Demonologist (24 page)

Officer Renee Saunders took a few seconds, humming as she waited, then answered, “Got a name. James Thornton. No other info. No priors. What’s this about?”

“Checking a lead on the ritual murder.”

“Need backup?”

Grover looked at the house, thought about it, then answered, “Nah, I’ll be all right. Probably nothing.”

Instead he told Renee to send Officer Rose over to the rectory at St. Michael’s Church. “Let’s take a shot and see if the priest is there. If he is, have Rose question him more thoroughly.” When asked why, he replied, “I have my suspicions,” to which she replied, “Smart ass.”

He lit a cigarette, smoked it to the filter, then put on his hat and emerged from the car, keeping his eyes on the iron gates that seemed to mock him with their impassibility.

Bev stopped, hands on knees, breathing heavily, trying to allow the dizziness to fade. Rebecca, in tentative silence, watched him carefully, seemingly prepared to pick up the slack should he collapse from the exhaustion threatening to take him down. In silence, he rose from his crouch and pressed on, pulling Rebecca along, coerced by the sudden desire to find answers to the mystery abruptly dismembering his life. Along they went, heading east, Bev nearly startling with panic at the sound of every twig snapping under their footsteps: his mind, contriving the presence of those in the limo (
demons?
), standing at an arm’s length away, reaching out to take them both by their throats once and for all.
What would Doctor
Palumba
say about these exaggerated responses to so many naturally common noises? He’d say that these anxieties are unique and incurable, and that schizophrenia is the most likely prognosis
.

At one point, Bev asked Rebecca, “When you arrived, was there a limo in the driveway?”

“No,” she answered, leading Bev to believe that the occupants within had known he’d fled, and had moved on to pick up his trail. Soon, he knew, they’d find him.

With his rolling thoughts, and his desire to flee the darkening woodland, Bev raced forward as quickly as possible, pulling Rebecca along, sidestepping brambles and roots and copses, at last nearing the edge of the woods.
 

The trees thinned. In the distance he saw a few homes, each separated by a stretch of trees providing a natural privacy for the residents.

“You know where we are?” Rebecca asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “Just follow me, and lay low.”

Looking nervously about, he slowly made his way from the purple shadows of the woods into the backyard of one of the homes, Rebecca following tentatively behind. The house was quaint, a shingled ranch with a circular brick patio and sliding doors. A pair of
french
windows looked out on either side of the doors, the curtains drawn.

They stepped forward, out into the open; the rain had strengthened and fully saturated their clothes. Cupping their hands around their faces, they quickly scampered to the side of the house, skirting a loose garden hose. They made their way into the street, standing up as nonchalantly as possible upon reaching the curb. Bev tried to brush his clothing free of the mud and bark, an ineffectual effort, then looked up and down the short neighborhood block. He saw no one.

Luckily, with no one present to bear witness to their evasive behavior—thank the rain—they were able to dart eagerly across the street into the backyard of another house where they crouched along a row of azaleas in an effort to blend into the environment.

“Why are we doing this?” Rebecca asked suspiciously. “Why are you trying to hide?”

“I told you—I’ll explain later.”

“Is it the cops, Bev? Are they after you?”

“No...please, just bear with me.”

He pressed on in an evasive manner, Rebecca following Bev’s method of “dart and dodge” in the more visible areas. Thankfully, with the rainy weather, no one was outside tending to vegetable gardens, or playing basketball, or sunbathing. They wandered for twenty minutes in this fashion, traveling for nearly a half-mile until they found their way into the open parking lot of the place Bev knew he’d end up coming to—the place where he felt the answers to his crisis might be found. At one point he never thought he’d make it. But now, he was thankful to be here.

St. Michael’s Church, on
Caliendo
Street.

The man heard the expectant knock upon the door. He gazed at the cracked face of the clock, stiff neck slowly craning. Eyes watering. 6:47. “Enter,” he said morosely, the numbers blurring.

Three bodies stepped in, all donned in black robes. Their faces remained shrouded amidst the dusky shadows of the room, golden candlelight flickering against the wall behind them like
spectres
. With them, an odor of excrement, and of blood—already, they’d bathed in preparation of the event.

The figure at the forefront of the trio shook his head ruefully. “God wants you.”

The man frowned, and fidgeted. The demand had been anticipated.
Allieb knows I have failed yet again to bring in the thirteenth
. “The car...it is still out front?” he asked, standing, tugging at his sleeves.

“Yes,” a male voice replied from within the dark void in the hood, unseen gaze following the man’s path to the closet.

My hesitancy. My fear
...

He shoved pass the hooded trio and exited the dark room. Impetuously he paced the halls, past the empty rooms whose occupants kept busy in preparation. He reached the stairs and climbed them to the uppermost landing where, behind the lone door, Allieb prepared for the Legion. The man approached the door and raised a tentative fist to knock as false hope prodded his wearied heart. From behind the door ascended the tempered breathing of a sleeping boar. A foul odor emerged, that of rotting onions, stinging the man’s nose.

Sweat jewelling his brow, he moved to knock. Then, suddenly, decided against it. He took a deep breath. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

I am in communication with the thirteenth, you know
.

He placed the side of his face against the door; its surface, icy cold. “My God,” he whispered into the door’s winding grain. “Where is he now? The thirteenth. I shall again go out…this time I will not fail to bring him to you.”

From behind the door, the snoring escalated, carrying with it an impossible echo. Then,
Allieb’s
voice, low and coarse, whispering in his mind: “Find the priest, and you will find the thirteenth.”

The man backed away, skin swelling with gooseflesh.

For the first time in years, he smiled.
   

The priest
...

Grover stared through the wrought-iron gates, up the length of the driveway to the parked limo sitting stoically beneath the crimson glow of the houselights; rain battered the car’s glossy finish, igniting the ebony glare, making it appear as though it had been caught under flames. He gazed curiously at the keypad entry set into the stone pillar, then, at the gates themselves. He stepped forward and reached through the slats, searching blindly for a latch. He didn’t find one. Shielding his eyes from the rain, he peered up at the fancy cathedral spires running ten feet high. In script, the wrought iron bars twisted and curved to form some brand of welcome:
In Domo
. Meant nothing to Grover. Might be Latin for
Welcome
, he thought, although he doubted his assumption. Grabbing two slats, he pressed against the gate. It made a sharp
clack!
sound and swung forward, creaking anciently on its hinges—a
 
sound not unlike the growing wind that buried chills deep beneath his skin. He slipped through, careful not to shut it all the way, at once thankful he didn’t have to tackle the pointed staves lining the top of the fence, or the thick hedges abutting it.

The land at the forefront of the house was no more than an open courtyard, a double-wide driveway intersecting it like a vein. Twenty feet in front of the house, it split into a circular shape with a cement fountain at the center of the forming circle. On the opposite side of the fountain (atop which a trio of gargoyles embraced), the two ends of the driveway met. Here the limo sat like a sleeping dragon before the twin gothic-engraved doors.

Despite the shield of looming darkness and rainfall, Grover felt vulnerable at this position: standing before the gates where a security camera might be aimed. He leaned down and scooted to the left, onto the grass where he hunkered down before the hedges, making his best effort to blend into the environment. Here, an awful odor rose, and he wondered if a swamp might be nearby, although it seemed unlikely in such an affluent area.

He waited, contemplating the grounds, trying to ascertain his motives for coming here. What did he expect to find? He gazed at the mansion, with its gothic architecture and flaring red lights. Dark clouds shifted ominously behind the highest point—a rounded cupola—revealing a cold slice of moon that cut through the poor weather like a failing beacon. Inside the house, the windows had been clothed over with black curtains or sheets, yellow light bleeding from the billowing edges in thin, wavering strips. Grover stayed low, listening for noise. Heard only the pelting rain, which continued to strengthen and batter. A low-lying mist seeped in from around the corners of the house.
And that smell...perhaps there is a swamp around back
.

He swiped his eyes with a sleeve, wondered who lived here, and why they’d come for Bev
Mathers
, only to leave without him. It didn’t seem to make sense—unless, of course, Bev had decided to stay home after all, as he’d indicated earlier, and at the last minute had cancelled his plans to join his rock-star chums for a party of guitar playing and pot smoking. Maybe it did make sense after all? Maybe...

But then, why were those people wearing hoods? Because they’re devil worshippers and this is where Bev
Mathers
comes for black mass! Herein lies the answers to the crimes!

It hadn’t started with the goat, or Jake Ritchie. There’d been ten other “sacrifices” before them, all cats or dogs left exposed in public venues so the offenders could duly make their dark statement known: an organically formed pentagram, facilitated at the scene of each crime. Soon following these sacrifices came the slaughter of the goat at the rectory. Grover took a deep breath, both concerned and frightened. The people responsible for these events had played—were still playing—a very dangerous game, one that had accelerated with the ritualistic murder of Jake Ritchie. What was next? Did it end there? Now, staring at this threatening mansion, Grover felt convinced that he’d stumbled upon a headquarters of some sort, a place where iniquities were plotted—and within dwelled those blameworthy for abhorrent crimes, both past and impending. His heart rate increased. He frowned and swallowed a dry icy lump in his throat.

Suddenly, the doors to the house opened. Yellow light spilled outside, a dark lithe figure emerging from its glare. Grover pressed back into the hedges and watched as the hooded individual slowly came down the wide porch steps and entered into the back of the limo. Another figure emerged and settled behind the limo’s wheel. With its headlights cutting into the rain and approaching fog, the limo edged around the fountain and moved slowly up the driveway, wet pavement squelching beneath its tires. Grover turned away and hid the white of his face and hands in the hedges, shivering in the cold wetness, until the limo exited the grounds. He waited, downpour pelting him, the gates humming electronically as they closed out the car. The familiar loud clacking tolled as they secured. He gazed out through a branching space in the hedges, watching with dismay as the limo turned the corner and disappeared.
Picking up another member of the cult? Would there be another sacrifice tonight?

He twisted around, gazed back at the mansion, wondering if he’d been locked onto the grounds. A few moments passed, and in this time he felt no alternative but to take a closer look at the looming edifice. He stood up. Stepped away from the hedges, walking slowly—now, shrouded in near-darkness and knee-deep fog—toward the hulking residence. Nearing it, he could ascertain unclear noises behind the blockade of stone walls: a throbbing rhythmic beat, like a great heart; the errant knocking of something heavy, a mallet on wood perhaps; the tolling of a bell; the muffled voice of someone shouting.