all over the shrubs.

  Un-fucking-dignified. That’s what it was.

  Still, it had been worth it. She was a peach. These girls out in the sticks don’t get much action and when they do – man, they make the most of it.

  He heads south down Connecticut Avenue, back towards the Capital Beltway, dark eyes scanning for a place to pull over. Jay-Z is rapping on the radio – ‘Bring it On’ from Reasonable Doubt, the album that propelled him from being a punk who’d put a cap in his brother, to one of the world’s most bankable music stars.

  Dwaine drums fingersticks on the steering wheel and gets thinking. ‘Hey fella, I sure as hell would like to teach your lady some tricks. That Beyoncé has one fine booty.’

  The song hits the chorus and the voice from the radio answers.

  The young contractor laughs. ‘I can hang. Man, can I hang. And bro’, let me tell you, no way would she ever come back to you after she’s spent a night with me.’

  Up on the left he spots some trees, and maybe the last chance to relieve himself before rolling out west to help fix some drains in McLean then on to a backed-up septic tank just north of Washington.

  What a life. Eat your heart out, Jay-Z.

  He parks on Beach Drive, crosses the near-deserted carriage to a clump of trees and a long track called Rock Creek Trail.

  Dwaine is desperate. The burly six-footer is spraying overgrown grass within a split-second of getting his fly down. Every time he thinks he’s going to stop, another round of tequila shots and bottled water comes from somewhere.

  Must be the sex. Sex always makes him pee like he’s a fire hose.

  A thought hits him. A bad one. He hopes to hell that bitch hasn’t given him something nasty. Dwaine looks down at the boiling soil.

  ‘Fuck, man!’

  The shock is so much he wets his legs. He stumbles backwards. Staring up, through a thin layer of puddled earth, is a man’s face.

  He’s been pissing on a dead guy.

  15

  ENGLAND

  A windy six-hour flight from Washington brings Owain Gwyn back to British soil, or, to be more precise, the blacktop runway at Heathrow.

  A VIP escort team meets him airside and whisks him through diplomatic channels to his waiting helicopter. The armour-plated Bell is quickly in the air, covering the one hundred and thirty miles west to his country estate in Somerset at a cruising speed of more than two hundred and fifty miles an hour.

  From the window of the ten-million-pound thirteen-seater, he watches the deep green of the lush English countryside slide beneath him. Mile by mile his spiritual connection renews. By the time he sees the Somerset Levels he feels whole again.

  Glastonbury.

  No other town triggers so many mystical associations.

  The Isle of Glass. Joseph of Arimathea. The Holy Grail.

  As the former British Ambassador to America looks down upon Glastonbury Tor, tales of history and legend blur in his mind. This is said to be Avalon, the place where Excalibur was forged. Where Arthur, the warrior king, was brought after being savagely wounded in battle by his mortal enemy, Mordred. Where some believe he died and others maintain he was ‘born again’ and rose to become immortal.

  The helicopter circles a grand estate and begins its cautious descent. Owain Gwyn is back where he belongs, where his ancestors fought and died for freedom and Christianity. Back home.

  He checks his phone as the descent begins. He has several missed messages but there is only one that truly interests him.

  The one from Myrddin.

  16

  ROCK CREEK TRAIL, MARYLAND

  Booze seeps through Irish’s bloated pores as he stands over the buried corpse. He uses his stained hanky to wipe alcohol slick from his forehead.

  The crime scene is only a mile from Amir Goldman’s store. Given that the most exciting thing this hick-town settlement ever sees is the traffic signal changing, he’s willing to bet his pension that they’re connected. Not that his pension’s worth that damned much.

  For once, he’s arrived at a scene ahead of the ME and has already briefly interviewed the guy who apparently came here for a leak and splashed more than his feet.

  He takes out a small camera bought more than a decade ago, with half the pixels of the one built into the new-fangled smartphone that he doesn’t know how to use. He shoots off three-sixty degrees’ worth of surrounding shots so he can always revisit the body and scene. CSIs will get better ones, but the process of doing it opens up his mind.

  Irish concentrates harder than a chess player and picks his way around the scene, careful not to trample evidence underfoot, shift bushes, or knock any trace from thorns or branch snags.

  Through the lens, the dead guy’s head looks like a dropped paper plate on the grey-brown soil. He’s been buried in the shallowest of shallow graves, face up, along a rough track that cuts through a copse of trees starting near the rest stop. There’s not enough flesh above ground to tell much about who he was. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. A big nose that he probably got teased about at school. He was probably mid- to late-twenties with fifty years still to burn.

  The way Irish figures it, this is the only place the killer could have sunk him. The roots of nearby trees and bushes are too big for anyone to dig either left or right. It’s hurried and messy. Whoever did it was hoping the burial would buy him time. Meaning he’s not local and is long gone.

  Even though the cop’s head is pounding from a hangover, he has a good idea of what’s gone down. The antique store had been a two man job. After the old man’s death they’d stopped and rowed. Things got out of hand and one killed the other.

  Irish picks up boot prints: deep heel marks made in soft soil. Deep because the victor was carrying the body of the loser. He sees two drag lines. Parallel tracks right up to the shallow grave. And another set of footprints, smaller than the boots made by the poor schmuck who found the body.

  Irish walks past the body. The path loops back onto the road and he can see a single set footprints heading that way.

  The killer’s.

  17

  SAN MATEO, SAN FRANCISCO

  Jade and Amber are playing Swingball on the lawn when Mitzi pulls up. They’re belting the roped ball at each other and splitting their sides laughing as it lashes back around the centre pole and they swipe at nothing.

  ‘I’ll play the winner,’ shouts their mom, as she carries a bunch of flowers from her car towards the back door of her sister’s house.

  ‘It’ll be me,’ boasts Jade.

  ‘No way,’ Amber adds a Williams-sisters grunt to her backhand return.

  Mitzi finds Ruth in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Red, yellow and green peppers cover a butcher-block island. ‘Hi honey, I’m home!’ she jokes.

  The look on her sister’s face confirms her suspicions that this is going to be a tense meeting. ‘I brought you some flowers. Lilies – of some kind. I don’t know which, but they’re pretty.’ She offers the bunch of purple, pink and cream trumpets.

  ‘They’re Longiflorum and Aurelian hybrids. Thanks.’ Ruth opens a cupboard door, brings out a vase with a wide fluted neck and fills it three-quarters with water. ‘You were out early this morning.’

  ‘Yeah. First day at work had my head spinning.’ Mitzi takes a beat then plunges into the big request. ‘They want me to go to Washington to h
elp on a murder. Would you mind looking after Jade and Amber for a couple days, till I get back?’

  Ruth looks around for scissors. ‘When do they want you to go?’

  ‘Kinda now. Late flight tonight, gets me there at stupid o’clock in the morning.’

  She finds the scissors in the dishwater, cuts the flower stems at a slant and drops them into the vase. ‘I saw you.’

  ‘Saw me where?’

  ‘Last night, with Jack. I saw you both.’

  Mitzi turns cop and goes on the front foot. ‘And?’

  ‘Huh, is that all you can say? And?’

  ‘And’s a reasonable question —’

  ‘It’s not a question; it’s a conjunction.’ She slams the scissors down on the marbled worktop. ‘I saw Jack pawing you.’

  Mitzi waves a dismissive hand. ‘He was drunk, Ruth. Men paw when they’re drunk. They paw anything. Shit, if you’d had a dog and it had been up on the back porch instead of me, he’d have most likely pawed the hound instead.’

  ‘I didn’t just see you – I heard you as well.’

  ‘Good. Then, you heard exactly what I said to him. I told him he was drunk and should behave. That was it. Nothing happened and I went to bed.’

  ‘Nothing? You threw him at the wall.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’ll live.’ She moves towards her sister. ‘Don’t make too much out of this. Man plus drink equals something stupid. Every time.’

  Ruth is in a bad place, doubts circle her marriage like buzzards over road kill. ‘I heard him say how he’d always liked you.’ Her voice slips towards a sob. ‘Liked you more than me and —’

  ‘Jeez, Ruthy, give this up!’ Mitzi holds her by the shoulders. ‘When guys are juiced, they say all kinds of shit. You know that. It’s a lesson learned on prom night and remembered every time you walk in a bar or club. Right?’