McCarthy frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
Father Baltazar smiled. “You can see tonight, if you want.” r
Paul Narcisse smiled, too, and it made Sara uncomfortable. “You shall look upon the face of evil. And your guns will do you no good.”
In Sara’s mind the voices finally all spoke as one. And what they said was, “But we will. We will!”
CHAPTER
FOUR
I don’t know,” Jake McCarthy said. “This isn’t exactly my thing, but I wouldn’t call it evil.”
. , , The detectives stood in a tight knot with Paul Narcisse and Father Baltazar at the rear of Club Carrefour. It was packed with an audience that was going wild to the heavy, yet eerily melodious sounds of the Goth Rock band on the small raised stage at the end of the hall. The music was so loud that everyone had to lean towards Jake to hear his words, despite the fact that they were well in the club’s rear.
Narcisse shook his head. “Not the band. Listen, and wait.”
Sara had to agree with Jake. This music was not really her thing either. But there was something to it, some vital, original beat that she could feel in her heart which was throbbing almost in time to the music. And the voices in her head really dug it. They went silent as the band played. She could feel them absorbing the sound like it was energy, absorbing it and pulsing wordlessly in time. Odd that, but she couldn’t see exactly how this was forwarding the investigation. She was tired. She didn’t feel like clubbing, and she was regretting the impulse that had caused her and Jake to accept the priest’s offer.
Still, the voices seemed to approve of their presence at the club, and while she was more than a little wary of them, she also knew that frequently it was worthwhile to follow their often-ciyptic advice. Besides, she was more than willing to give Father Baltazar some slack and let him prove himself. Or, maybe, disprove himself.
She leaned forward and got Father Baltazar’s attention by tugging on the sleeve of his cassock. She took her hand away quickly, not wanting to let it linger on his arm. “Who are they?” she asked.
“What?”
“The band. What’s their name?”
“Oh. Mountains of Madness. A local group that’s just made the national scene.”
She nodded, and turned her attention fully to the group, as the male lead singer said, “I think you might all know this one-our first charting hit, ‘Dreams in the Witch House.’ ”
Sara wasn’t familiar with it, but almost everyone else in Club Carrefour roared ecstatically.
There were five musicians in the band. The lead singer was tall, broad shouldered, and long-legged. His black hair fell in a torrent around his shoulders. Sara was too far away to discern his facial features, but he was dressed all in black with leather boots and a long black duster that was probably way too hot for a crowded club on an evening that was as warm as mid-summer. His voice was strong and deep, and sang lyrics too complicated for Sara to follow, even if she’d been interested enough to try to understand them. Which she wasn’t. She was more interested in gathering an overall impression of the band to see where they might fit in with the recent odd occurrences in Cypress Hills.
A pale-faced girl who also was wearing layers of black clothing played the keyboards and supplied counterpoint vocals. She, too, had long black hair, heavy dark eye make-up, and red, red lips. Her voice was light and soaring, perfectly complementing the lead singer’s bass tones as they wove a complex set of lyrics around the eerie melody supplied by harpsichord and guitars.
The guitar and bass player couldn’t have contrasted more with the other band members. Their pale hair was short and they were dressed simply in jeans and T-shirts, one bright orange and the other a vibrant yellow. They dashed frenetically around the stage, making faces at each other and the audience, cavorting where the singer and keyboarder were serious. They were underdressed by rock star standards and colorful by Goth standards. Sara couldn’t be sure from a distance, but they looked like twins. They certainly resembled each other so closely that they had to be brothers.
The drummer, the final member of the band, was so far in the rear of the stage that Sara couldn’t really see him. He was black, and lost in the darkness among his drum-set. It seemed as if he was someone who didn’t seek out the limelight.
Sara could catch only the barest essence of “Dreams in the Witch House.” It was evocative of lost dreams and forgotten hope, of spirituality in a mechanistic age. When it was over the lead singer raised his hands, bowed deeply, and left the stage. The rest of the band followed him as the crowd went nuts.
“Let’s go,” Paul Narcisse said.
Though Sara and Jake stood within a couple feet of him, they could barely hear him for the delirious crowd noise. They followed him and Father Baltazar as they made their way toward the stage. When they reached the curtained door heading to the wings, a big bald black dude with biceps ^the size of baby heads blocked them for a moment, then obviously recognized either Paul Narcisse or Father Baltazar, 6r both, and let them pass.
“You’re better than a backstage pass,” Jake said as they went past the curtain.
Father Baltazar smiled. “We’re not unknown in the community.”
As they went backstage the band was retaking the stage for an encore. A short, balding man in a gray rumpled suit was standing among the light and sound crew. Paul Narcisse went to him.
“Kristoforas-good to see you again, my brother.”
The man turned a harried face to them, and relaxed somewhat as he recognized Paul Narcisse and Father Baltazar. He was young, not much-if any-older than Sara, but was prematurely balding, prematurely chubby, and his face had what seemed to be a perpetually worried expression. But he did seem genuinely glad to see Paul Narcisse and Father Baltazar, though he cast a momentary suspicious glance in the direction of Sara and Jake.
Paul Narcisse turned to the cops and gestured at the man he’d just greeted. “Detectives Pezzini and McCarthy, this is Kristoforas Gervelis. He manages The Mountains of Madness. His brother, Aleksandras, is the lead singer.” The worry was suddenly back in Kristoforas’ eyes. “Detectives? They’re police?”
Jake looked at Sara, his eyebrow quirked significantly, but Father Baltazar laughed. “Relax, old friend. Don’t worry so much. We .were just showing the detectives around the neighborhood, and what better place to take them than the triumphant return of Mountains of Madness to Cypress Hills?”
Meanwhile, on stage, the band had settled back behind their instruments, and Aleksandras was shouting, “Thank you! Thank you, my friends! We’re so happy to come home for tonight’s befiefit, hosted by our first and greatest patron, Mister Guillaume Sam!”
Aleksandras pointed to the opposite stage wing and a large black man wearing a silk Armani suit strolled out onto the stage to take a bow. He was huge, with great shoulders, a wide, deep chest and an expansive gut. He wore dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. A three-inch-long gold crucifix dangled from his left ear. He waved at the crowd, and they responded vociferously, as if most knew him. Then he turned, bowed politely to the band, and made his way back into the darkness of the wings.
As Aleksandras gestured and the band swung into their encore, Sara suddenly froze, her gaze on Guillaume Sam. She almost didn’t need the confirmation of the twittering voices in her head. She could tell from his arrogant posture, from the self-satisfied set of his mouth. He was the one. He was the evil that Paul Narcisse and Father Baltazar had brought them to see.
As the band began to play their signature song, “Rats in the Walls,” he looked up across the back of the stage and caught Sara in his gaze. The voices in her head bleated with sudden urgent warning, and, almost unheard of from them, fear.
“—power, awful power—”
“-the one to watch-”
“—the blade, call upon the blade!”
For a moment Sara was almost unable to fight them down. For a moment her gaze darkened, her will weakened, and she could feel the const
ricting bands of cold metal began to appear upon her flesh, shredding the fabric of her jeans to her upper right thigh. But she clenched her teeth and drove the Witchblade back, telling herself, telling the voices,-“No! Now is not the time!”
For once they obeyed, and the Witchblade flickered and subsided. She could only hope that no one would notice her ruined jeans, or if they did, just think them fashionable.
But as her eyes came back into focus, she found herself still staring across the back of the stage. As The Mountains of Madness rocked into “Rats in the Wall” she saw Guillaume Sam looking at her with unconcealed interest. And there was something, some dark thing sitting crouched on his shoulder, unseeable in the dim light, save for two glaring red eyes.
She broke Sam’s gaze with a conscious effort, and turned her head to see Father Baltazar looking steadily at her with concern, wonder, and, yes, even a little suspicion in his eyes.
It took only a simple request from Paul Narcisse to get them all invited to the post concert party on the second floor of the club, which consisted of Guillaume Sam’s office and, as Kristoforas imprecisely put it, “private function space.” Club Carrefour’s second floor was a bit more intimate and furnished a lot fancier. The bar was almost as big as in the club downstairs, but was much more ornate, with a marble top over a teak and mahogany base, a huge mirror dating to a previous century or two, and bottles of liquor, wine, and brandy that were also aged and rather more exotic than those found downstairs.
To Sara’s eyes there seemed an inordinate amount of religious iconography about the place. Crosses, saintly icons, and the like festooned the bar, the walls, and even the metal candleholders on the tables adjacent to the dance floor. Music rumbled on a stereo system that sounded almost as good as the real thing. One end wall was dominated by a large throne-like chair that was set atop a three-step dais.
As Sara and the others entered the hall the throne was empty, though there were already several dozen people dancing, collecting drinks at the bar, or attacking the buffet laid out on a series of long tables set against one of the long walls of the rectangular room.
McCarthy spotted the spread, said a hasty “Excuse me,” and headed for the food at a run. Clearly, he hadn’t been to the donut shop lately.
“Can I get you a drink, Ms. Pezzini?" Kristoforas asked with genuine solicitude.
“A soft drink,” Sara replied. “On duty and all that. And please, call me Sara.”
Kristoforas smiled briefly, a smile that was extinguished as the Mountains of Madness guitar and bass players approached.
“Hey,” one of them said.
Close up, Sara could see that they were indeed twins. They were about Sara’s height and probably not much more than Sara’s weight. Skinny would be an accurate description of their build, and not quite endearingly ugly an accurate description of their features. Their eye color was as non-committal as their hair, gray-green and
brown-blond. Their front teeth protruded, their chins were almost non-existent.
“Hey,” the other one said.
“We’re in the band,” the first said.
“We’re brothers,” the second said.
“I’m Roger Stem.” ‘
“I’m Jerry Stem.”
They got on either* side of Sara and each put an arm around her waist.
“Want to be the filling in a Stem sandwich?” they asked in unison.
“Jesus, Jerry, and you, too, Roger,” Kristoforas said, “behave for once. This is Sara Pezzini. Detective Sara Pezzini, N.Y.C. Police Department.”
“Wow,” Roger said.
, “Cool,” Jeny said.
They looked at each other.
“I don’t think I’ve ever done a cop before,” Roger said.
“I know I haven’t,” Jerry said.
“Rog-Jer-” Kristoforas said in warning tones.
Sara began to understand why he had a perpetually harried look. She stepped back out of their grasp.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can take care of myself. I’m armed, after all.”
“Wow,” Jerry said.
“Cool,” Roger said. “Can we see your gun?”
“Later.” Sara looked at Paul Narcisse and Father Baltazar, who had been bemusedly watching the exchange. “Right now I’d like to meet the rest of the band.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Paul Narcisse said. He took Sara’s arm and guided her away. “Come along.”
Sara glanced at the brothers as they ambled off to the bar with Kristoforas.
“Are they for real?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Paul Narcisse said. “Pretty much harmless though. Shameless hedonists, but they can play. Alek is the only one who’s ever been able to keep them in line for more than a couple days at a time. I’m not sure how he does it, but he does have a somewhat dominating personality.” They stopped at the buffet table, where the lead singer of Mountains'of Madness was helping himself to some chopped liver from the statue shaped into the Angel of Death. “Right, Alek?”
Alek turned around slowly, smiling. He was a tall man, perhaps six-two, and the wild hair and dark clothes and leather boots made him loom even larger. His pale face was untouched by the usual Gothic make-up. His eyes were dark like Father Baltazar’s, but they had a different quality to them that made him seem harder, tougher than the priest’s. He was as handsome and impressive as a man could be. When he spoke, his deep, rich voice only added to his aura of power and dominance.
“Paul,” he said, smiling. “Great to see you. I’m glad you made it to the benefit.”
He turned toward Sara and their eyes met. His smile widened. It was difficult to say which was more attractive, his eyes or his smile. She felt herself smile back automatically, and caught herself, angiy at her unthinking response. Sure, he was a handsome, charismatic guy with great eyes, a great smile, and a great voice, but she had to watch herself. This was developing into the weirdest case she’d run across in a very weird career. She had to maintain her distance from all those involved, as well as her hard-edged perspective.
“Hello.” His voice oozed charm, but it was a natural, almost unconscious ooze. He wasn’t tiying to charm her. He just did. “I’m Aleksandras Gervelis. Please, call me Alek.” “I’m Detective Sara Pezzini,” she said, her voice harder, more formal than she intended it to be. “You can call me Detective Pezzini.”
Damn! Sara said to herself. She sounded like she had a stick up her butt. But something was making her keep her distance from Gervelist Were the voices, though quiet, perhaps exerting a more subtle control over her mind?
“Certainly, Detective Pezzini,” another voice said, interrupting her thought. “Can I ask why the New York City Police Department sees fit to make its presence felt at my little get-together?”
Sara turned toward the new speaker, and caught her breath. The voices in her head suddenly chittered like .mad mice, offering a mixture of challenge tinged with fear, which was most unusual for them. Normally they feared nothing.
It was Guillaume Sam. He loomed taller than Alek Gervelis, and bulked much larger. His face was bland and expressionless, though Sara could well believe that his eyes could bum with fire and emotion if he’d let them. His suit was impeccable, his large, powerful hands faultlessly manicured. The beady-eyed creature still sat on his shoulder, its long, naked tail looped around his neck, great bucked teeth gleaming in its pointed muzzle. “Excuse me,” Sara said, “but is that a rat?”
Guillaume Sam laughed. It was deeply musical and seemed genuine.
“You are not much of a naturalist, Detective. This is Baka, my pet possum.”
“That’s ... unusual...” Sara said.
“Much about Guillaume Sam is out of the ordinary,” Paul Narcisse said.
Guillaume Sam turned his eyes upon the bookstore owner and for a moment he let the power in his gaze shine through. “Ah, Paul, always good to see you. I trust you’re enjoying yourself.”
Paul Narcisse bowed. “As you say,
monsieur."
A palpable tension was' in the air, broken when Kris Gervelis hustled up to the group with the drink he had promised Sara. He bumbled forward and there was a moment’s confusion as if he realized he was breaking up something, but not sure what, then Guillaume Sam excused himself, saying he had other guests to attend to. The female member of Mountains joined them an instant later. Kristoforas introduced her as Magdalena Konsavage. Like the Gervelis brothers, she was a member of the Cypress Hills Lithuanian community. She and Sara chatted amiably for a few minutes. Alek asked if she wanted to dance, but Sara made her excuses to go hunt down her partner.
She was wary of Alek, whether it was the voices subtly warning her or whether she was subtly warning herself she couldn’t say. She also felt that it’d be more useful if she drifted and mingled. So she did.
The results were interesting if not conclusive. She wandered through the crowd, collecting impressions and what information she could. Guillaume Sam was now es-conced on his throne-like chair, drinking rum like it was water, Baka sitting on his shoulder and observing everything far too intently. She passed Paul Narcisse and Father Baltazar, who seemed to be keeping their eyes out for her, and also her partner, who seemed more interested in the food and the females present than police business.
She ducked the Stem brothers, who were drinking up a storm and eating and chatting up everything in a dress.
At one point she noticed they were with someone who seemed familiar, so she let the eddies and swirls of the crowd’s tidal flow deposit her close behind them where she could watch and listen unobserved.
“Hey,” Rog-or maybe it was Jer-was saying, “how’d you like to be the filling in a Stem sandwich?”
They were standing with their arms around a woman’s waist, each looking a little worse for wear from the everpresent drinks in their hands. This woman was as tall as Sara, though slimmer. Her short, blonde hair was slicked back and she was wearing masculine evening dress, an elegant black tuxedo and tails, as if she’d escaped from a Fred Astaire movie. It took a moment, but Sara recognized her as the woman who’d come into the notions and lotions store earlier that evening. She was elegantly seductive, and, as Sara watched, left the ballroom arm in arm in arm with the twins.
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