Faustus Resurrectus

by Thomas Morrissey

  “And since he knew the shelter,” Fullam added, “he knew it was a good place to commit the Capricorn murder.”

  “Wow,” Donovan said. “Those former bosses at CYA help you any?”

  Joann shook her head. “They’ve disappeared, from their homes and, in one case, right from the office. Four of them.” Father Carroll glanced up at this. Donovan recognized his expression but said nothing. She ticked the items off. “The Dinkins Shelter riot, the zodiac murders, these kidnappings are all tied together by Neil Valdes, and Raphael wants in on it in a big way. Hence my return to the front lines.”

  “Whatever ‘it’ is.” Donovan cleared their appetizer plates and reset their silver.

  Fullam looked at Father Carroll. “Any luck with that, Maurice?”

  The priest nodded. “A little.”

  Their entrees arrived. Donovan poured Columbia Crest Riesling for Joann and the Faust cabernet for Father Carroll and Fullam. The sergeant took a sip and nodded his approval.

  “The chemicals from the wax,” Father Carroll continued, slicing a lamb chop, “come from plants that serve particular purposes in ritual magic. I’m narrowing down those purposes in search of a common ritual. If I can discover it, I’ll be able to give you either the raw materials he needs or what special conditions he requires so we may track him before he completes his deeds. In that vein, you may want to look for yew wood. The botanical gardens and parks around the city have it in its raw form, but it is also used in furniture, either as inlay or in tables. The want-ads may be a fruitful source of information as well. In addition, there are several religious supply houses you’ll want to speak with concerning recent orders of Paschal candles.”

  Donovan raised his eyebrows. “Paschal? Easter was two months ago.”

  “Precisely. Since they are out of season, any purchases should stand out fairly well.” Donovan started to ask another question, but the priest cautioned him with a glance. “Give me a call tomorrow, I’ll show you my notes. We’ll see if we can come up with anything.”

  Joann cut a small piece of mahi-mahi and swirled it in sauce. “Did you learn anything in Michigan that could help?” she asked Donovan.

  “I think so. Nine-year-old Coletun was supposedly murdered by a man named Zeke Wissex during an orgy that got out of hand.”

  “I thought the point of an orgy was to get out of hand,” Fullam commented dryly.

  “They mixed in a little nature worship with it and got something wrong. Like the man said, ‘what you don’t know can hurt you a whole lot.’”

  “Drugs?” Joann asked.

  “And alcohol, and lots of both. Wissex said he killed Coletun and everyone while under their influence, then came out of it and turned himself in.”

  “That’s what you told Hugh?” Fullam asked. Donovan nodded. “What about the ‘more or less’ part you mentioned before?”

  Donovan glanced at Father Carroll before speaking. “After I convinced Wissex I wouldn’t dismiss his story, he told me he barely remembered what happened because he’d been possessed by something that came out of their bonfire. It took control of him and butchered the other twelve people at the orgy and threw Coletun into the fire. The boy came back out almost immediately, and he was the giant. He said ‘Mister Fizz’ made him bigger and stronger.’”

  “Possessed?” The priest looked alarmed. “Mister Fizz?”

  Fullam and Joann shared a look. “Uh-hunh,” she said. Donovan thought the sergeant’s eyes said something less doubtful.

  “That’s what he told me.” Donovan sensed he was going to lose her. “Toxicology reports show all kinds of things in Wissex’s bloodstream.”

  “Hallucinogenics?”

  “Some mushrooms.”

  “Combined with booze and other drugs, they must have given him quite a show in his head,” Joann said. “Possessed by a fire monster is a new one to me, but not the strangest.”

  “There was something else: Wissex said Coeus had a big tattoo across his chest and arms.” Donovan took out the paper. “These are sketches of some of the symbols in it. The way he described it made me think of some variation of the Catena Aurea Homeri.”

  “The Golden Chain of Homer?” Joann asked.

  Fullam looked at Donovan. “You speak Latin?”

  “I’ve picked up a little from research. Joann’s the scholar.”

  The sergeant turned to her. “Really?”

  “Disci omnes; I know many things. My father said it was important for a well-rounded education.” She took the paper and scanned it. “What’s the Golden Chain of Homer?”

  “Esoteric alchemy.”

  “Like The Alchemist?”

  Donovan nodded. “Sort of. Coelho’s book deals with the journey; the Golden Chain describes it in symbols. The goal was coniunctio, the total refinement and ascendancy of a human being. The Golden Chain diagrams the path and the process to get there.”

  “Said path and process being the zodiac murders?”

  “I don’t know. I hope it ties in to everything that way.”

  “What do you mean?” Fullam asked.

  “If the tattoo isn’t part of the zodiac ritual,” Father Carroll said, “it must be part of something else. Possibly something worse.”

  “Worse than torturing twelve men to death and dismembering them?”

  Donovan remembered Wissex’s story about the thing from the fire. “You have no idea.”

  FOURTEEN

  A BEAUTIFUL VESSEL

  Donovan was awakened in his apartment the next morning by a kiss. He smiled and opened his eyes. Joann stood next to the bed, wearing a pair of white satin sweatpants and a black “Nightwish” t-shirt.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Raphael just called. He wants a face-to-face at ten, which leaves just enough time to go for a run and shower.”

  He sat up, rubbing his face. “You have energy to run after last night?”

  “You give good dessert.” She grabbed a hand and pulled. “Come on. If we run fast we can get back in time.”

  “For what?”

  She grinned. “To see if you give good breakfast.”

  He bounced out of bed. “Race you to the reservoir.”

  ***

  Faustus and Valdes walked through Central Park under a brilliant cloudless sky, through trees thick with leaves and colonies of cicadas, over sporadic patches of lush grass flourishing among dirt paths packed down by countless wandering feet. The sorcerer took it all in with a wistful gaze. Valdes noted this as he guided him towards the Great Lawn.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  An oval of several hundred square yards lay in front of them, surrounded by concrete footpaths, bordered by trees, concrete and wood benches, and marked with six baseball backstops. Behind them, to the north, was the 86th Street Transverse and beyond that, the reservoir. Belvedere Castle sat at the south end of the Lawn, bordered by Belvedere Lake and the 79th Street Transverse.

  “Ja, ja.” Wistfulness curdled into petulance. “It is sufficient.” He walked over to a nearby tree, muttered some words and drew a glyph on the trunk with his finger. The symbol flared to life with unholy energy, then sank into the wood, leaving no scar. “North is prepared.” He began to walk west, counterclockwise around the Lawn.

  Valdes fell in step beside him. “Despite our discussion yesterday, Herr Doktor, our arrangement doesn’t have to be contentious. I’ve delivered the books I promised; is there anything else you need? Anything you want?”

  “Thou believest this to be a concern of material goods? What scant comprehension thou hast for the forces with which thou consort. Books sufficiently describe neither the tortures of Hell nor the wonders of life. Life is lived, not read.”

  “With all due respect; although I may not grasp their subtleties, I understand the emotional energies that drive those forces you describe.” Valdes gave a small smile. “The learning curve was steep, but I mastered it.”

  “The Dark Arts are survived, not ‘maste
red.’”

  “Someone controls everything. Deal with them directly, show them how it benefits them to give you what you want, and there won’t be any problems.”

  “Thou speaketh in cold abstraction. We deal in reality, Valdes. Dost thou grasp the scope of events to come? Hundreds, perchance thousands, subject to horrible death and damnation, with success hinged on thy self-proclaimed ‘mastery.’ The only surety to come is evil. Impotent to resist, Faustus must be party to it.” Faustus came to another tree, upon which he drew a glyph similar to the first, with the same result. “West is prepared.”

  “Don’t worry about me not holding up my end of things, Herr Doktor. Right now my people are arranging everything necessary: George and Lude are wiring up a bunch of old television sets, Dez and Melvin are picking through porn and horror movies and stockpiling drugs and booze, and Bridget, Officer Burt, The Jogger and Coeus are scouring the city for sharp and blunt objects. And all of them are spreading the word.”

  Faustus stared, surprised by his determination. “Eager art thou to cede earthly life for hellish torment, Valdes.”

  “I suppose that depends on one’s definition of ‘torment,’ doesn’t it?”

  “This is the perspective of a child. Just imprisonment, stemming from deeds committed with full knowledge of inspiration and source, deeds ultimately inconsequential save for the price they extract…this is torment. Knowing thy pain is caused by thine own stupidity of choice, entered into freely and fueled by thine own pride…this is the essence of suffering.” Earnestness peeked like a sliver of light through his disdain. “Renounce thy sins, Valdes. Ask forgiveness. This path can end only where Faustus ended.”

  Valdes sighed. “Maybe I can explain myself more clearly.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and tapped it absently against the back of his hand. “You entered into the occult because you sought knowledge, didn’t you? You believed you had mastered every intellectual field of the natural world.”

  “Pride is not the least of Faustus’s sins.” He drew a third glyph. “South is prepared.”

  “You learned conjuring,” Valdes fell in step as they headed east, “and subsequently accessed the power of a god. The best you could do with this power was, in your words, ‘deeds ultimately inconsequential save for the price they extract.’ The knowledge you thought would raise you above everyone else did nothing of the sort, because you had no goal, no desire beyond acquiring that knowledge, that power. You sought tools without having any idea of what to build. You had the universe at your fingers, you allowed it to slip away, and you fell. I understand your perspective, Herr Doktor. I just don’t share it. Unlike you, I don’t seek to attain power as a separate being. I will join with that power, and become it.” He lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the sky. “I’ll follow your lead, but I have no intention of repeating your mistake.”

  “Intentions be damned! By dealing with Hell thou hast already repeated the error. In matters magical Faustus is thy master. Pay heed, lest the devils of Hell have at thee!”

  “Perspective on reality has shifted since your time, Herr Doktor. The boogeyman stopped being an influence on most people’s behavior about three hundred years ago.” Valdes shook his head, forgiving the sorcerer’s lack of understanding. “The Hell you describe? I was, I am, already there. But not for much longer.”

  Faustus gazed about the park, at all the life and energy, then stared at Valdes for a long second. “In truth, we stand in the presence of Hell. For Hell is where God is not, and between us…” A frown creased his brow as he searched for any redeeming quality to which he could appeal. He saw none. He sighed, filled with regret for his lot, and drew a fourth glyph on a tree on the eastern side. A subtle hum reverberated for a moment, signaling an almost indiscernible change in the energy of the Great Lawn. Valdes looked around. Few, if any, of the people reacted or even noticed. It gave him a thrill of superiority.

  “Thou seeketh power to redress wrongs done thee, Valdes. Soon enough thy opportunity.” Faustus turned back towards the Cancer Hospital, his enthusiasm for the natural world blunted. “For now, a final task to prepare.

  “A beautiful vessel, one who is a force for good, must thou procure…”

  ***

  “Breakfast of champions.” Donovan held up a plastic shopping bag. “Taylor ham, egg and cheese on a roll. Four of them.”

  “Feeling hungry?” Father Carroll led him into the study.

  “Worked up an appetite, went running this morning.” Not necessarily in that order.

  “I don’t know how many sandwiches I can eat just now. That dinner last night was superb.” The priest waved him to the chair opposite his book-covered desk. “Faust,” he chuckled. “Appropriate wine for you of all people to sell.”

  “Weird coincidence, the wine and Cornelius Valdes. “ Donovan sat. “Don’t you teach that there are no coincidences? That God doesn’t play dice with the universe?”

  “I stand by Einstein’s words. However, I never said people are going to, or are meant to, understand what these ‘coincidences’ mean in His plan.”

  “Hmm.” Donovan raised one eyebrow as he bit into half a sandwich. A blob of ketchup threatened to drip onto his shirt. He deftly caught it with a finger and licked it clean. “Anyway, what about yew wood and Paschal candles? Are you onto something?”

  “I may be.”

  “Why didn’t you elaborate?”

  “For the same reason I didn’t want you to add your own speculations about what those elements might mean.”

  “What speculation? Yew is a link to the Land of the Dead in Northern European mythologies. I’m not making that up.”

  “And Paschal candles?”

  “Easter—when Christ rose from the dead.” Donovan took a twenty ounce bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper from the bag and opened it, then passed a bottle of water to the priest. “And amaranth in the wax; also used to summon the dead. Do I detect a pattern?”

  “What do you suppose their response would have been to these facts?”

  “Culturally, they’re the truth. We’re not making up wild stories.”

  Father Carroll nodded. “Allow me to re-phrase: how did Francis and Joann respond when you told them about the Faustus legend?”

  “He didn’t reject it, if that’s what you mean. She’s heard it before.”

  “It was a distraction. Amusing, perhaps, but a distraction. Now how did they react when you told us what Wissex said about being possessed, and about this ‘Mister Fizz’?”

  “Joann thought it was drug talk, but Frank…I don’t think he dismissed it out of hand.” He cocked his head. “Does Frank’s reaction have anything to do with what Yarborough told me? That you and Frank were involved in some kind of Santeria thing in Brooklyn a few years ago?”

  “Francis has experienced reality’s flexibility firsthand. He may be willing to listen to us, but is not comforted by what we may tell him. And if I’m not mistaken, you didn’t tell the Chief of Detectives about the possession. Why not?”

  “He would have thought I was nuts.”

  Father Carroll took off his glasses and polished them. “So we have three people in positions of real world legal authority whose responses to our input vary from outright dismissal to reluctant, uncomfortable willingness to listen.”

  “Joann’s response was neither of those.”

  “Joann’s perspective is something to which you ought pay attention.”

  “She’ll be glad to hear you say that.”

  The priest smiled. “What I mean is, she attempted to explain what is going on in terms she understood. That’s what you have to learn, Donovan. We are like the freed prisoners of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. We need to be able to describe what others see only as shadow so they understand it.”

  “I’ll never be able to play politics as well as Joann.”

  “You’ll have to learn. For instance, how would you explain that at the aquarium, Coeus addressed me as ‘priest’ even though I wasn’t wearing a collar?”
>
  “Recognition of ecclesiastic persons is a characteristic of possession, or at least contact with a demonic entity,” Donovan said. “Which is what happened to him, according to Wissex.”

  “This ‘Mister Fizz’ would seem to be that entity. Now how do you phrase that so that you are taken seriously?”

  “Tell him to stakeout graveyards?”

  “I think we can do better than that.” Father Carroll scanned the books on his desk, then slid a legal pad out from under one. “Yew, amaranth and Paschal candles are used individually in certain rituals, but the addition of the missing executives suggests that this ritual is not about contacting the dead so much as raising them.”

  “Raising the dead?”

  “There were four men. In a Satanic ritual, four usually means compass points, which suggests gateways. Now—” The priest adjusted the legal pad so he could read it easier. “I found this mentioned in several tomes. It seems to fit our evidence.”

  “Resurrectus maledicat.”

  “Cursed Resurrection.” Father Carroll translated. He glanced up and met Donovan’s eyes. “There’s only one problem—the ritual doesn’t actually exist anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It goes back to ninth-century France…

  ***

  In his apartment later that night, Donovan heard the entry buzzer. He smiled and pressed it, then opened his door a crack. As he did, a pile of menus fluttered around his ankles.

  “Oy.”

  He scooped them up and brought them inside, threw them away and went to the kitchen table he’d set up in the middle of his living room. Two candles sat in crystal holders, and he lit them as Joann pushed the door all the way open. “Is everything all right, baby?” she asked, entering and setting her briefcase down. “I thought you were working—”