The man in the office wore a dark suit and heavy black-framed glasses. Nightingale asked to speak to Father Benedict and explained that they had a mutual friend, Mrs Steadman of London. The man asked Nightingale to take a seat and picked up a phone. After a few minutes the man called over to Nightingale and pointed off to the left. “The abbot can see you now, his office is just across the cloister, through that door.”
Nightingale thanked the man and walked across the courtyard, along an arch-framed corridor, knocked on the door where the sign said “FATHER BENEDICT” and opened it. Behind a medium-sized desk sat a monk wearing a black habit with a white hooded robe over it and a plain metal crucifix on a chain round his neck. Father Benedict had a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Nightingale’s image of a monk had been Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood stories, fat and jovial, but father Benedict was tall and very thin. He looked around sixty and had gold half-moon glasses perched halfway down his nose.
“Welcome, welcome,” said Father Benedict, getting to his feet and walking across to greet Nightingale, his sandals whispering on the tiled floor. “Mrs Steadman told me all about you,” he said. “She’s quite a fan.”
“That’s good to know,” said Nightingale.
The Abbot waved Nightingale to four chairs around a glass-topped wooden table. “Please sit,” he said. “So tell me, how do you know the lovely Mrs Steadman?”
“We met in her shop in London, not that long ago,” he said, sitting down.
“She’s a sweetheart, an absolute sweetheart,” said the Abbot, sitting down opposite him. “Now would you like tea or coffee, or I can offer you iced water.”
“I’m good, thank you.”
“So what is it you want?” he asked, sitting back on his chair and interlinking his fingers.
“To pick your brains, really.”
The Abbot spread his hands wide. “Pick away,” he said.
“I know I’m going to sound crazy, but have you had much experience with Satanists?”
“Satanists? Devil worshipers?” He squinted at Nightingale. “You are joking, right?”
“I wish I was, but no, it’s a serious question. I think there might be a coven of Satanists active in San Francisco.”
“Doing what exactly?”
Nightingale shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Human sacrifice,” he said.
The Abbot frowned. “And why on earth would you think that? There’s been nothing on TV or in the papers.”
“You watch TV?” asked Nightingale.
“We’re a commercial monastery, Jack. We’re not sealed off from the outside world. Our wines win awards, you know. Though I have to say I prefer reality shows to the news. The news is always so depressing these days.”
“Tell me about it,” agreed Nightingale. “But to get back to your question. I’ve spoken to a man who was part of the group, and he told me what was going on.”
“Human sacrifice in the twenty-first century, it hardly seems likely, does it?”
“I’m fairly sure that’s what’s happening, Father Benedict. Though to be honest I don’t have much in the way of proof.”
The Abbot nodded thoughtfully. “You know of course that Satanism started here in San Francisco?”
Nightingale frowned. “That’s news to me.”
The Abbot nodded. “Organized Satanism was born in San Francisco on April 30, 1966.”
“That can’t be right,” said Nightingale. “Surely devil worship has been around for centuries? Since the dawn of time.”
“On an individual basis, that’s true. But the organized ceremonies, the rituals and so on, they are a much more modern phenomena. That all started in 1966, at 6114 California Street to be precise. The Black House.”
“I’m stunned,” said Nightingale. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”
“So you’ve never heard of Anton LaVey?”
“No. Who was he?”
“The founder of the Church of Satan, author of The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals and the Satanic Witch. Inventor of modern Satanism.”
“Maybe he’d know what this is about. Would he talk to me?” asked Nightingale.
“I doubt this would be his scene, one of his main precepts was never to harm little children. Besides, he hasn’t been talking to anyone since 1997. He died. His daughter is still alive, but I don’t think she has anything to do with the church any more.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“I don’t, I’m sorry. But I do know that the Church of Satan wouldn’t have anything to do with human sacrifice.”
Nightingale nodded. “This is a bit of a change of subject, but what can you tell me about Brother Gregory’s disappearance?”
“It’s very much a mystery,” said the Abbot. “He simply vanished. And no one has any idea where he might have gone.”
Nightingale leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me about him.”
“I knew him ever since he came to us as a novice, some thirty years ago. He was nearly fifty when he disappeared. A quiet man, even by the standards of a monastery, he seldom spoke other than at services, though he was no fool. A very gifted viticulturist.”
“Sorry?” said Nightingale.
“Wine grower, he had a caring touch with the plants. As I said we produce award-winning wine here. Oddly enough, he was quite happy to talk to the vines all day, and they seemed to respond.”
“What happened on the day he disappeared?” asked Nightingale.
“I wish I knew. The brothers had been working in the fields as usual, and walked back up to the monastery when the bell was tolled for Vespers. After that we took our evening meal in the refectory and it was noticed that Gregory was not there. It was dark by then, so a full search of the grounds wasn’t made until the next day, after which we called the police, but no trace of him was ever found.”
“Could he have got into a car?”
“Well, the road is quite near to where he was last seen working, but why should he do so?” The Abbot looked at him quizzically. “This isn’t a change of subject, is it? You think that Brother Gregory was taken by Satanists, don’t you?”
Nightingale shifted uncomfortably again. “It’s a possibility. I’m sorry.”
“But what would Satanists want with a monk?” His eyes widened as he answered his own question, and his hand went up to his mouth. “You think he has been murdered?”
Nightingale nodded. “I’m sorry.”
The Abbot swallowed nervously, clearly unsettled by what Nightingale had told him. “It’s a pleasant morning,” he said. “Would you care to take a stroll around the vineyard? I could show you where Gregory worked.”
“I’d like that,” said Nightingale.
They left the Abbot’s office and walked back across the courtyard and out of the main entrance, then down a gentle hill for a few hundred yards to the start of the vineyard. The vines were planted in rows, each one carefully pruned back to avoid overgrowth into the next. Nightingale knew almost nothing of viticulture, and had never been much of a wine drinker, preferring to stick to beer, or, when stronger measures were needed, brandy or malt whiskey. He asked a few questions, more from a desire to keep Father Benedict talking than through any genuine interest. They stopped at the bottom of the vineyard where they could see the main road some fifty yards away, and hear the traffic. The vineyard was full of other monks working. They had swapped their robes and habits for more practical blue overalls out in the fields. There was very little talking.
“Have you ever heard mention of a Satanic group who call themselves the Apostles?” Nightingale asked as they started to walk back to the monastery.
The Abbot shook his head. “I find it strange that devil-worshipers would take the name of Christ’s disciples. The first martyrs.”
“Martyrs?”
“Well, yes,” said Father Benedict. “The first ones after Christ himself, of course. They all died for their faith. Rather nastily too, in most cases.”
“Well, Christians weren’t popular in the early days, and were cruelly dealt with. St Peter was crucified upside down, St Andrew crucified on an X-shaped cross, St Bartholomew flayed alive, and St Thomas killed with a spear. The rest were also martyred, but I can’t recall the details. None died easy deaths, though, that much I can tell you.”
“I think the Apostles are a group of Devil-worshipers. Have you any experience of that sort of thing?”
“Very little, my path lay in the opposite direction, of course. But I know of Devil-worshipers and their beliefs.”
“They don’t believe in God?” asked Nightingale.
“Oh, quite the opposite, they believe He created the world and all that’s in it.”
“But then...”
“But then, He went away,” said the Abbott. “He left this world behind, to create others. And He left it in the care of Satan, 'The Lord Of This World’ as they call him. So he is the one they worship, they seek to gain power from him.”
“I’ve heard it said that power is just like electricity,” said Nightingale. “Not good or bad in itself, it just depends how you use it.”
“Now there I’d disagree. Christians don’t seek to use that power, but to be guided by it. I don’t think we’d equate ourselves with White Witches, using power to do good.”
The Abbot started walking back to the main monastery building. Nightingale walked with him. “Do you have something that belonged to Brother Gregory?”
“We still have his possessions, yes.”
“Could I borrow something?”
“Do you mind telling me why?”
“It might help me find out if he’s…” Nightingale looked away, unwilling to finish the sentence.
“If he’s dead?” the Abbot finished for him.
Nightingale nodded.
“Come with me,” said the Abbot. He led Nightingale back into the main building and along a corridor to a room marked ‘STORAGE’. Inside were rows of metal shelving, filled with office and cleaning supplies. At the back of a room was a cardboard box, not much bigger than a microwave. “Brother Gregory wasn’t one for possessions,” said the Abbot, lifting the lid. “Mainly clothes and a few books.”
Nightingale peered inside. There were several habits, a dozen pairs of socks that had been rolled up and neatly-folded underwear. There was a well-thumbed Bible, a rosary and several dog-eared paperbacks, all of them religious works, including the Koran.
Nightingale picked up the Koran and flicked through it. “An interesting choice for a monk,” he said.
“He was always interested in other religions,” said the Abbot.
Nightingale put the Koran down and picked up the rosary. “Can I borrow this?” he asked.
“I don’t see why not.”
“I’ll bring it back in a day or two,” promised Nightingale. He reached into his raincoat pocket and took out the notebook that he had taken from Lee Mitchell’s freezer. He handed it to the Abbot. “What do you make of this, Father Benedict?”
The Abbot opened the book and immediately frowned. He tilted his head on one side and flicked through several pages. “It appears to be gibberish, but why would someone go to so much trouble to write down nonsense?” He ran his finger down a page and a smile slowly spread across his face. “Ah, it’s mirror writing,” he said. “But not English.” His smile widened. “Latin. Goodness me, that is quite something. Where did you get it from?”
“It’s complicated,” said Nightingale. “But I’d be very interested to know what it says. Do you think you could translate it for me.”
“Do you think this book is connected in some way with Brother Gregory’s disappearance?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then I will more than happily go through it.”
Nightingale gave the Abbot his cellphone number scribbled on a piece of paper. “Give me a call when you’re ready,” he said. He held up Brother Gregory’s rosary. “I’ll be back with this soon.”
The Abbot nodded and replaced the lid of the cardboard box. “I just hope you’re wrong,” he said. “I can’t bear to think of a good man like Brother Gregory dying at the hands of Godless Satanists.” He shuddered. “The world can be a terrible place at times.” He crossed himself and shuddered again.
“You’re telling me,” said Nightingale.
CHAPTER 21
Nightingale got back to San Francisco at three o’clock in the afternoon. He drove to Mission Street library and found a free computer. He needed to recharge his crystal before using it again. There were several options including burying it in the Earth for twenty-four hours or leaving it soaking in sea salt for a whole day, but the quickest was smudging and smudging was best done by a professional. He Googled crystal smudging and came up with a shop called Crystal World on Market Street and a contact name - Rowena Feinstein.
Then he went to Wikipedia for a list of the Apostles. Much to his surprise, there was no definitive list of Christ’s original twelve followers. The names varied from one Gospel to another, and John’s Gospel only mentioned eight of them. Matthew in one gospel equated to Levi in another. Thaddeus could be Jude. But it wasn’t the names that Nightingale was interested in, so much as their deaths. But Father Benedict had been right, as far as he’d remembered. St Andrew had been martyred on an X-shaped cross, and St Peter had also shared Christ’s fate, reputedly asking to be crucified upside down, so as not to be compared with his master. Simon had been sawn to pieces. Thomas had been killed with a spear, while Bartholomew had been flayed alive with a knife. Thaddeus, or Jude had been shot to death with arrows, while John had been poisoned. The only one of the original Apostles not to have been martyred was Judas Iscariot, who was generally thought to have hanged himself in remorse for taking his thirty pieces of silver to betray Christ.
He printed out the information he had and then spent the next half hour researching the career of Lucille Carr, and another half hour watching YouTube videos of Kent Speckman. 'The Specter’. He was tall, lithe and muscular with zig-zags shaved into his short hair. With his gold helmet on, there was nothing much to distinguish him from his scarlet and gold uniformed team mates. Until he started to run. Then everything changed. Nightingale watched, fascinated, even though he was no fan of American football. He didn’t seem any faster than anyone else, or any stronger, but according to the commentators he’d broken records for rushing and touchdowns that season. The more Nightingale looked at him, the more he thought that the other team had just agreed not to get in his way. When he was carrying the ball, he seemed to be able to sway round any attempts to tackle him. Rarely did any of the opposition manage to lay a hand on him. When he was running to catch a pass none of the defensive team looked as if they wanted to block him. The man seemed almost to have an exclusion zone around him, as if all the other players just moved according to his wishes. But that would be quite impossible. Wouldn’t it?
He went outside, programmed the SatNav with the shop’s address and fifteen minutes later he was talking to Ms Feinstein, who was around forty, small with long gray hair, dressed in something long, flowing and purple. Nightingale explained what he wanted.
“Of course, sir,” she said. “We can do that while you wait.” Smudging meant fanning incense over the crystal for thirty minutes, and Nightingale decided to use the time replenishing his wardrobe. He’d arrived in San Francisco with only the clothes on his back. When he returned half an hour later with new socks, underwear and a couple of shirts, his crystal was ready for him.
“That’s rather an unusual piece, Mr...er...”
“Jack. Yes, a gift from a friend,” replied Nightingale.
“It’s always hard to date a crystal, but the bag is very old, isn’t it?”
“I’m told so, yes.”
“You use it for healing?” she asked.
“No, it’s for divining. Thanks.”
He paid and left before the woman could ask any more que
stions
CHAPTER 22
Back at his hotel, Nightingale showered, twice, and slipped on the white cotton robe, before lighting his two white church candlesand taking out the crystal and Brother Gregory’s rosary. He placed the rosary on the floor, knelt down before it and said a prayer with the crystal between his palms. The prayer finished, he let the crystal swing free over the rosary as he repeated the name of Brother Gregory West over and over again. The crystal remained motionless. Nightingale took a deep breath, said another prayer and tried again as he visualized a pale blue light around his body. Still the crystal refused to move. Eventually he gave up – Brother Gregory was most certainly dead.
CHAPTER 23
Nightingale arrived at the Raw Bar at around eight. It was a large room, furnished in dark bare wood throughout, a long bar at one end, with doors to a kitchen on the left and the restrooms on the right. The remainder of the room was filled with tables and chairs, a couple of waitresses in white T-shirts and short black skirts threading their way between them with drink orders. There were around twenty people inside, mostly at the bar, but Nightingale sat at a table and ordered an Anchor.
He was halfway through his beer when Amy Chen walked in, flanked by two tallish guys in dark suits. Chen noticed him as she walked towards the bar, but a curt nod was all he rated. She and her colleagues ordered a pitcher of draft and took stools at the bar. They talked and laughed together. Chen had a sexy, throaty laugh which carried across the room.
Around ten minutes later, Chen picked up her glass, held up a hand to her colleagues and walked over to Nightingale’s table. “Not stalking me, are you?” she said.
He raised his glass. “You said you might be here, remember?”
San Francisco Night Page 8