Faustus Resurrectus

FAUSTUS

RESURRECTUS

A DONOVAN GRAHAM NOVEL

THOMAS MORRISSEY

NIGHT SHADE BOOKS

SAN FRANCISCO

PROLOGUE

AFTER THE CEREMONY

T
he sharpest tool we had was a bottle opener.

The big man blinked, uncomprehending.

How did
this
happen?

The full moon added to the light of the bonfire, illuminating bodies scattered where they tried to escape. None was in one piece.

The big man took one aimless step then another, refusing to absorb the meaning of his surroundings.

We were supposed to be giving thanks…

Business at the commune had been killer these past few months: personal care items were up, the microbrew had gained some popularity and, best of all, the summer’s crop of White Widow had topped out at twenty-three and a half percent THC. It was while he and Greta were smoking some of the fruits of that first harvest, lying naked in bed on a beautiful summer morning, that she’d come up with the idea.

Mother Gaia has shown us such bounty. We should offer
our
energy to
Her
, to give thanks and praise to Her glory.

Best energy I know,
he’d replied,
is sex.

When they’d set up that morning for the orgy, the sweet summer grass had tickled their ankles. Oak trees spread green-leafed shade over them, and even the moss coating the stone hollow where they’d set up the bonfire had been bright chartreuse. Greta had said the vitality was a good sign.

Someone expressed reservations about messing with weird religions.

This isn’t “weird,”
Greta had said.
We’re all about positive energy.

Now the green was gone, withered, freezer burned to death on the first of August. The foliage had shrunk to husks, trees twisted and gnarled. He tried to understand how this could be.

Coletun.

What happened to him?

He couldn’t stop shaking.

“I’m gonna come back for you. Mister Fizz made me bigger and stronger than you.”

Beneath the bloody horror he saw Greta’s face. “Baby…” he whispered, extending a trembling hand.

Her head rolled to the side, exposing the jagged edge that nearly severed it from her body…

The next thing he knew he was fumbling through the pockets of the jeans he’d stripped off hours—years—ago. Drying blood made his grip sticky, but he managed to untangle his cell phone.

“
9-1-1 Operator. What is the emergency?
”

“You have to come! They’re all dead!”

“
Calm down, sir. Who is dead? Where are you?
”

“Blue Moon Bay. In a field, about a half mile northwest from the commune. The Churner’s Commune. You have to come
now!
”

The thing had burst from the heart of the black bonfire, an icy white lance that blinded him when it struck. His stomach had gone numb; he didn’t remember, didn’t
want
to remember, anything beyond that.

“
The Churner’s Commune?
”

“Hurry! I think…I think
I
killed them all.”

ONE

THE FIRST DAY OF THE BEGINNING…

“…a
ll those receiving your Bachelor’s Degree in the arts, please rise.”

There was dutiful applause. Donovan Graham rubbed his eyes and let his sunglasses drop back on his nose. The tassels hanging from his mortarboard brushed his face like strands of purple spider web. He waved half-heartedly at them, then stopped as the back of his head started to pound. He took a swig from a bottle of water but it only partially alleviated his cotton mouth.

“All those receiving a Master’s Degree in the arts, please rise.”

More dutiful applause. He heaved himself upright and looked around. At twenty-seven, he was younger than many of the other grad school students; at two inches over six feet, he was bigger than most.

And I drank more French martinis than any of them last night.

“All those receiving doctorates, please rise.”

A final round of clapping.

Give me another couple of years.

Overhead, clouds still threatened rain. He would have welcomed it; it might have cooled him off. Right now a hot, damp beach towel wrapped his entire body, or at least that’s what it felt like.

They announced a new speaker and everyone sat. Donovan scanned the dais and saw the Philosophy Department standard, a cobalt blue banner decorated by white, silver and gold letters and insignias. Next to it sat Father Maurice Carroll, distinct among the crowd of professors—sitting couldn’t completely hide his 6’ 9” frame. He’d been a basketball player in his college days at Georgetown and would have gone pro if he hadn’t blown out both knees in a pickup game with some local kids. In his late sixties, with a full head of gray-white hair and matching beard and moustache, he looked content and mildly amused.

The speeches finally ended and Doctor Keel, the president of the university, stepped to the microphone. “Today really is the first day of the beginning of your lives. I know it’s cliché, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. From here on out, you are college graduates, a status that confers privilege and demands responsibility. Enjoy the moment, but use it.”

The graduates were herded like cattle into the chutes of individual department commencements. Donovan saw Joann next to the fence separating graduates from guests. One corner of her mouth curled into the wry grin he’d fallen in love with three years earlier on the other side of the world, in Hawaii. He waved and smiled as she snapped a few digital pictures. Students surged around him in a tide of black robes and colored sashes. He pushed his way across the current to her.

“Hey graduate.” She leaned across the fence to kiss him. “Congratulations.”

“I owe it all to clean living and the love of a good woman.”

“Clean living? How’s your hangover?”

“Better now.” Above the heads of the masses, he saw the cobalt banner moving towards its building. He looked for a gap in the fence but saw none. “I’ll see you over at the Philosophy Department.”

“Okay.”

She kissed him again and he got a whiff of her hair as she turned back into the crowd. Somewhere he’d read that the most sensual position from which to watch a woman was three-quarters behind. His view of Joann confirmed it. Her dark gray business skirt stretched tight over her well-toned thighs and behind, while her shoulder-length blonde hair was up loosely, allowing a few strands to curl down to her neck just above the collar of her suit coat.

Lucky man
, he thought.

***

When the Philosophy Department ceremony was over, Donovan made his way over to Joann. “Phi Beta Kappa?” She slid her arms around his neck. “I had no idea I was sleeping with such a brilliant scholar.”

He grinned. “Took me by surprise, too. I remember getting things in the mail, but I kind of just blew them off. It was Father Carroll who made all this happen.”

“No.” She looked into his eyes with total seriousness. “
You
did. You put in the time, you did the work. You earned it.”

“He certainly did,” Father Carroll said, joining them. “I know what you’re capable of, Donovan, even if you sometimes forget.” He glanced around. “Your parents aren’t here?”

“The Colonel was unable to attend. My mother sends regrets. They’ve promised to be here for the PhD ceremony, whenever that is.” Donovan hid his emotions with a shrug and looked past Joann. “On the other hand, babe, I see
your
father.”

Short and wiry, Conrad Clery cut through the sea of people towards them. Light off his glasses gave him the white eyes of a shark when it rolls in for a bite. “Darling! I’m glad I found you. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Golf-strengthened hands gripped Joann’s shoulders as he bussed her cheeks. “Father.” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Oh, congratulations, Donovan. The first Master’s is always the hardest.”

“What are you doing here?” Joann asked.

“I was one of the speakers over at the Law School commencement. Didn’t I tell you?”

Her wry smile returned, with slightly less warmth than she’d shown Donovan. “It must have slipped your mind.” Her cell phone rang. She checked the number and frowned. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. Work.” She took a few steps away.

Father Carroll turned to Donovan. “I have to get some things from my office for my trip to England. Could you give me a hand?”

“Sure.”

Conrad put a hand on Donovan’s arm. “If I could have a word with him first?”

Father Carroll raised a bemused eyebrow. “Of course. It was nice to see you again, Conrad. Good luck and God bless.”

“To you, as well.” Conrad started to steer Donovan away. “Oh, Father—if you get to London while you’re over there, there’s a terrific restaurant in Knightsbridge, Marcus Wareing at The Berkeley. Ask for Simon; tell him I sent you. He’ll take care of you.”

“I appreciate that, Conrad. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Donovan casually moved out of Conrad’s grasp. “What’s up?”

“Phi Beta Kappa
and
honors; impressive. I’m also Phi Beta Kappa.” Joann’s father took out a cigar, snipped off the end and carefully placed it in his mouth. Holding a gold lighter—
solid gold, I’m sure,
Donovan thought—he puffed until the tip glowed branding-iron orange. “Your Master’s is ‘Philosophical Hermeneutics’; what is that, exactly?”

“The study of interpretation technically, but really it’s the search for truth.” Donovan knew Conrad already knew the answer, but he played along. “Traditional hermeneutics studies interpretations of written works; religion, law, literature. Modern hermeneutics studies everything. That would be me, specializing in mythology and religion.”

“Why those particular fields, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I like them. They interest me.”

“Driving a truck used to interest me, when I was in school. I even did, as a way of paying for my books. Then I grew up.” Conrad remained casual. Fragrant smoke hung in the air between them. “What sort of career does one pursue with a degree in Philosophical Hermeneutics?”

“One pursues a doctorate and teaches. That process begins this fall.” Donovan showed him a bland smile. “Something on your mind, Conrad?”

“What would you interpret my manner to mean?”

Donovan let that one go.

Conrad examined the crowd as it thinned before turning his gaze to Joann. She hung up and came back towards them. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

She wiggled one hand. “Cautious optimism.”

“New lead on Dinkins?” Donovan asked.

“Dinkins” was the Dinkins Shelter case, an investigation that was becoming a hairball for the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office. Back in March, Joann had been the Assistant DA riding when the David N. Dinkins Memorial Shelter exploded into a riot that had gutted the shelter and left three guards and nine homeless men dead. So far, her attempt to build the case against the riot’s instigator wasn’t coming together, because there was some question who started it. Against the counsel of some colleagues, Joann was insisting they had yet to find the ringleader, a man she referred to as “Charming Man” because witnesses referred to him as “smooth” and “speaking well.”

She nodded. “I was going over the list of the shelter wreckage and saw they had fourteen broken cameras. The shelter’s inventory listed fifteen supposed to be installed. I sent DeFelice to search the site. He found it.” She took a breath. “Now we have to see if anything on it survived.”

“Not bad, Counselor.”

Pride glowed in Conrad’s eyes. “Honey, do you have a moment? There’s someone I’d like you to meet over at the Law School.”

She looked at Donovan. He nodded. “Father Carroll wanted me to give him a hand in his office. Do you know where it is?”

“I do.” She pulled away from her father and ran her hands over Donovan’s chest, giving him a solid hug. “I’m so proud of you. Congratulations again, baby. I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”

***

“Still among the living, I see,” the priest observed, deliberating before a shelf.

Donovan paused in the doorway. Books and objects covered every inch of Father Carroll’s office and were stacked on every flat surface. Papyrus scrolls, ceremonial daggers, swords, candles, books, crosses, and talismans; each had a story attached to it. Every time he went there, Donovan got a little thrill. The stuff was so…cool.

“The Wrath of Khan-rad is old news. He was reassuring himself that despite my degree, I’m still not good enough for his daughter.”

“Pity he only recognizes quality in cigars.”