The man in the white coat was back.
“Ms. Winthrop will see you sir, this way.”
He led Nightingale to a dark wooden door, knocked and showed him in. The office was large and bright, with one wall pretty much all window and an expensive looking wooden desk at the far end. It looked solid rather than veneered and there was a matching nameplate on the desk which informed him he was in the presence of Elaine Mayfield Winthrop - Facility Director.
Ms. Winthrop was around forty, blonde, though probably not by birth, wearing black glasses with upswept frames and a dark green business suit, though the desk prevented Nightingale from seeing whether it came with a skirt or pants. She didn’t get up as he entered, and showed no inclination to shake hands. “Please have a seat. Marlon tells me you’re a reporter. How may I help you?”
Nightingale settled into his chair, looked straight into her eyes and smiled again. “I’m working on an article about old folk who disappear, maybe create a little more interest in their cases. People are always far more concerned about children than vulnerable adults. Maybe I could redress the balance a little”
“You’re from England?”
“Yes, but I’ve been working in the States for a few months now.” He flashed her what he hoped was a boyish smile. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Mr. O’Hara?”
“Father Mike, we called him. The police have already asked us a lot of questions.”
“I’m sure,” said Nightingale. “I’m not trying to investigate the case, just maybe try to get a human interest angle on it. It was five weeks ago, is that right?”
“Yes, the eighteenth. We noticed at lunch time that he hadn’t come in, we looked everywhere and found no sign of him.”
“How long had he been here?”
“Five years.”
“And how old was he?”
“He was eighty-three.”
“He was frail?” asked Nightingale.
“Not at all. In fact, for a man of his age, he was in fine physical shape, but he had advanced Alzheimer’s. He didn’t know who he was or where he was. He couldn’t do much for himself. Except light cigarettes and read his Bible.”
“He was a smoker?”
“Yes, a lot of priests are. They tend to drink quite a lot too, but that wasn’t a possibility here. Compensates for giving up other things, or so I’m told. He used to sit on the bench out front whenever the weather was nice enough, like I said, smoking and reading the Bible.”
“You let a man with advanced Alzheimer’s sit out front alone?”
“He wasn’t the sort to wander. It seemed to make him happy, sitting outside. When he first came to join us, he was far more self-aware, and that’s the way he always liked to spend his days. He was quite safe out there, the attendants checked on him every half hour or so, and he always came back in at the lunch or dinner bell.”
“Until the day he didn’t?”
Ms. Winthrop sighed.
“Until the day he didn’t. When we noticed he wasn’t in for lunch, we searched the building and the grounds. His Bible was still on the bench, but not a trace of him. He’d just disappeared. Of course we called the police. We were...are... desperately worried.”
“Were the police any help?”
Ms. Winthrop looked pained. “Not really, no. I filed a missing persons report but I got the impression they weren’t going to do much in the way of a search. I tried the Chronicle but they weren’t interested, either.”
“Can you tell me the name of the officer who took the report?”
“She was a very nice lady came to the school.” She frowned. ”Now what was her name? Inspector Chen, I think?” She pulled open a desk drawer.
“She’s Chinese?”
Mrs. Dalton nodded.” Lovely lady, very sympathetic. She came to see me when I first reported Father missing and said that the police would do their best but I never heard from her again. I did call but she was never in the office. I think I have her card here somewhere. Now where is it?” She smiled triumphantly. “Ah, here it is.” She handed a business card to Nightingale. On the left of the card was the seal of the San Francisco Police Department and its motto – ‘Gold in Peace, Iron in War’.
“As you’ve probably realized, the police are only really interested if the missing person is a child or a pretty girl. Father Mike was an old man.” She shrugged. “It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”
“Could I see his room, if it’s not too much to ask? I’d like to get a feel for the way he lived.”
“I don’t see why not. His room is as he left it, the diocese had paid his fees until the end of this month so nothing’s been touched.”
“And what happens at the end of the month?”
“We have a long waiting list of potential guests, so in all likelihood his belongings will be put into storage and the room re-allocated. Unless of course, he returns before then.”
“And you don’t think that’ll be happening?”
“To be honest with you, no. He couldn’t have taken care of himself for three weeks, so unless someone has been looking after him.” She shrugged. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? I can’t understand how a man can simply just disappear in this day and age. Anyway, I’ll get Marlon to show you his room. It can’t hurt.”
She touched an intercom button on her desk and asked whoever answered to send Marlon in. The tall, bald man re-appeared inside a minute.
“Marlon, show this gentleman to Father Mike’s room, if you would.” She smiled at Nightingale. “I’m nearly done for the day, so Marlon will show you out when you’re done. Perhaps you’d be good enough to send me a copy of the article when it’s done?”
“I’ll make sure you get a copy. Thanks for chatting to me, I appreciate it.”
Marlon had the door open and ushered Nightingale out. By the time he closed the door behind him, Ms. Winthrop was busying herself with some papers.
Nightingale followed the big man down one of the corridors, past a number of the other residents. 'Guests’ had been Ms. Winthrop’s term for them, but Nightingale though that 'inmates’ might be more appropriate. Wheelchairs, walkers, crutches, sticks and every face showed the pain that any movement brought. Some of them nodded and smiled at Marlon and even looked quizzically at Nightingale, but others stared blankly ahead, and were led along by orderlies. All the movement puzzled Nightingale.
“Where’s everyone going?” he asked.
“Down to the main lounge, I imagine. There’s bingo most nights.”
Marlon stopped outside a room and unlocked it with a master key.
“Here you are, sir. I’ll wait outside, it would be pretty crowded with both of us in there.”
Nightingale stepped into the room. It wasn’t much bigger than a prison cell. The furniture was just an armchair, desk, a wooden chair and a bed, which had raised sides and an electric switch hanging on the wall next to it. Presumably it could be raised by orderlies or nurses. There was also a built-in wardrobe, one half hanging space and the other shelves. Two dark suits, four white shirts, two black ones with clerical collars and a dressing gown were hanging inside. The shelves held underwear, handkerchiefs, socks and a scarf. Everything was freshly-laundered and pressed.
There was a small bathroom attached, It was immaculately clean, with unused white towels on the rails. The toilet, basin and bath were green with handrails placed next to all of them. There was a mirrored cabinet over the basin, which held only a toothbrush, paste and two wrapped bars of soap. Presumably Father Mike hadn’t been permitted a razor.
Nightingale walked back into the bedroom. Apart from the clothes, there were almost no personal touches to the place. There was a clean water glass on top of the bedside cabinet, but nothing else. Nightingale took a look through the drawers, but they were all empty, except the top one which contained an old Bible. Nightingale flicked through some of the dog-eared pages. It had obviously been well read over the years. He slipped it into his raincoat pocket, and open
ed the door to the corridor.
Marlon was leaning against the wall, his arms folded. “Thanks, Marlon. I can find my own way out.”
The big man gave his head a little shake. “Ms. Winthrop said to see you out, so I’ll walk to the main door with you.”
He didn’t actually say, 'and make sure you leave,’ but Nightingale thought the implication was clear. Marlon showed Nightingale out and pulled the door closed behind him. Nightingale lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the darkening sky. He was trying to blow a smoke ring when the door opened again and Ms. Winthrop walked out, carrying a leather briefcase. She saw the cigarette in his hand. “Those things will kill you, you know.”
“They certainly will, Ms. Winthrop. Still, I’ve heard that non-smokers all die too.” Now she was standing next to him he could see that the business suit came with a skirt that finished a few inches above the knee. The glasses had gone, and so had a little of her formal office manner.
“But smokers die sooner.”
“Can I be honest with you?” he said. “Maybe that’s no bad thing. I’m not sure that the extra years would be worth the sacrifice.” He gestured at the door. “No offense, But I’m not sure I’d want to be a guest in there.”
“I suppose a quick tour of our facility isn’t the best advert for prolonging life to its limits. You have another one of those?”
Nightingale proffered the pack, then lit her cigarette. She took a drag, trickled smoke slowly out of her nose, then looked carefully at the glowing end. “Eight years,” she said quietly.
“You gave up eight years ago? Why start again today?”
“I only gave up buying them eight years ago. I still borrow one from time to time. Just an occasional display of rebellion in the great State of Conformity.” She sighed and took another drag.
“Long day?”
“They all are. Where are you staying?”
He told her.
“Do you need a ride? Taxis don’t often prowl for fares round here and I’m headed downtown.”
“I’m okay, thanks. I’ve got a car. Do you have a card? In case I need anything else?”
“Sure.” She took out a metal card-holder, opened it and handed him a crisp white business card. “What about you? Do you have a card? In case something comes up.”
“I’m out,” he lied. He took out a pen. “But I can write my number on one of yours.”
“A reporter without a notebook and cards. This is a first.”
She handed him another card and Nightingale wrote down his number and gave it back.
“At least you have a cell,” she said, pocketing the card. She smoked the last of her cigarette, crushed the butt underfoot and gave him a small wave. “Good luck with your story.”
CHAPTER 7
It was almost midnight. Nightingale had showered, twice, and he was wearing a brand new white cotton robe that he’d bought from a WalMart store. He lit two white candles and switched off the light, then took off the robe and placed it on the bed next to a small brown leather bag. The bag was several hundred years old but the leather was supple and glossy, as smooth as silk. He untied the bag and took out a large pink crystal, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, which was attached to a silver chain. Also on the bed was the Bible he had taken from the priest’s room.
He knelt down on the floor, placed the Bible in front of him, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer, the crystal pressed between his palms. When he had finished he opened his eyes and let the crystal swing free on its chain. He pictured a pale blue aura around himself as he took slow, deep breaths. He began to repeat the name of the owner of the Bible. Father Michael O’Hara.
Nightingale focused all his attention on the name and stared hard at the Bible. He whispered a sentence in Latin, and imagined the blue aura entering the crystal, helping it to show the direction in which Father Michael might be found, opening his mind to an image of the priest and his whereabouts.
Nothing.
The pink crystal remained motionless.
Nightingale tried again, focusing on the crystal and the Bible as hard as he could, but it just hung where it was. After ten minutes he stood up and put the crystal back in its leather bag. He looked down at the Bible on the floor and spoke quietly to himself. “Rest in peace, Father Michael.”
He was by no means an expert in the use of the crystal, but he knew that the fact there had been absolutely no reaction meant only one thing – the priest was no longer alive. He pulled on his robe and sat down on the bed. Nightingale needed advice, and there was no one better for guidance in the occult world than Mrs Steadman. It was midnight in San Francisco which meant it was about eight o’clock in the morning in London. He knew that Mrs Steadman was an early riser so he picked up his phone and called her. She answered on the second ring. “Why, Jack. How delightful to hear from you.”
“I need your help, Mrs Steadman.”
“That’s what I’m here for. And you know I always love to hear from you. Now, how is the city by the bay?”
Nightingale hadn’t told her where he was, but it was no surprise that she’d picked it up. She often knew things about him he’d never told her.
“OK, I suppose, though I’m not getting much chance to see the sights. I’m working again.”
There was a hissing intake of breath at the other end. “Joshua Wainwright again? You know what I think of him. Jack, the man is not your friend, and not a force for good. He has passed the Abyss and embraced the Lord Of This World.”
“Yeah, but he pays well,” said Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman wasn’t laughing. “It’s not something to joke about, Jack. You may well find the cost to you far outweighs any payment you might receive. He cares for nobody but his own sweet self.”
“And how’s your shop?” Mrs Steadman ran a Wicca store in east London, which is where he’d first met her.
“As ever, a change of subject any time you feel uncomfortable. You can’t always avoid important issues. But my shop is doing wonderfully well, thank you for asking. Now you’ve got me worried, Jack. What are you involved in?”
Nightingale could hear the concern in her voice.
“There’s a Satanic group out here who are killing people. They killed a nun, and a priest, I think. And there’s a young girl missing.”
Mrs Steadman gasped. “Oh! Goodness, no! That’s awful.”
“Have you come across anything like this before?”
“You know I don’t move in those circles, but from what I’ve heard, sacrificing non-believers is common to many of the blackest rites.”
“What do you mean 'non-believers’?”
“Non-believers in the supremacy of Satan, so people with faith in other religions.” said Mrs Steadman. “Jack, be careful. You don’t want to be involved with people like that. Tell Wainwright you want nothing to do with whatever he’s up to.”
“I can’t do that, Mrs Steadman. I owe him.”
“I sometimes think you’d have been better doing a deal with Satan himself than hitching your wagon to Wainwright,” she said. “People like me can call down power, channel it, hopefully for good. But Adepts of the Left-hand Path use it to impose their will on people and events. Their rule is 'Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.’ But the real top people, the Magister Templum, the Ipsissimus, they can store power within themselves, to use as and when they wish. No need for incantations and ceremonies every time, they are raw occult power. And horribly dangerous. Their strength of will is incredible, they can dominate people so easily, make them do anything they want. Jack, please, for me. Get out of there, now.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Then be careful. At least promise me that you’ll be careful.”
“I will. I swear. Mrs Steadman, who do you know in San Francisco who can help me?”
She chuckled softly. “I don’t fly much these days, Jack. You know that. It’s been decades since I visited San Francisco.”
“I could do with someon
e local who knows can tell me who’s naughty and who’s nice.”
She chuckled again. “You do make me laugh sometimes,” she said. “You put your soul in mortal peril and you continue to crack wise.”
“It’s my way of dealing with tension,” said Nightingale.
“I know that,” she said. “And that’s fine so long as you realize the seriousness of your situation.”
‘Just get me the name of someone on the ground that I can talk to, Mrs Steadman. Once I’ve done what has to be done, I’ll leave. I promise.”
CHAPTER 8
Nightingale took the cable car down to Fisherman’s Wharf and arrived half an hour early for the second ferry of the day. This early in the morning, the queues were short, so he bought his ticket, then smoked a cigarette while he waited. There was a street performer just opposite him, dressed as an antique bronze statue and making every effort to stay motionless.
The ferry finally pulled in. The Alcatraz Escape looked quite new, or at least freshly painted in black and white and ran to three decks, the top one open for anyone brave enough to sit up there on a chilly April morning. Nightingale walked up the gangplank and stood against the forward railing. He looked over at the island prison through the morning mist as the ferry plowed through the choppy sea .
There were several dozen other passengers on the ferry, but none looked as if they were investment bankers on the run from Satanic assassins. Two women walked past him, a couple of six-year-olds in tow, and an older man in a dark anorak. A dumpy middle aged woman with her hair in a bun leaned against the opposite railing. Most of the passengers had taken the sensible option of sitting inside. Nightingale was as conspicuous as he could make himself in his light overcoat, leaning against the rail, but nobody came near him for the whole fifteen-minute trip.
The ferry pulled into the jetty on Alcatraz Island and the passengers disembarked and headed up the hill to the baleful, gray monolith of America’s most infamous prison. Nightingale knew it by reputation, the one prison never to see a successful escape in its entire history. Getting out of the cell, outside the wall and past the armed guards was pretty much impossible, but that would still have been the easy part. The mile and a half swim through the icy water and vicious currents of San Francisco Bay was the real killer. Literally.
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