Beyond Rue Morgue Anthology (15 page)

He hadn’t had the opportunity to fully appreciate the room on his entrance. The walls had been smoothed by chisel work. Here and there he could see the marks made by the coolies, but for the most part, every surface was completely even. Five chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the light from hundreds of candles illuminating the interior. Several large paintings and designs hung on the walls, and with a start he suddenly recognized his Caravaggio. It held a place of reverence above a marble table on which rested a golden ciborium and paten, both of which would have been more at home in a Catholic church than a hermetic temple. Next to these was a dagger formed from a caduceus, two intertwined snakes, each of their bodies coming to stiletto points to form twin blades. The altar was raised between the center of the room and the painting, so that when watching the Magus, one could see the placid face of Jesus forgiving guilt-wracked Judas.

In the end, his grandfather’s
ratiocination
had told him how to proceed. Once he’d discovered the linkage to the Golden Dawn, it had been easy to get into the mind of the man who’d accepted the stolen artwork. If there was one thing Nate had learned while chasing the skirt of his actress, it was that above all else, the Golden Dawn members loved ceremony. Even more than Masons, who were all choppy arms and angled feet, the Golden Dawn had a structure to their activities that bordered on the obsessive.

So it was with the cold and objective eye of a detective that Nate watched the Magus stand next to the empty altar and begin his Qabalistic incantations. While Magillicutty droned on, Nate surreptitiously glanced right and left to observe the other members of the First Order. Every single member’s eyes were closed; every single pair of hands was folded piously before them. These were believers. These were men who’d stood passively aside as Mexican children were sacrificed, probably on this very altar, trading the innocence of young lives for better crops, or healthy stock—or wealth.

Magillicutty’s words ceased. It was finally time for introductions.

“We have a surprise member with us tonight, all the way from England,” Magillicutty said in an imperious voice. “Come forward, brother, so that we may recognize you by the sign of a Practicus.”

The inner circle of Adepts parted to let Nate pass. Magillicutty made the sign of welcome and Nate made the sign of a Practicus... or at least he hoped he did. Standing with feet angled, knees flexed and fingers intertwined was not something one did every day. It must have been sufficient, however, because he was allowed to live. Even so, as he looked upon the members of the order he spied Burt Johnson; the unrobed cowhand was leaning against a wall and holding a Henry rifle in the crux of one arm.

“Tell us about the order across the pond, Mr. Dupes,” Magillicutty commanded. “Explain to these poor men of the continent how well the order fares in England and Europe.”

Nate looked into Magillicutty’s eyes and knew what the Magus wanted. Behind the beatific smile was a stern and steely gaze. Nate was reminded about what Agnes Moffit had said regarding the man bringing civilization to Douglas with the installation of a Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalogue store. Magillicutty had also brought with him a level of mysticism unbeknownst to the region. Nate doubted if any of the locals had even heard of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn before the big man’s arrival. Magillicutty had admitted to arriving in the territory five years ago, and the Mexican children had begun to go missing a couple of years later. It had probably taken Magillicutty two years to firmly establish the order, pulling from local businessmen and ranchers with his promises of good, better, and best everything.

“I asked if you would tell us about the order across the pond, Mr. Dupes.” Magillicutty’s eyes glittered in the rampant candlelight. “Cat got your tongue?”

A few of the Adepts chuckled.

“The order is strong in London and Paris, Magus. We have thousands of members, each one reaching the pinnacle of their careers.”

At his words, need flared in the eyes of the members of Magillicutty’s order. They needed to know that they were not alone. They needed to be told that everyone did what
they
did. He saw a few gazes stray to the entrance of the chamber where the girls were being held; the movement spoke volumes to the bill of spiritual goods Magillicutty had sold them.

“And do they perform sacrifice?” one asked in an almost timid tone of voice. The men next to the speaker looked at the ground, but Nate couldn’t tell whether they were embarrassed at the question or afraid of the forthcoming answer.

“Members of the order do whatever is needed to promote the order,” Nate said, repeating one of the initiation tenets. “If sacrifice is needed, then sacrifice is performed.” Although the words were spoken and written in ritual, Nate was fairly certain they referred to personal sacrifice rather than physical. Still, his words would serve to make the members feel as if they’d killed for a higher purpose. Even as a ruse, Nate hated himself for making them feel that way, for excusing their most terrible crimes even for an instant.

“Well done,” Magillicutty said under his breath. Then he raised his voice: “Speaking of sacrifice, we have a special occasion this evening. It is the celebration of the birth of Poemander, the bringer of the knowledge of Ra.” He spread his arms as if to encompass all the others. “What say you we celebrate this great moment and become one with the universe?”

The men of the order shouted, “Aye!” together, and the sound carried through the chambers. The candle flames above them flickered as though the words had created their own breeze.

Nate moved to go back to his place in the circle, but Magillicutty’s hand landed suddenly on his arm, heavy and cold. “Stay,” he said. “I would have you participate in the ritual.”

Nate’s stomach did a sad, sick lurch, then knotted back up when the twins were pushed through the doorway and into the circle. Their mouths were covered by cloth, their hands bound in front of them, and they’d been dressed in small white robes. Crimson bows pulled their blonde hair back from their pale, terrified faces.

Two Adepts placed them on the altar side by side. They were so tiny it only took one man to hold their feet, and another to push down their shoulders.

The Magus spoke again. “Adepts, who art thou?”

“We are followers of Poemander,” the Adepts said in unison. “We are the mind of the Great Lord, the most Mighty and absolute Emperor. We know that thou wouldst have us, for we are always present with thee.”

The Magus spoke yet again. “First Order, who art thou?”

“We are also followers of Poemander,” the members of the First Order said in unison. “We are the mind of the Great Lord, the most Mighty and absolute Emperor. We know that thou wouldst have us, for we are always present with thee.”

“And how do I know you?”

Everyone said, “By the third eye, the golden heart, and the rose cross.”

“And how shall you be known to each other?”

“By secret sign and by our deeds.”

“And what are your deeds?”

“To seek higher spiritual order and to become resident in the Tree of Life.”

“So mote it be.”

Everyone bowed their heads. “So mote it be.”

Nate started to lift his own head then felt a weight pressed into his hand. He looked down and saw the dagger made from the caduceus. Named and formed after the staff of Hermes, the messenger god, Nate supposed that the dagger would hasten the spirit to the afterlife. Glancing over at Magillicutty, he couldn’t help but fix on the soft space at the base of the man’s throat. But then he followed the man’s gaze to where Burt Johnson now held his Henry rifle at eye level, sighting down the barrel and ready to send a bullet through Nate’s heart, just as the Magus had promised.

“For Poemander and Thoth and Hermes, we take these lives,” Magillicutty intoned. “Repeat after me.”

Magillicutty began the Rosicrucian Prayer and everyone followed his words, their eyes on the dagger as they waited for him to finish. Nate knew what was expected of him. Two swift jabs, one through each girl’s heart.

What should he do? He could make their deaths swift, remove the fear from their eyes, take them from a world that would allow them to be stolen away to fulfill the maniacal whims of a cult leader who promised others a better harvest if only these two innocents’ lives were given in return.

Nate thought of Caravaggio’s painting and how the artist had put himself in as witness to the taking of Jesus. How ironic it was that Saint John seemed to flee while the stranger, Caravaggio, stayed. John had been one of Jesus’ followers, yet in the betrayal of his master by Judas, he’d tried to run. Had it been curiosity that made Caravaggio seem to stay? Or had it been necessity?

Suddenly the truth came to Nate. Not curiosity, never that. He simply hadn’t wanted Jesus to be alone in his last, worst hours.

Nate stared down at the girls with the same feeling. These were truly their last, worst hours.

When the prayer ended, all eyes turned on him. The silence in the room was incredible, almost suffocating... except for the sound of the Henry rifle being cocked.

Nate had no choice. He did what he had to.

He ducked down and stabbed Magillicutty right in the jimmy. When the man shrieked and bent over, grasping his groin, Nate jabbed upward and shoved the dagger home deep into the man’s left eye. By then all hell had broken loose, and the row of Adepts surged forward.

Nate stood and hooked an arm around each girl’s neck, dragging them off the table until his back was to the Caravaggio painting. As he pressed against the canvas, to his great relief, he felt a breeze at the base of his neck.

The men clambered toward Nate, their faces bright red, as a sea of hands reached forward, ready to rip him apart. He let the girls sag at his feet and urged them under the marble altar. As they crawled underneath it, he spied Burt Johnson trying to aim at him with his rifle, but there were too many heads in the way for a clean shot.

One of the Adepts leaped toward him.

Nate kicked down with the inside of his right foot, catching the man just above the knee and shattering it. He fell aside, screaming, but another one jumped to take his place. Nate caught this one across the throat with the edge of his right hand, dropping the man’s bellow into a thin gurgle.

A gunshot made him jerk his head toward Burt Johnson, but instead of the expected bullet through his own head, Nate saw the cowhand fall forward.

Then a Mexican with a wide-brimmed hat and crossed bandoliers stormed into the room, brandishing a pair of pistols—

Arango!

Stunned, the members of the Golden Dawn scattered as more and more Mexicans poured into the chamber. Too late, they flailed at their robes and tried to pull out their own guns, but a full half were shot before they could even tug their weapons free. Others succeeded, and suddenly the noise became unbearable, explosion after explosion as the sounds combined with smoke and the smell of gunpowder to create a ten-second dose of hell just below the surface of the earth.

When it was done, the only ones left standing were seven Mexicans—Arango and six of his men—and Nate Dupes.

Arango picked his way over the bodies to where Nate stood, then helped him pull the girls from their hiding place beneath the altar. Untied and freed of their gags, they clutched at Nate and began to cry.

“This is a delicious revenge,” Arango said. He pointed at the room full of dead men. “These are the ones who have been murdering our children.”

Nate nodded, suddenly fighting with his emotions. He’d been holding everything so close inside that he felt like spinning with happiness. Instead of making a fool of himself, he grinned and said, “It took you long enough.”

“You know us Mexicans, amigo. We love our drama.”

“Did you think this was all shit, Nate Dupes?
”

Nate and Arango spun at the same time, and Nate gasped at the sight of Magillicutty, standing tall and firm just behind them. The caduceus dagger jutted grotesquely from his eye above a wet stream of blood and clear fluid. Magillicutty raised one hand toward the ceiling and pointed at Nate with the other; his voice was hollow and oddly echoing.
“Did you believe there was nothing to what we do?
”

Nate felt a tingling along his spine and he backstepped, stumbling against Arango.

“I curse you, Nate Dupes. You shall never be happy. You shall never find peace."
The words reverberated off the stone walls.

“How is he alive?” Arango demanded. “How can this be?”

Nate tried to answer, but found he couldn’t speak. Magillicutty swayed and switched to Greek, his words tumbling out. The ground began to tremble. Pieces of debris fell from the ceiling.

Arango pushed Nate aside and shouted to his men.
“Corre!
”

They scrambled out just before a piece of the wall collapsed and blocked the exit. Without hesitating, Arango drew both of his pistols and shot Magillicutty with every bullet he had, until he was clicking only on empty chambers. The Magus jerked with every gunshot, then stood for a long moment. When he finally fell, the ceiling—first in parts, then the rest—fell with him.

There was no more time to waste.

Nate ripped the painting free, revealing a tunnel bored into the rock wall. Arango went in first, pulling the twins behind him. Nate dove into the hole in the rock just before everything in the room collapsed with a roar. Pulling himself to his feet in total darkness, he felt his way along the tunnel, using his hands as eyes and following the faint sounds farther down. According to the Chinese coolie who’d told him about this escape route, it would twist and turn until it came out the back of the mountain. It seemed like forever until Nate finally smelled the clean and dust-free air of an Arizona night and came out on a ledge about seven feet above the ground. The girls were waiting for him with their backs to the hillside.

Arango had already made his way down. Four horses were staked and waiting for them below. The Mexican leaped atop one and reached out a hand. “Here, let me help.”