Faustus Resurrectus (23 page)

“It’s only failure if we cease our efforts.”

“It’s not our efforts, it’s our direction, or lack thereof. We have no idea who or what she’s supposed to be a vessel for, and less idea than that on how to save her.”

“Now we know there are
two
rituals,” Father Carroll pointed out. “The
resurrectus maledicat
and the ritual in which Valdes will use Joann.”

“You’re sure he didn’t take her
for
the
resurrectus maledicat
?”

“Fairly certain. The purpose of the
resurrectus maledicat
is to assemble a dozen life forces and create a vessel for the resurrected. In this case, pieces of each victim were removed.”

“Frankenstein lives.”

“And provides a vessel for the ritual. It thus stands to reason Valdes would need Joann as a vessel for something else.”

“But what?” His cell phone buzzed. Donovan looked at the number, then at the priest. “Frank.” He flipped the phone open. “Any news?”

Fullam paused a second before answering. “
I’ve got someone who wants to speak with both of us. Here. At the precinct. Now.
”

“What do you—?”

“
If you wouldn’t mind, Mister Graham.
”

Donovan’s stomach tightened at the soft Texas twang. “Of course, Chief Yarborough. Give me a half hour.”

Yarborough cut off the connection before Fullam could say anything else. Father Carroll looked puzzled. “That was…?”

“Frank’s boss, Chief of Detectives Hugh Yarborough.”

“Oh, my. Why would he want to speak to you?”

“No idea.” Donovan gathered up a few pages of notes. “Guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

***

“You don’t have to do this.”

Joann had waited until she and Lude were alone before speaking. Coeus stood outside the shower room door, preventing any break for it, but Joann had already sized up Lude and decided the chubby blonde girl with the bad skin was a weak link.

“Hunh?”

Joann let the water run but didn’t move. “When people are young, they sometimes do things they wouldn’t have if they thought about it. I’ve seen it a hundred times, at my job. I work for the courts in Brooklyn.”

The girl stared blankly at her. “Don’t you wanna take a shower?”

“I’m just saying,” Joann slowly lowered the robe, keeping her tone neutral-friendly, “sometimes people think they’re trapped in a corner. I know how to get them out. I’m a lawyer, I do it all the time at work.”

“I sleep in the middle of the room, not in a corner,” Lude said. “But sometimes I feel trapped. I shouldn’t hafta hang out with people I don’t wanna hang out with, should I?”

Joann shook her head.

“I mean, it was cool at first, you know? Big C is, well, Big C. No one never messed with me when we was hanging out, not even Dez. Even though she’s my friend, she still fucks with me sometimes, you know?”

“Big C is Coeus? Is he your boyfriend?”

“Oh no, nothing like that.” Lude flushed. “We just hung out, you know? Played video games—he’s got a real cool set-up that George did for him, in his room way downstairs.”

Joann stepped under the shower, goose pimples rising under the stinging cold spray. “You don’t hang out with him anymore?”

Lude glanced around before lowering her voice. “It got weird, you know? Ever since Mister Valdes and Doctor Fowlstus and those four guys he, uh…” She leaned in closer, face pale. “I don’t like it here anymore. I’m scared.
Really
scared.”

Fowlstus? …Faustus?
Mystified, Joann nodded, sympathy warming her smile. The level of danger she was in left no room for error. “When I get scared, you know what I do?”

“What?”

“I go have a drink. If I go out and have a few cocktails, it usually relaxes me enough so I can see a new approach to whatever’s bothering me.” She shrugged. “Have a few drinks, talk to the bartender, get my head straight.”

“Yeah?” Her blemished features reflected her delight at being spoken to as an equal by this woman. “I like to hang out in bars sometimes, but usually they’re too loud to talk to the bartender. Sometimes Dez goes home with him, but I never do.” Her face fell. “I’m not as hot as she is.”

Joann nodded sympathetically. “Well, if you want to talk to a cool bartender, I can tell you where to go. Tell him I sent you and he’ll buy you the first drink…”

***

Figuring it would be a bad idea to show up at Midtown North with an unlicensed, illegal handgun, Donovan stopped by his apartment and left Fullam’s Glock there before heading over. Although he’d straightened up the apartment a little before going to Father Carroll’s, there remained a sense of disarray from the fight.

He knew something was up as soon as he got to the precinct. Yarborough’s linebacker-sized driver, Detective Wright, was waiting for him outside the detectives’ squadroom. “Chief Yarborough wants me to take your statement from last night.”

Donovan looked around him—difficult but not impossible. The sergeant’s desk was empty. “Where’s Frank?”

Wright looked down at him. Between the detective and Coeus, Donovan was starting to feel small. “Take a seat. When you’re done, the chief will talk to you.”

“Is there any word on Joann?”

The barest trace of sympathy trickled off him. “Sorry. Haven’t heard anything.” He stepped over and pulled out a chair. “Sit down.”

Donovan took a deep breath, restraining his desire to challenge him.
This is another way to find her
, he reminded himself.

After Wright had finished, he took the statement and left the detectives’ squadroom. Donovan sat with a can of Diet Coke, glancing around for sign of Fullam, but saw none. The detectives moved around him, occasionally giving him looks that varied from disinterest to disdain to discreet approval. After fifteen minutes he was ready to leave, but before he could Wright appeared back in the doorway and gestured for him to follow.

***

“Ah, Mr. Graham. Come in.”

Yarborough invited Donovan into the office of the precinct captain, waving him to a padded leather chair in front of a large oak desk. The office was done with style, masculine woods and deep reds and golds accessorized with flags—American, NYPD and Marine Corps. Pictures of smiling men studded the walls, at Ground Zero, shaking hands with Mayor Bloomberg, and one smiling with Barack Obama.

“Is there any word on Joann?”

Yarborough sat on the edge of the desk, making himself taller than Donovan. “Unfortunately, Ms. Clery remains unaccounted for. However,” again it came out “hah-evuh,” “there is another matter to address.”

“No, there isn’t. Joann is the only thing that matters. Whatever politics you want to play, play them after we’ve found her.” Before Yarborough could comment, Donovan took out the pages of notes. “Valdes performed a ritual called
resurrectus maledicat
. It had certain material requirements. If we can track him through the suppliers, we’ll find her.”

“Paschal candles?” Yarborough glanced at the list. “Yew wood?”

“Paschal candles are for Easter. You light them the night before Easter Sunday and let them burn next to the church altar until the Feast of the Ascension. Yew wood is used in magic ceremonies to raise the dead. Resurrection theme—Easter is the time of resurrection;
resurrectus maledicat
, cursed resurrection. Get it?”

“Raise the dead,” Yarborough repeated slowly. “I know serial killers can create elaborate designs to surround their deeds, but—”

“Valdes isn’t a serial killer. This isn’t about episodic aggressive behavior. There’s a plan, and the murders are part of it.”

“I believe your degree is Philosophical Hermeneutics.” He tapped his black and silver Mont Blanc pen on his palm. “Are you formally trained in aberrant psychology as well?”

“I’ve had some practical experience in the field. I’ve also done my homework—they didn’t kidnap Joann on a whim. She’s still alive because they need her for something.”

“This, ah, ‘cursed resurrection’?”

Donovan shook his head. “Father Carroll and I figured out there are two rituals—the
resurrectus maledicat
, and one in which Valdes needs Joann to serve as a vessel.”

“Two rituals,” Yarborough repeated. “Did the first one, this
resurrectus maledicat
, succeed?” Donovan almost answered before realizing how it would make him sound. “So he committed all these murders,
resurrected
someone, and is now planning another, equally bizarre ritual for which he needs your fiancée?”

Hearing it said aloud confirmed his fears, so he remained silent.

Yarborough stared at him, then selected a file from behind him, opened it, and put on a pair of reading glasses. “Cornelius Valdes is the former chief fundraiser with the Christian Yeoman Association Foundation. A brilliant organizer who was promoted to Chief Financial Officer. Apparently this introduced too much temptation into his life, and he was convicted almost sixteen years ago of embezzling the funds he raised. Released from Danbury Federal Penitentiary last March on good behavior. Although, as the name suggests, the charity has some religious ties, and he showed his face at the right churches at the right times, Valdes never expressed interest in the spiritual side of anything besides his bank account.” He glanced at Donovan over the tops of his glasses. “Does that sound like someone who gets involved in weird rituals?”

“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

S
o 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.