“I’m not trying to justify his motives and, frankly, you’d be surprised at what kind of people believe in the paranormal.”
“Maybe. On the other hand, Valdes’ actions do fit the profile of someone looking to set up an insanity defense if he was caught in the act of murdering the four men he felt were responsible for sending him to prison.”
“What do you mean?”
“We found the bodies of four men in a chamber underneath Saint Patrick’s cathedral, identified as Valdes’s former superiors at the charity.” Yarborough looked a little smug. “Whatever this witchcraft nonsense you’re pushing may or may not mean, this has all been about revenge. And now that Valdes has gotten it, he may be working on a way to ransom a deal if we catch him. Or ‘when’ we catch him, I should say, because why would he want to go to this trouble unless he made a mistake that will lead us to him, and soon?”
“He was just out for revenge? Then why would he have committed those twelve zodiac murders? Why not just kill his four bosses and be done with it?”
“I’ve been over Sergeant Fullam’s work on those deaths, and as near as I can tell, there’s no evidence to actually tie Valdes to any of the killings except at the New York Aquarium. In fact, I remain unconvinced that many of those so-called ‘zodiac murders’ were, in fact, murders.”
What?! Donovan sat upright. “The methods, the pattern—”
“Some of those pointed out were unusual,” he conceded. “However, excepting the arrows, all were at least plausible taken in total context—a man attacked by a lion may sound bizarre, but when that man is a security guard at the Bronx Zoo it becomes a case of ‘wrong place, wrong time.’ Strangulation, shooting, drowning; these are hardly the work of Satan, wouldn’t you agree?”
His soft southern accent struck precisely the wrong chord. Donovan chose his words carefully, screening out personal animosity. “I never said they were ‘the work of Satan.’ In fact, I’m not sure why Valdes is doing the resurrectus maledicat.”
“Did you actually see Valdes throw the curator into the shark tank?”
“The building was locked! They went in, and I saw Katz hit the water a few moments later.” Donovan took a calming breath. “There was also a particular red wax at each murder scene. If you let me take a look at the files, maybe I can add something to—”
“I’m sorry, this is a police matter.” Yarborough closed the folder he held. “NYPD have our own people. Thank you for your offer, but Ms. Clery’s kidnapping has involved the FBI, and they also bring with them behavioral profile experts. The investigation requires no more civilian assistance.”
Donovan had been fired before—in the restaurant business in New York City, getting fired was as common as owners who steal tips from their employees. The thought of losing this avenue to find Joann made him swallow his pride. “I would be an asset to the investigation, I can assure you.”
“Really? How?” Yarborough looked him full in the face, malice deep within him. “You told me yourself you didn’t learn anything valuable talking to a convicted satanic murderer in Michigan.”
“I wasn’t being open when you grabbed me at the airport,” Donovan said plainly. “I wanted to avoid exactly this kind of political dancing.”
“Didn’t do a very good job, did you?”
Not the first time, Donovan thought. “This is my fiancée. I can help.”
“You’re a bartender with a degree. Whatever you know about the occult has little or no bearing on this situation. Our people will provide us with information regarding Valdes’s motives, with the added benefit of knowing how to conduct a kidnapping investigation.” Yarborough shook his head, closing the matter. “I need people who follow orders and regulations. You don’t. You are unqualified and redundant. I don’t need you.”
“But Frank—”
“Sergeant Fullam,” a slight, satisfied grin as he sat behind the huge desk, “has been dealt with. I am personally running this investigation now. I have staffed it with professionals who are infinitely better equipped to find Neil Valdes than you are.”
“See, that’s the difference. You’re looking for Valdes. I’m looking for Joann.”
“And?”
“Question of motivation.” There was no cracking the concrete façade of Yarborough’s self-justification. Donovan took a moment to get a handle on his anger and frustration before standing. “Thanks anyway. See you around.”
“If I do,” Yarborough said with what sounded like anticipation, “you’ll wish I hadn’t.”
SEVENTEEN
ANSWERS
So many details, so little time left…
Valdes climbed the stairs from the subterranean dining hall, past the decrepit rooms on street level, and up to the Cancer Hospital’s fourth, top, floor. The hall ended at a round corner room. From the outside, the room’s architecture resembled a medieval donjon tower. Inside, he could see the chamber was almost empty, with some sort of design on the floor.
“All is in order, Herr Doktor?”
“Ja.” Faustus turned from whatever he was doing and met him at the door. “Stay thy hand, Valdes. The gateway is drawn; thou must not interfere, lest the binding spell ensnare thee.”
“Excuse me?”
“Such a gateway requireth an unbreakable bond.” Faustus gestured behind himself. “Individual elements, though enchanted, remain separate. Once the binding spell is cast, the elements meld until broken by blood of a martyr.”
Valdes looked past the sorcerer curiously. “Doesn’t look special to me.”
With a small, cynical smile, Faustus glanced back. “Entwine.”
Inside the room, the elements shifted almost imperceptibly. A low hum of energy, much like the one Valdes had experienced in Central Park with the sorcerer, resonated. Everything in the gateway now bore the slightest shimmer of tarnished silver.
“To ensure naught disturbeth the gateway…” He backed Valdes away from the doorway and drew an intricate design in the air. “Guardian sigil, the Circle of Neith.” He sighed, as though accomplishing the deed increased his burden rather lightened it. Valdes tried to reach across the room’s threshold. A spark flashed and he jerked his hand back. “Dost thou doubt the ability of Faustus, Valdes?”
“Not at all. I’m a man of details. I’ll always check.”
“Verily? Faustus instructed thee to obtain a gift of beautiful adornment. Hast thou?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Well, I’m on my way now to get it.”
“When entering into negotiations of this sort,” the sorcerer said icily, “a gift is essential. Else all is for naught, and Valdes will spend eternity in abject despair over his stupidity regarding a simple thing.”
“I will have it,” Valdes said, “in a few moments.”
“Make haste.” Faustus turned away. “Thy soul hangs in balance.”
***
“You’re back,” Father Carroll observed from the kitchen. “Would you care for some lunch?” Donovan set his helmet down on the table near the front door and immediately went into the study. Father Carroll followed, reading his expression and body language. “It did not go well, I take it?”
Donovan sat at the desk and picked up the phone. “Well, you were right about how to explain all of this to people. And I was right thinking I wouldn’t be very good at it. I was officially fired, if in fact I was still hired in the first place.”
“By Francis?”
“By Yarborough. He’s taken over the investigation, and Frank is…I don’t know where. I’m going to try his cell again.”
“This is Sergeant Frank Fullam. Leave me a message. If this is an emergency, call me at Midtown North Precinct.”
“Frank, it’s Donovan. Call me at Father Carroll’s.” He left the number and hung up, frustrated. “He won’t answer his cell or at his apartment. Yarborough said, in not a nice way, that he’s been ‘dealt with.’”
Father Carroll frowned. “What happened at the precinct?”
“A lo
t. Nothing. First Yarborough told me he’d ‘dealt with Frank,’ then he let me know how useless I was, then he told me the FBI is now involved, then said if he sees me again I’ll ‘wish he hadn’t.’”
“Isn’t it a good thing that the FBI is involved? The resources they bring—”
“Yes and no. I mean, it’s good they’re bringing in the big guns, but they’re aiming them the wrong way. Yarborough is conducting things like Valdes was just out for revenge—they found four dead men under Saint Patrick’s cathedral who have been identified as his ex-bosses. The FBI thinks Joann’s situation is a kidnapping. They’re waiting for Valdes to contact them with ransom demands.”
“Ransom demands?”
“They think Valdes has made a mistake that will lead to his capture. They think that this capture is ‘imminent,’ so Valdes took Joann as a bargaining chip.” The incredulity on Father Carroll’s face made Donovan wonder if he’d looked like that himself at the captain’s office. “And Yarborough thinks I’m crazy for talking about magic rituals.” He nodded at the window. “That looks out onto the street, right?”
“East Fourth Street, yes.”
“Do me a favor, see if there’s a dark blue SUV out there, two guys inside?”
The priest raised an eyebrow but did as Donovan asked, parting two blinds with his fingers. “Yes…but I can’t tell if there are one or two men inside.” He let the blinds go. “Who are they?”
“Yarborough’s, I think. I noticed them when I left the precinct.”
“Why would he have you followed?”
“Maybe he doesn’t believe I’ll leave this alone, wants to keep an eye on me. At least he didn’t have me arrested.” He slumped into the chair behind the desk. “Did you get anywhere with the resurrectus maledicat?”
“There were always twelve victims, or as it was described, ‘twelve shall be sacrificed to the strength of the one.’ When they attempted to resurrect Charlemagne, Les Penitents Tenebreux put to the sword twelve noblemen, priests and generals. Charlemagne was a military commander and the first Holy Roman Emperor. With Joan of Arc, they attempted to kill twelve nuns and abbesses.”
“Then if ‘to the strength of the one’ is zodiac murders, it sounds like Valdes is looking to bring back an astrologer.”
“Which, in historical terms, suggests a sorcerer.”
“A sorcerer who could give him what he wants—power.” Donovan considered this. “Frank told me the victims were all of German descent, all male.”
“German sorcerers?” The priest paused. “Most noted Christian magicians in the last hundred or so years have been either French—Eliphas Levi, Pierre Vintras—or British, from the contingent of Aleister Crowley and MacGregor Mathers. In the 1920s there was a German sex-magic society, the Order of Templars of the Orient. To the best of my knowledge it died out years ago without siring anyone of renown.”
“There have to be at least one or two famous German sorcerers in history.”
“The idea of fame for practitioners of witchcraft or sorcery is a relatively modern concept.” Father Carroll adjusted his glasses. “Historically, the term ‘witch’ or ‘sorcerer’ has been applied to alchemists, philosophers or anyone outside ‘normal’ society, and it was not something to be lauded. Although the first Inquisitor of Germany—Conrad of Marburg, whose charming motto was ‘we would gladly burn one hundred if just one of them was guilty’—was appointed in 1231, Germany’s most turbulent paranormal times were the late 1500s and early 1600s, the time of the Bamberg trials. Estimates put the number between 40,000 and 100,000 people killed by witchcraft tribunals, led by Bishop Johann Gottfried von Aschhausen, the Witch-Bishop. In addition, witchfinders like Jakob Bithner and Count Balthasar made a fine living accusing and prosecuting people, seizing their lands and property while innocents rotted in jail or worse.” He shook his head, disappointed. “As far as famous German sorcerers go, I’m afraid the pickings are slim.”
“There has to be somebody. Somebody well-known enough that Valdes would have heard of, or read about.”
“Perhaps he found someone in Grimm’s Fairy Tales?”
Read about… Donovan had a vision of the file Fullam had at the bar. “Classical Lit degree. Who, in classical literature, could fit? Who could give him power—”
They said it simultaneously.
“—that you’d sell your soul for?”
“Doctor Johann Faustus,” Father Carroll continued in a low voice, clearly impressed with the deductive process. “Well done, Donovan.”
Donovan was nearly speechless. “That’s…just not possible. I did my thesis on the legend of Faustus. He wasn’t real.”
“Yes, he was. I thought you understood that. He was a contemporary of Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus and Nostradamus. Not particularly well-regarded by them, perhaps, but real nonetheless.”
“You’re serious.”
“Unfortunately.”
The truth of Father Carroll’s simple admonition—‘reality is flexible’—hit Donovan with near-physical force. Faustus…resurrected. He said nothing—there was nothing to say—for a long moment. Finally he shook his head. “This can’t all be real?”
“If you’re speaking of the paranormal in general terms, of course not. Not all of it. It’s up to you to deduce what is reality and what is falsehood. Your studies make you particularly well-suited to that task.”
Donovan sat for a moment, determined not to be overwhelmed. “Whatever any of this means, it doesn’t change the goal. We have to save Joann.”
“Yes.”
“We will save her.”
“Yes.”
Donovan looked around at the books and materials scattered around the study. He wondered where she was being held, and how she was being treated. The possibilities he envisioned were not encouraging. Only one thought gave him hope:
If they need her as a Vessel, they can’t kill her yet.
***
Valdes had had a bench brought into her cell while she was eating. Joann sat on it, her hair hanging in loose, damp curls down her back, wearing a simple white dress and slippers.
She wondered if Lude had taken the bait. The girl was obviously under horrific stress. Whatever Valdes had done—she must have meant Faustus, but how could that factor in?—had sufficiently terrified her to make her prone to turn. The concept of turning a member of a group made Joann realize she was still in work mode, and it almost made her relax. Had circumstances been different, and this a more ordinary kidnapping (she almost smiled to herself at the thought of “ordinary kidnapping”), she might have been more frightened, more like Lude.
Why aren’t I more afraid? She toyed with her engagement ring. Because Donovan knows all of this. He’ll find me…this isn’t a crime scene to get high and go to. The thought tightened her mouth, and she chided herself. He’ll find me. He will.
The door to her cell unlocked. She jumped to her feet and faced it as Valdes and Coeus entered. “All clean and fed?” Valdes asked. “Good.”
“What the hell is going on upstairs?”
“Excuse me?”
“In the dining hall, where I just ate,” she said. “You’ve got someone setting up television sets, people in the kitchen cooking what looks like provisions for a small occupying force, tables covered with tarps…what’s going on?”
“Nothing that…well, it concerns you, but it doesn’t, if you get me.”
“I don’t. Why me?”
“Come, sit down.” Valdes straddled the bench and waved her to the other end.
She remained standing. “Who’s Mister Fizz?”
“He wants a few things, one of which I’m here to discuss.” His eyes flickered to the giant, then back to her. “Please. Sit.”
She kept her face hard while she did. “How did you know where I was to get me?”
“Joann—may I call you Joann? I think we’ve shared enough to be on a first name basis—”
“All right, Neil.”
Valdes conceded a smile. “I�
��m a friend to the friendless, which means in this city, I know people everywhere. It’s easy to gather knowledge when no one pays attention to the gatherer.”
She looked past him, to the door. She could hear shuffling feet and hushed tones of the audience beyond it. “Your people.”
“My people.”
“And you feel no qualms about exploiting them? You spent your whole life trying to help them, but now? You’ve got them aiding and abetting your crimes, and you’ve apparently deluded them into thinking one of you is a sixteenth century German sorcerer. What is going on?”
“Deluded?” He rubbed his chin as he studied her. “I’ll make you a deal, Counselor. I’ll answer you if you give me something back.”
She folded her arms defensively.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ What’s going on tonight, you might call ‘cosmic tough love.’ That sounds kind of overly grand, I admit, but I think it’s also particularly descriptive. And apt. My world—the world—hasn’t been right since I was screwed by the CYA.”
“Since you stole money and were sent to prison.”
He shrugged. “Tonight I’m going to set the Universe right. It’s going to be painful—hence the ‘tough love’ part—but once it happens, none of this,” he gestured around them, “will matter. To make it happen, though, Mister Fizz needs your engagement ring.”
Her stomach dropped. She didn’t move. “Why me?”
“Because you’re a beautiful vessel who’s a force for good. Both are highly prized qualities in some circles. Mister Fizz comes from those circles, and he’s the one who’s brokering things. As for my people,” he chuckled, “isn’t delusion in the eye of the ‘deluded’?” He glanced at his watch. “Now, as entertaining as this is, Joann, I really don’t have time to chat. So much still to do, you know. I need your ring, please.”
She clenched a defiant fist. “No.”
“I see.” He nodded, waiting for a change of heart. When none came, he sighed. “Well, you understand that asking was the polite way to do this?”
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