Chapter Sixteen

 

 

I

 

The door exploded, flying to bits out of its steel security frame. Two uniformed police stepped quickly back with the door ram, while several more skirted around them and tactically entered the house, guns drawn and aimed high and low. The house was surrounded by local mobile units, several ambulances, and some county sheriff's department cars.

"What's the name here?" one cop just outside asked. He was watching the windows.

Another cop, surveying the corner of the house, said, "Peterson. No rap sheet, no calls, nothing. Husband's at work so it should only be the wife inside."

"So what's the scoop?

"Neighbor said he thought he heard a scream after seeing a mailman at the door. But there's no mail truck."

"What is all this mailman shit?"

Inside, the first team clearing the living room stopped cold, their faces blanched as they looked down at what lay on the floor.

"Chief Higgins!"

Steve entered and stopped, looking down just as grimly.

The thing on the floor was only vaguely recognizable as a human female. Steve felt instantly sick to his stomach. Had the woman actually been skinned? Who could do something like that? The crimson stick figure lay asprawl. Even the face had been cut off, but the scalp had not; the expert cutting job left the shining, perfectly straight red hair intact and carefully lying over the victim's shoulders. An open gash in her

abdomen gaped, the cavity within empty. Most revolting of all was the position: almost a lewd pose, legs spread, arms out like a woman in wait of her lover on the living room floor. A grislier thought occurred to him with the image. Last night he'd made love to Jane...on the living room floor.

He gritted his teeth, tried to blink the atrocity out of his head, but it wasn't working even when he looked away.

This couldn't possibly be Parkins, he tried to convince himself.

"Aw, Jesus!" another cop said, backing away from the coat closet.

Steve went over and stared. In the closet hung several light jackets, a pool robe, and a few raincoats. But right at the end hung what could only be Mrs. Claudette Peterson's skin, hanging there like a suit of clothes. The only part not intact was the face, which had been cut off the neck and hung through an eyehole off a peg on the hat rack.

"Check it out, Chief," one of his uniforms said. "No big surprise by now, huh?"

Steve practically staggered over to the voice. What now, what now? What could be worse?

His gaze fell on the floor of the bedroom, where a pile of organs lay. The other cops were looking away, silent. Then Steve's gaze lifted to the wall, to the blood fashioned symbol that he was now beginning to see on a regular basis around here-the bell with the star shape for a striker.

 

 

II

 

Jane's eyes widened on the drawing: the bell with the star shape for a striker. At first, she was so on edge by Dhevic's sudden appearance at her office that she didn't fully focus on what he was saying. "Have you seen this before?" was the very first thing out of his mouth, and then he held a leather folder that contained what appeared to be several thick polycarbonate sheets. The plasticized material was being used to protect a piece of paper, from what Dhevic described as a very, very old book. He placed the first protective sheet on her desk blotter. "It's an engraving in a tome entitled Das Grimoire de Praelata!" Then he'd gone on to talk about how these occult visionaries called prelates some thousand years ago had used psychic powers to establish mental contact with particular souls in hell. Some of these prelates were artists and engravers, and here, supposedly, was one of their engravings.

She easily recalled the nature of the source, a so-called expert on the occult, as seen on tabloid shows.

However...

Something about him, this tall, intense, middle-aged man, seemed genuine.

"Have you, Ms. Ryan?"

"Have I seen this symbol before? Yes, I have."

"I know you have," he said very mysteriously, and she was too uneasy to ask him what he'd meant. Then he went on, "It's a quasi-geometric shape that we call a campanulation. Effectively, it's left at the scene of a ritual murder, written in blood. It's thought to be more of a homage-or simply more powerful-if it is done in the blood of an oblation."

Jane sat listless at the desk, glancing down at the engraving in the old book, then up to him. He'd remained standing, his presence filling the small office. "Oblation?" she asked. "What's that?"

"The blood of a sacrifant, I should say the blood of an innocent person used as the body of a sacrifice. The only more powerful offering is the campanulation left in the blood of an acolyte, one who sacrifices himself as a suicidal tribute. Have there been any such suicides that you know of, Ms. Ryan?"

She didn't answer, at least not vocally. But there had been, hadn't there? Marlene. Carlton. Both had killed themselves, leaving the symbol in blood. Theirs and their victims.

Dhevic continued, with that floating, accented voice, while pointing to the engraving. "The campanulation. A bell shape. It's a representation of that bell, Ms. Ryan. Note the star-shaped clapper."

"I see it," she said.

"Something's happening here, Ms. Ryan. You know that it's not merely coincidental."

"How do I know that?" she asked, not sure what point there'd be in challenging him.

Was he smiling? "You know. You've got ritualized crimes from twenty years ago corresponding to identical crimes today, and the single most pertinent common denominator is-"

"My post office," Jane finished.

"That's correct. And what I must know is this: Do any of your employees belong to any radical religious cults, or conform to odd religious beliefs?"

Jane smirked. "No. The police already asked me the same thing-"

"I'm not surprised."

"-and I told them the same thing. I told them no."

"But you're struggling with that, aren't you?"

Jane paused in a weird silence. She was struggling with that. Steve believed it, he simply couldn't make a solid connection. But even Jane couldn't argue with the logic. "I agree. There is some kind of cult connection, there has to be. It'd be illogical at this point to not believe that."

"Now we're getting somewhere. Do you mind if I sit down?"

Jane looked up at him. She simply didn't know what to make of the man. Steve had implied that Dhevic might even be part of it, part of the cult connection camouflaging himself with his credentials, but now that Jane had met the man, she didn't buy it. She didn't necessarily like him, but she didn't believe he was a killer. She could see it in his eyes. I should just call Steve, tell him the guy's here. He'd want to talk to him anyway. But when the thought left her head, Dhevic was looking at the phone, then glanced back to her with a raised brow.

This is really friggin' creepy. "Please feel free to take a seat,

Professor Dhevic."

"Thank you." His suit was a nice cut, she could tell, but it was old, worn. He looked like someone on and off the skids. But he must have money. Those television tabloid shows, the books he'd written? He was an enigma.

Next he asked, "Are you aware of any sort of a peculiar iron object on the premise?"

Jane winced. "What?"

"I know it's an odd question. Something about a foot and a half long, a rod, Ms. Ryan, an iron rod. It has a ring on one end and a-"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Just when I was starting to think you're harmless, you ask me something really nutty like that."

He looked right back at her. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I'll leave at once, if you'd prefer. Or feel free to call the police, if you're suspicious of me."

A chill went up her spine. First she'd thought about calling Steve, then Dhevic was looking at the phone. Now he'd mentioned calling the police...

Jane just went ahead and said it: "Now I suppose you're going to tell me you're psychic, you can read minds-"

He smiled fully this time. "No, Ms. Ryan. Nothing like that. I'm nothing like that at all."

"I saw you, several times, on television. Documentaries, and-"

"Hokey, overdone tabloid shows about satanism. I'm not very proud of those appearances, but they do serve several purposes. One, any foreknowledge, any at all, is better than none, because it keeps people thinking. It doesn't matter if it's a frivolous documentary on late-night cable. It keeps people aware."

Jane just shook her head. "I still don't know what you're talking about."

"And, two, I need the money. I have benefactors but let's just say that they're sometimes less than timely in delivering my allowance. There's not an office I can go to, there's no cashier or pay clerk. I have no home, no base, I'm constantly on the move in my responsibilities. Think of it this way: I work for an establishment, like a traveling salesman, only I'm not selling anything, I'm investigating something."

"Mass murders?" Jane asked.

"In a sense, yes. I'm keeping watch."

Jane just kept looking at him.

"I know this is difficult for you to take in all at once. We don't have time for me to explain it all right now, I'll just have to ask you to trust me."

"Why should I?"

"No reason, not objectively." He remained gazing back at her. "Use your intuition. As I've just said, if you'd prefer that I leave, I'll leave. If you'd like to call your friend the police chief-"

"How do you know he's my friend?" she blurted.

Dhevic smiled. "I'm psychic."

"Bullshit." She reached for the phone, began to dial Steve's cell phone...

Dhevic remained unfazed.

Jane hung up. She wasn't sure why, but she knew she wanted to hear what this man had to say, however bizarre. She wanted to give him the-

"The benefit of the doubt is never a mistake, Ms. Ryan."

Jane sighed. "Fine. Just go on with what you were saying."

"I was explaining my television appearances, which are laughable, I admit. But even a laughable warning can be useful to the open-minded."

"I think I know what you're saying. Even a Bugs Bunny cartoon can be educational, right?"

"Exactly!" He seemed enthused that she'd made the association. "I'm ashamed of that stuff, but it does serve my purpose."

Jane supposed she was beginning to understand. "And what were you saying about-what? An iron something or other?"

"It's a relic, or thought to be by some. Belief is everything. If people believe that a relic has supernatural power, then they'll kill for it. The Ark of the Covenant, for example. The nails of Calvary or the Shroud of Turin. A better example. In 1920, construction excavators in Moselle, France, unearthed a pewter tureen that was soon rumored to be the Holy Grail. It was said to heal the sick and effect miracles. People killed for it."

Jane thought she was finally getting the man's point. "Was it really the Holy Grail?"

"It doesn't matter. All that matters is that people believed it was, to the extent people were killed in its procurement. The belief is the power. Do I believe it was the genuine Holy Grail? No. But that doesn't matter."

"So," Jane deduced, remembering what he'd said earlier. "You were asking me about this iron object, a relic. You're telling me that certain people believe that it has some occult power?"

"Yes."

"And the belief in that power is the cause of Danelleton's murders? The ones this week and the murders twenty years ago?"

"Yes."

"And the people who seek this object are in a cult?"

"Yes. Exactly. Marlene Troy, Carlton Spence, and others-there will be others, all seduced into what you can think of as a cult of worship. It's like an infection. Indoctrination into the cult is spread from one to another. Because of this relic, Ms. Ryan, this simple and very old piece of iron that I believe is connected to this facility?

She was starting to get confused again, listening to him while continuing to look for red flags, something, anything, to indicate that Dhevic might be a flake. But she just wasn't seeing it.

"What is the object?" Jane finally asked. "What's this relic you're asking me about."

Dhevic's steady accent rolled out in crisp syllables. "It's an iron rod, about a foot-and-a-half long. It has a ring on one end, and a star-shaped ball on the other. The star shape is a luciferic symbol."

"Luciferic," Jane repeated.

"The Morning Star."

Even Jane remembered her old and rather boring mythology classes. "The first nickname for Satan."

"Yes. He has many names, but that was his first. That's what God called him when he threw his once-favorite angel off the twelfth gate of heaven." Dhevic paused, watching her eyes. "Supposedly?

"A star-shaped ball. An iron rod. And a campan-"

"Campanulation. A bell, Ms. Ryan." Dhevic pointed again to the engraving in the old book. "What's inside of a bell?"

"I don't know what it's called. A ringer, I guess, a gong?"

"A striker. The relic I'm inquiring about is said to be the bell striker... from this bell." His finger remained on the bell in the engraving.

Jane looked at the engraving, then back to him.

"That's what some people believe, just as some people believe a four-leaf clover will bring them good luck."

"You're losing me again," Jane said.

"God has a Messenger," Dhevic continued. "That messenger is an angel named Gabriel, and Gabriel announces himself with a trumpet, according to the Bible. There are many references to God's messenger. It was Gabriel who was sent to deliver the message to Daniel of the coming of the Seventy Days. He announced the birth of John the Baptist, and he informed Mary that she would give birth to Jesus. Yes, God's messenger. Well..." Dhevic's voice lowered. "According to myth, Lucifer has a messenger too, and that messenger's name is Aldezhor."

The strange name seemed to flit about the room, like a moth seeking exit.

"The campanulation-the bell-shaped designs left at the murder scenes-are Aldezhor's emblems. They pay homage to Aldezhor's tool-the bell in that engraving, which is called the Cymbellum Eosphorus or the Bell of the Morning Star. You've heard the term hell's bells? This is where it comes from. When it sounds it's time for the Messenger to speak for his master. To put it more simply, Gabriel blows a trumpet, Aldezhor rings a bell."

Jane tried to absorb the information. An occult relic that people were killing for? A talisman? What does this have to do with me? she thought.

"Some people believe in guardian angels," Dhevic said. "Well, let me put it this way. Angels have guardians, too, on earth. Think of them as stewards, custodians for the cause. I am one such custodian. My duty is to follow Aldezhor, the Messenger. Ultimately my job is to retrieve the iron striker and return it to its keepers at the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, where it was kept hidden for five hundred years. It's my job.

It is not a clergical duty, and it's certainly not a Catholic duty. It's simply my job and I've been doing it for my entire adult life. Do I believe that the striker is genuine? Of course not."

"That's a relief," Jane said. "But your job is to track down this phony piece of metal that a bunch of satanic kooks think is from hell? Am I getting this right?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Who do you work for? An investigations firm?"

"No. The job was handed down to me."

"By whom?"

"That I can't say. It's a professional confidentiality."

Hmm. Jane's mind turned over question after question. Even the situation seemed incredible, simply the fact of this man being here in her office, discussing this bizarre topic. "Aldezhor. The devil's messenger. A demon that this cult believes in."

"Not a demon," Dhevic corrected. "Worse."

Jane almost laughed. "What could be worse than that?"

"Aldezhor, like Lucifer, is a fallen angel. He was once God's messenger, and was ejected from heaven along with the Morning Star. The Archangel Gabriel replaced him." Yet another pause. "According to the myth."

"So what's all this have to do with me, my post office, my employees?"

"Proximity. God's message to the world is a message of peace, hope, faith, and love. The devil's message is one of hate, lust, betrayal, and murder. It's almost funny. What could be more ironic than postal employees-who are messengers themselves-being utilized to deliver the word of Lucifer?"

Jane shook her head. "But why my post office? Why not a larger processing center in a big city? Why not Miami or Jacksonville?"

"Again, proximity."

"I don't understand."

Dhevic opened his mouth to speak but faltered. Something happened. He looked off and appeared suddenly pained. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands trembled on the desk. Is he epileptic? Jane thought, alarmed. Is he having some kind of fit?

"Oh, God," he muttered.

"Professor Dhevic? Are you all right? Should I call an ambulance?"

He steadied his hand. When he looked at her again, there were tears in his eyes.

"What's wrong!"

Dhevic ground his teeth. "I told some lies to you," he groaned. "And with me, there's always a price to pay for that."

"What? Lies?"

"I'm an augur. Do you know what that is?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Jane blurted.

"I'm a seer, Ms. Ryan. I see things. The past, the future..."

I called this one totally wrong. "You're a crackpot, just like Steve said!" She put her hand on the phone, but his own hand instantly pressed down on top of it.

"Listen to me," he croaked. "I have visions. It's in my blood, my heritage. I have these moments that I call inklings. I know that they are channeled to me from...somewhere else. Always for a reason, a reason that empowers my calling. It's not a job, Ms. Ryan. It's a calling. I lied so you'd believe me. My calling was handed down to me through my blood, my ancestors, my heritage."

"Let go of my hand," Jane said very slowly. "I'm calling the police."

"Not yet! Listen!" He looked sick again, his head bowing back and forth. He looked like he might pass out at any moment. "I'm an augur, and augurs aren't allowed to lie. It's a violation of our oath. If we lie, we're punished. I'm being punished right now."

"If you don't let go of my hand, I'll start screaming-"

"When I told you I didn't believe that the striker was genuine, that was a lie too. It is genuine. And it's manipulating people now, your people. Here. I know it's here, and I know it's been here for the last twenty years. You've got to let me look for it. You've got to let me find it, otherwise many many more people will die."

Another bout of trembling allowed Jane to finally snatch the phone away. She stood, backed up to the wall, and dialed Steve's number.

But her finger stopped before hitting the last digit.

Her eyes were locked on Dhevic's. He stood up slowly and looked down. His eyes seemed bottomless.

"Aldezhor is terrifying to look at," he whispered. "He's indescribable."

"You're insane," Jane whispered back, unable to tug herself out of whatever hold he'd put on her.

"Demons serve him, the most unspeakable things..."

"Leave...me...alone..."

"I told you, I'm a seer. I can see heaven and I can see hell. They both exist, they very much exist."

Jane opened her mouth to scream for help but a final look into those huge empty eyes paralyzed her.

She could see someone there, deep beyond his gaze.

"He's waiting for you," Dhevic said. "Your husband. Matt."

Jane dropped the phone.

"Can you see him? You can see him, can't you? He's waiting for you-in heaven..."

"I can, she realized. It's him.

Matt was smiling at her, standing in an aura of tranquil bluish white.

When Dhevic blinked, the vision snapped.

"But someone else is waiting for you too. He will manipulate you through your fears, your weaknesses, and your dreams. Don't fall to his seduction, Ms. Ryan. Aldezhor. The Messenger."

Jane screamed at the image-that thing looking back at her in Dhevic's gaze. Then the image whited out. When the scream had ripped out of her throat, she teetered against the wall. "Jane? Jane?" Several employees had rushed into the room to help her.

Dhevic was gone.