Faustus Resurrectus (30 page)

“
Faustussss…
” The voice in which Dez spoke was her own but not, warped and roughened by Infernal fire and the cold of evil. “
Quo procer porta?
”

Although it sounded like Latin, Joann couldn’t quite understand. The thing turned and came at her with the praying mantis grace, all sharp edges and angles as it drifted in and out of darkness that never went away. Joann shivered uncontrollably as it drew close.

“
See what you’re missing?
”

It was too much, and she felt the ground disappear from beneath her feet. As she slipped away Dez’s words followed her down with one final, horrific pronouncement.

“
But not for long…
”

TWENTY-ONE

SEEING IN THE DARK

C
onrad’s strong, tanned hands clenched and unclenched, betraying the stress his voice struggled to check. “Where is my daughter?”

The stress wasn’t quite hidden, and it turned what had started as anger in Donovan into sympathy. “She is your daughter.” He nodded slightly. “I respect that. And, if it matters, I apologize for the way I spoke to you earlier. But you can’t help her now, Conrad.”

Conrad’s face tightened. “My friends in the department have kept me informed about the progress they’re making. The FBI as well. It isn’t much. I asked Jan,” he angled his head towards the muscle man with dark hair, “and Sylvester to keep an eye on you. You seem to have momentum. You and Father Carroll, who I’m told left a little while ago.”

“Blue SUV?” Donovan asked Jan. “You’re sloppy.”

“Wasn’t trying to hide.”

“Neither was I.” Donovan shook his head. “Because I don’t have time to waste. I respect your concerns, Conrad. Maybe the FBI or the cops need your back-up. For Joann’s safety, and your own,” he started past him, “don’t follow me now.”

Sylvester cocked a fist back for some kind of hand strike. Without hesitation Donovan dropped his helmet and punched him in the chest. Sylvester gasped, clutching at his heart. Donovan got his weight behind a left hook that slammed the smaller man into the wall and put him down face first on the cheap hallway carpet. Donovan sensed movement behind himself and swung an elbow. Jan snorted blood as his nose crumpled. He clapped his hands up. Donovan closed in, slapping the man’s hands apart and jabbing at his face. Jan bulled him into the opposite wall, jumped back and pulled a .45 from under his windbreaker. Fullam stepped forward. In his hands he held a Glock, and it was pointed less than six inches from the river of blood that streamed from Jan’s broken nose. Conrad’s voice whipped him from behind.

“Sergeant—I mean,
Mister
—Fullam; is it legal for a suspended officer to be armed with an unlicensed automatic weapon?”

Donovan snatched the .45 from Jan, ejected the magazine and tucked it in his pocket. He jacked the round free from the chamber, pocketed it as well, and handed the pistol back, butt first. Fullam slowly lowered his gun, eyes never leaving Conrad. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he remained silent.

“I’m not exaggerating,” Donovan said. “For your own safety, stay away from me.”

“She is my only child.” Conrad’s voice no longer whipped, nor did it contain any challenge. “How can I help?”

“If
there’s anything you can do…” As odd as their role reversal was for him, Donovan could barely imagine what it was like for a man as powerful as Joann’s father to genuinely beg for help. He offered a tight smile he hoped gave some reassurance. “I’ll be in touch.”

The sergeant tapped Conrad with the butt of his gun, dropping him like a stone.

***

On their way to Donovan’s motorcycle, Fullam stopped next to the dark blue SUV, took out a pocket knife, and stabbed both tires on the left hand side.

“That isn’t legal, either,” he said, tucking the blade away in his back pocket.

They made the detour the sergeant wanted, and after getting the body armor and shotgun Fullam had in his car they headed up Tenth Avenue. At 60
^th
Street Donovan turned east, towards Columbus Circle. As they approached he could see what the initial patrol cars had reported—the darkness from the Cancer Hospital tower now shrouded Central Park. It wasn’t impenetrable; further away it was almost indistinguishable from the night sky. Closer up, though, Donovan could make out a sort of border at the park edge. There the darkness shifted like the sea, swirling in currents and eddies within itself. Its ethereal nature made the shifting hypnotic and it captured the eye. Blink and you would lose track of it, but Donovan realized it wasn’t just about a visual. Powerful emotional energy radiated from it, negative force whose proximity sapped will and physical strength.

“You’ve seen it,” Fullam shouted over the Vulcan’s engine. “Any comment?”

“Not yet.”

Light blue sawhorses blocked off the feeder streets into Columbus Circle. Donovan pulled up next to one of the uniformed cops guarding the perimeter so Fullam could get them past. As they talked, Donovan gazed around. Everywhere he saw police activity. Squad cars bearing the numbers of the surrounding precincts filled the gaps alongside fire trucks, ambulances and vehicles of all sizes from city task forces with more arriving every minute. Officers came and went; uniformed and plainclothes, all of them wearing some form of body armor, they flourished their weapons as they scrambled around the cars and trucks. Four Emergency Services trucks parked around the circle from Eighth Avenue clockwise past the front of the Time Warner building to Central Park West. Rising from the backs of the trucks, floodlight towers used to illuminate nighttime crime scenes made it noon at midnight.

Once Donovan steered the motorcycle inside the sawhorse barrier, Fullam tapped him on the shoulder to pull over.

“Park and meet me at the FBI vans,” he directed, nodding at two silver trucks the size of express mail delivery vehicles. As if to emphasize their separate status from the locals, they’d been pulled up onto the sidewalk beneath the column and statue of Christopher Columbus. “Anybody asks, you’re one of my people. That’ll work until Hugh gets here.”

“Yarborough’s not going to scare me off.”

“He doesn’t have to. If he gives the word, you’ll be arrested and
dragged
off. And you have to be around for this.” Fullam shifted inside his Kevlar vest. “I’m going to go get acquainted. All of them outrank me, but since it was initially my case they’ll give me a seat at the table. At least until Hugh shows up.” Bitterness whetted his lips. “Listen—I’m not sure what’s going on in there, and I’m pretty sure no one else does either. You wanted to save Joann by getting the Department involved? We’re here. Now we need information.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Donovan hedged.

“Yeah, we
all
will. It’ll be enough,
if
we know what we’re facing.”

Never had the differences between how he experienced reality and how others did seemed more stark. He took some comfort in knowing about the sergeant’s experience with Santeria as he pulled away and steered the motorcycle carefully, the bandage on his left hand making it a little difficult to maintain a firm grip on the clutch. Central Park South had also been blocked off, so he rode around towards it and parked at a spot near the Broadway split-off. The concrete cinder blocks and iron fence spires he’d seen while riding up to the Cancer Hospital earlier remained on the sidewalk outside the park wall. He pictured cops using them as cover while firing at whatever emerged from the darkness.

Vivid imagination.

“Hey, daredevil,” Josh Braithwaite called. He wore midnight blue riot gear with his baseball cap backwards. “Now I know we’re going to kick some ass.”

“How’s it going, Josh?” Donovan asked, reassured to see at least one familiar face. “Putting in a little overtime tonight?”

“Word’s out, man. Everybody’s coming down. We got the whole park surrounded. What’s up? Fuckin’ rag heads taking another shot at us?” He looked towards the darkness and his cockiness faded. Draped in its shadows, even blossoming trees looked menacing. “I heard they took out the Central Park Precinct.”

“I don’t know.”

If he suspected Donovan had more information that he was letting on, he made no comment. “If you’re here…does this have anything to do with that aquarium thing?” Braithwaite squinted at him. “Because if it’s the same guy, this is still Frank’s collar, no matter what the chief says.”

Donovan thought Fullam would appreciate his loyalty. “Yeah, Frank
is
here; in fact, I have to go join him.” Donovan extended his hand. Braithwaite blinked at the gesture, but shook it with a firm grip. “Do me a favor,” Donovan added, “spread the word: when you go in…things in there aren’t going to be what they seem.”

“What do they have? Anthrax?” Braithwaite gave him a strange look. “Nukes?”

“No, none of that. I can’t think of any better way to describe it. Just be careful.”

Before the young detective could respond someone hailed him, so he gave Donovan a tight smile and left. Donovan turned towards the FBI van, disappointed he hadn’t given Braithwaite a more useful warning.

If you don’t come up with something better,
he told himself,
it will be a problem.

***

Darkness enveloped the Great Lawn, its border delineated by fading streetlights and the glow of torches circling the field. Slashes of white flickered as the possessed moved in and out of sight around the concert stage, chased by whispers in a strange language. Valdes stood to one side, feeling akin to an entomologist observing a colony of spiders building a giant web. They’d moved the stage to the north end of the Lawn oval and were now swarming over the structure, and although he couldn’t make out all the details, the groans and pervasive stench of viscera promised a unique vision when they were finished. Steaming clouds, the smoke of cooling flesh and intestines, drifted to descend around his feet, creating a grisly layer of fog above the ground. The night air grew chillier as it got darker.

I thought Hell was supposed to be hot?

In front of the stage, more of the possessed had carved a design into the ground. Valdes instantly recognized it, for it was in the shape of the amulet he’d worn through the
resurrectus maledicat
sacrifices: the Sigil of Baphomet, and inverted five-pointed star inside a double circle, with a goat’s head represented within the star. Faustus had supervised its creation and anointed various parts with oils and herbs, making the eyes of the goat shine.

“Valdes.”

He turned at the sorcerer’s voice.

“Thy followers exhibit much zeal but little judgment. Where sufficient numbers had been are now corpses whose sole use is raw material.”

Valdes took out a pack of cigarettes. “What do you mean?”

“The invocation to Lucifer requireth a gathering of six hundred sixty-six sacrifices. A current tally revealeth a shortfall of twice and a half one hundred.”

“That many?” He was more disappointed than angry.

“If thou hath desire to deal with forces beyond thy ken, thou must prepare thyself for…eventualities.”

Valdes tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand. In his peripheral vision he caught better looks at the white slashes. They bore a passing physical resemblance to those they possessed, but exuding an aura that was harder, sharper. Within their gaze existed no trace of humanity; these were things of ice and violence. “What’s the exact number?”

“Two-hundred-sixty-one.” Valdes’s calm seemed to irritate the sorcerer. “Thou hath not the skill of Faustus for conjuration of this number, nor even of one.”

“I’ll find a way,
Herr Doktor
.” In the sky to the south, a light approached. Valdes glanced at it. “I’m very good at solving problems.”

***

Donovan spied Fullam with a group of men and women between the FBI trucks. The ones in ties and flak jackets he took to be the precinct captains. ESU and task force commanders were dressed in full battle gear, while the FBI all wore dark windbreakers with their agency in bold white letters across their backs. Through the open side panel of one of the trucks Donovan could see what looked like a space shuttle cockpit. An older blonde woman, an Asian man, and a black woman manned the consoles, while a slim man with a gray crew cut and FBI windbreaker stood just outside. His sharp nose and profile suggested the cultured PBS logo, but the Brooklyn tone of his voice when he opened his mouth eliminated any thought of
Masterpiece Theater
.

“Who are you?”

“Donovan’s one of my people,” Fullam answered. “Research and Intelligence.”

“Really?” the man gave a brief, brisk handshake. “Harley Clark, Supervisory Special-Agent-In-Charge, New York office. Support personnel need ID, too, sergeant.” He looked through Donovan, saying the words “support personnel” like “stay out of my way.” “We don’t want people getting their heads blown off because no one knew who they were.”

Fullam grabbed a clip-on plastic tag and handed it to him. Donovan attached it to his jacket, surreptitiously taking note of the reactions to his presence. No one seemed to think anything wrong. Everyone was watching the five television monitors inside the van. They showed stationary, long-range shots of different park areas. None were particularly clear. Occasional glimpses of white strobed by, but the darkness made everything look like they were watching a feed from cameras deep underwater. Donovan couldn’t make out much besides shadowy figures moving around.
There was no audio.

“Where are these coming from?” he asked Fullam softly.

“Three are NYPD, two from the Met.”

The Asian man overseeing one wall of consoles, who wore a badge around his neck identifying him as Peter Lo, leaned over to speak quietly. “Those three,” he indicated at monitors, “are NYPD. The other two are from security cameras of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Of all the cameras in the park, these were the only ones still functioning we could access remotely. We turned them inward to focus on the Great Lawn, since that’s where most of the activity seems to be.”

“What are they showing?”

“Not much. Unfortunately the cameras aren’t equipped with strong enough zoom or infrared. We’ve been downloading what we get through our system to clean it up.” He handed Donovan some digitally enhanced printouts from the system. “Apparently there was some sort of concert on the Great Lawn tonight, and the terrorists seem to have seized the stage as their rallying point. There’s some sort of wall or structure over here, at the north end, but we don’t know what it is yet.”