Frozen (15 page)

Read Frozen Online

Authors: Jay Bonansinga

BOOK: Frozen
9.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Professor Armatraj, who stood next to her, said nothing, but appeared uneasy.
“May I be so bold,” de Lourde added, “as to inquire about your initial hypotheses regarding the deeper connections to the neolithic evidence?”
Grove thought it over for a moment, gazing around the emptying room. By that point, Maura and Zorn had both come over to listen. The banquet hall had almost completely cleared out. “Before I answer your question,” Grove said finally, “let me pose one to you and your colleagues.”
De Lourde gave his head a polite tilt. “Please.”
“Would you folks have any interest in some breakfast?”
The southerner glanced at his colleagues. A nod from Dame Edith Endecott and a shrug from Armatraj. De Lourde offered the profiler another grin. “I might be talked into some lightly poached eggs . . . that is, if you would be so kind as to procure a bottle of Tabasco.”
Grove smiled, glancing first at Zorn, then at Maura. “I think that can be arranged. C'mon.”
He led the five of them over to the door, and they were about to make their exit when a voice rang out behind them.
“Agent Grove!”
Grove froze in the doorway, the others pausing outside in the bustling corridor.
“If I might have a word with you!” said a feeble voice from inside the room.
Grove glanced over his shoulder and saw a slight, hunched old man in a priest collar and coat limping along with a cane, coming slowly toward him. “We haven't had the pleasure yet,” the old clergyman wheezed as he approached. “My name is Father Carrigan. From the Jesuit Order of Santa Maria. In Brazil.”
“Sorry, I didn't . . .” Grove stammered, not knowing exactly what to say. Behind him, the others huddled in the doorway, listening.
“I'm not an archaeologist,” the priest said. He spoke with the subtle rolled r's of a Bostonian, and his wizened face twitched and blinked as he spoke, perhaps the result of a minor stroke. “One of the Brazilians from the university in Sao Paulo told me about the meeting here.”
“We're happy to have you,” Grove told him, wondering what the agenda was here, why an old arthritic priest would travel all this way.
“This pattern you've been discussing . . . I've known about it for quite some time now.”
“No kidding. You an amateur criminologist, Father?”
“To paraphrase the Bard, there's far more in heaven and earth than you've ever dreamed, Agent Grove.”
Grove smiled. “I've had some pretty wild dreams.”
The priest scowled suddenly. His milky eyes, buried in wrinkles, radiated gravity and sorrow, his neck wattle shaking as he tried to put into words what he had to say. “You are opening the proverbial Pandora's box, Agent Grove, and I'm not sure you're prepared for what will crawl out.”
Grove stared at the man for a moment. “Listen . . . Father Carrigan . . . why don't you join us for breakfast? The magazine's buying, and you can tell us what's on your mind.”
The priest pursed his lips. There was an air of almost aristocratic dignity about the old man, the way he leaned on his burnished pearl-handled cane, the old tarnished signet ring on his crooked finger adorned with the symbols of some obscure secret society. Finally he gave a nod and said, “That would be lovely, thank you.”
There was very little pleasure on the priest's face.
 
 
A casual observer—were there any left alive—might notice the first rays of sunlight streaming through the closed front blinds of the Regal Motel lobby, and maybe wonder why the blinds were shut (not to mention adorned with a CLOSED sign) at such a busy time of day for early-bird hunters a week into duck season. They might also notice the deep scarlet drag marks on the carpet leading across the reception area and then around the edge of the counter, as well as the metallic odors of drying blood and rotting meat beginning to permeate the stale air. They would surely notice the tall, gnarled figure standing behind the counter, as still as a dime-store Indian.
He had been standing there for nearly an hour now, disconnected from the pain gripping his back, staring straight ahead as though in some kind of trance, as though he were an android desk clerk waiting for a customer that would never come. The old Richard Ackerman never would have been able to stand motionless like that for over an hour. He would have folded to the floor in raging spasms within ten minutes, caterwauling at his wife for his Vicodin. But this was the
New
Richard Ackerman, and he had to push this body to its limits because the revelation had finally come.
The lobby sat in silent dust motes except for the faint sound of dripping. And the New Richard kept thinking.
In the Pacific Northwest, there's a bird known as the peregrine falcon. A natural predator, this robust creature has a wingspan of five feet, talons like claw hammers, and an insatiable appetite for mice, smaller birds, even snakes and lizards. Ornithologists have even observed the peregrine attacking its
own species
. And not for food. Apparently the bird is one of the rare species currently in existence that seems to hunt and kill merely for the sport of it.
Way back in the early Copper Age, over six thousand years ago, there was an ancestral species to the peregrine—long since gone extinct—that was twice as big, with a nine-foot wingspan, and eyes like black pearls. This neolithic falcon had an added offensive mechanism of being able to disguise itself, sucking in its torso and feathers until it appeared smaller, weaker, perhaps even injured. In this fashion it would draw its prey into a chase, and ultimately, in a violent turning of tables, it would ambush its pursuer. The hunter would become the hunted, and the falcon would devour its prey with the greatest of ease. The thing inside Richard Ackerman was, in many ways, just like the peregrine. With one exception.
He had only one natural enemy.
The New Richard gazed out at the tawdry motel lobby through Ackerman's eyes—scanning the room, thinking, pondering, imagining all the men who were searching for him. He kept wondering how to lure the dark-skinned one, the important one, the only one who mattered now, into the chase.
Ulysses Grove
. The name was bitter ash on the puppeteer's palate. But the name also served as a powerful incantation. “Ulysses Grove” was the doorway. But how many victims would it take? What could the New Richard possibly do that would have enough impact to draw the brown hunter into the fray? It would have to be something on a scale much larger than a single killing. Something much grander than two dead cretins in a reeking motel lobby.
Head rotating on its axis with prehensile, almost insectlike jerks, the thing inside Ackerman glanced around the room for the thousandth time, searching for the key, an idea, some way to draw the hunter into the hunt.
The rays of steel-gray, overcast Oregon morning slanted across ratty furniture, refracting wisps of dust and painting the far wall with dull stripes of light. The misty dawn had barely shoved back the shadows, dimly illuminating the blood-streaked lobby. More objects were visible now than before, including the spray of old dog-eared magazines on the coffee table, the spindly rubber plant in one corner, the faded seascape painting on the far wall. The tall man's gaze flitted from object to object. He looked at the flickering TV set, which was now broadcasting some inane program on weight loss, and he looked at the yellowed lamp shade. Finally his gaze fell on the black leather binder lying open on the counter in front of him.
It had been right in front of him all along.
The
register
.
Twitching fingers opened the tattered binder, the old glue crackling. A bloodstained fingertip lightly tracked down the column of names that were scrawled along the left side of the page. Handwritten in the style of old-fashioned roadside inns, the register contained a virtual cornucopia of lonely transients—many of whom, at that moment, were slumbering in the squalid units flanking the lobby . . .
. . . each of them unconscious, dreaming banal dreams, waiting to be sacrificed.
12
A Secret Wrapped in Secrets
Father Carrigan's eyes flared with anger, the teacup trembling in his palsied hand, its contents sloshing over the rim. “Go look in the Vatican library, if you don't believe me, it's all there,” he told the table, his feeble voice straining to be heard over the gathering noise in the coffee shop. “These precious discoveries of yours, they've stirred up forces that are best left undisturbed, and it's only because of
hubris
, pure hubris, that these poor souls keep getting dug up.” The padre paused for a moment, as though exhausted by the sheer emotion coursing through him. Then he looked across the table at each of the distinguished professors sitting there. “Tell me, Professor de Lourde . . . why would you come all this way for so little remuneration? Why would all these renowned archaeologists travel halfway around the world at the drop of a hat to attend such an obscure meeting?”
Professor Moses de Lourde was about to take a bite out of a small triangle of toast when he paused, the toast poised in midair in front of his mouth, a faint, little, ironic smirk crossing his elegant face. “I suppose, Father,” he replied finally, “the reason is good old-fashioned ego. For a room full of archaeologists, a feature article in a national science publication is akin to waving a slab of raw meat in front of a pack of wild dogs.”
Knowing smiles passed among the professors, and even Maura found it difficult to suppress a grin.
The table grew silent for a moment, as Grove sat in front of a plate of cold scrambled eggs and tried to get a reading on the priest, tried to size him up, tried to figure out if he was crazy. The others deferentially stared into their laps, or absently sipped their coffee and picked at their breakfasts, not wanting to agitate the priest any more than necessary. The restaurant, which was a long, narrow assemblage of round tables nestled in the middle of an atrium lobby, was already filling up with early morning traffic. Wait staff bustled. Cappuccino machines hissed and sputtered. Silverware clanked. Grove noticed some of the other patrons shooting glances this way. He could only imagine what this table of eccentrics looked and sounded like to the uninitiated.
So far Grove had gleaned several things. First, it was becoming apparent that the phenomenon of unearthing ancient murder victims with similar pathologies was no secret to much of the world. Factions of historians and scientists had formed around different theories, most of them concluding, as Okuda had, that the killings were ritual based. Second, most experts agreed with Okuda that these victims, in most cases, were probably shamans or healers. They each carried their own version of the “medicine bundle” found on the Mount Cairn Iceman. But what had ignited such a vigorous dialogue at the breakfast table was Father Carrigan's assertion that malevolent events followed the discovery of each mummy, that something metaphysical was released as a result of each excavation.
Professor de Lourde dabbed the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. “May I ask the good father what exactly he did during his tenure in Vatican City?”
The old man puckered his liver-colored lips, then raised the teacup with trembling hands, daintily slurping at the brown liquid. His wrinkled visage had turned scarlet in the heat of the discussion, and now his face looked mottled and hectic with burst capillaries. “I was a bureaucrat, a committeeman,” he replied at last. “But you would not recognize the committee if I told you its name.”
“Try me, Father.”
Gray eyes flashed. “
Consilium de Miraculum
. You see? The name would not mean much to any of you.”
Professor Endecott spoke up, gazing over the tops of her reading glasses. She had been taking notes on a small spiral-bound pad. “May I ask why you're so certain none of us would know of this group?”
The old man scowled at her. “Have
you
heard of the committee . . . Professor . . . ?”
“Endecott. Edith Endecott. Actually no. I haven't heard of it.”
“That's because the committee did not exist.”
“Pardon?”
The priest took a haggard breath as though he were crossing a laborious rubicon by explaining such a thing. “The committee did not exist, because it was a secret, but then again
everything
under the Vatican banner was secret, so this was a secret wrapped in secrets.”
Grove broke in. “My Latin's not great, but it sounds like, what, ‘Committee on Miracles'?”
The priest nodded. “It was a group of clergy, anthropologists, scholars, and antiquarians—all dedicated to investigating and authenticating miracles.”
An exchange of glances around the table. Maura County did not look amused. Sitting in front of a half-eaten bowl of granola, she looked at Grove from across the table, and Grove tried to read the expression on the journalist's face. It was an odd mixture of fascination and repulsion, as though all the enthusiasm had drained out of her—the prospects for a juicy article long ago replaced by a gathering dread. Next to her, stirring a packet of sweetener into his iced tea, his cowboy hat sitting on the table next to him, Terry Zorn looked as though he might burst out laughing at any minute. He obviously wasn't buying much of this. Grove, on the other hand, was ambivalent. He felt as though he were on a train that had inadvertently snapped a cable.
Grove looked at the deeply lined face of the priest. “And what kind of miracles are we talking about here, Father?”
Father Carrigan sighed. “Miracles are not always happy ones, Agent Grove. Miracles are not always benign and friendly to mankind. The beneficial miracle is a New Testament concept.”
A pause. Grove told him to go on.
“On at least three different occasions, the committee was called upon to investigate the similarities between mummified remains found in the late 1950s in Italy. And later—in the early 1970s, I believe it was—at various locations around Eastern Europe. And finally North America.”
Another pause. Professor Armatraj, his eyes gleaming with interest as he daintily sipped his tea, spoke up then: “And your conclusions were . . . what exactly?”
The priest swallowed hard, as though the mere subject matter was draining him. “At first we had no inkling what we were dealing with. We couldn't make heads or tails out of the tattoos and markings that seemed to be common among the mummies. But we immediately saw a connection between the pose—the way the arms were raised—and the gesture of summoning.”
Armatraj said he wasn't following.
The elderly priest raised one arm with great effort, the palsy making his brittle tendons twitch. “In the ancient rites of the Church,” he croaked, “the practitioner lifts his hand like so. The supplicant does the same. It's a gesture of absorption.”
“Define absorption, please,” Armatraj said.
The priest dropped his arm, looking exhausted. “Absorption in the sense of a summoning.”
Grove studied the old man. “A summoning of what, Father?”
Carrigan looked at Grove as though the profiler had just asked the color of the grass or why there is gravity. “A
spirit
, of course,” he said, sounding a bit impatient.
Grove asked him to elaborate.
“I'm referring to the summoning of a
spirit
into one's earthly
body
,” the old man explained, his eyes fierce within the folds of his drooping lids. “It's a very powerful gesture. We saw it in every instance, and we came to believe there was a connection . . . between the summoning and the horrible events that were occurring in the aftermath of each discovery.”
Now Maura chimed in: “Can you tell us about these events? You've mentioned in passing these horrible things that have happened.”
The priest gave her a grave look. “My dear, for centuries the
Consilium de Miraculum
was a virtual seismograph for spiritual activity—both good and evil. In the years immediately following each of these discoveries, the reports of human misery virtually pinned the needle. Especially in the areas around the discoveries. Death and mayhem, even reports of what Agent Grove might call ‘copycat' murders. Believe me when I tell you, Miss County, we had our hands full. I'll admit that opinions differed among church authorities . . . but I believed then, as I still do to this day . . . there was a connection to the unearthing of these wretched souls.”
Maura thought about it for a moment, then said, “So what happened?”
The priest looked confused.
Maura clarified: “After you came to believe there was a connection—what did you do about it?”
A shrug from the old man. “World politics made it impossible for the church to conduct any official investigations, or to come to any conclusions. People were too busy arguing over who owned the mummies. Everything was done in secret, Miss County, and local authorities were very stubborn, very reluctant to even talk with representatives of the church. The fact is, even my colleagues at the Vatican eventually placed their attentions elsewhere.”
The old priest looked down then, fondling the burnished handle of his cane, which stood next to him, propped against the table.
“In time,” he went on, “they managed to get rid of me and my crackpot theories. They discredited me, treated me like a senile old man. Eventually they sent me to my beloved South American gulag.”
Another pause, and Grove started to ask something else, when all at once he fell silent, noticing something strange across the table. Professor de Lourde, normally jovial and sanguine, had lost all his color. The fashionable southerner sat bolt upright against his chair, his eyes wide, his lips pressed together tightly. It was clear that de Lourde had realized something disturbing.
“You okay, Professor?” Grove asked de Lourde.
“Uh . . . yes,” he softly intoned, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Something the matter?”
All eyes were on the southerner now. Face drained, his gaze suddenly haunted and fixed on the middle distance, de Lourde tried to speak, but had difficulty putting what he was thinking into words. Grove felt a cold prickling sensation at the base of his neck. To see the affable, genteel de Lourde like that—suddenly at a loss for words—somehow disturbed Grove more than anything else that had occurred all morning.
“I apologize,” he said at last. “It's just that . . . I just had the most diabolical realization.”
 
 
That's weird
, Olivia Mendoza thought as she turned off her rust-bucket Chevy Geo and sat for a moment in the Regal Motel parking lot, staring through the rain-streaked windshield at the entrance to the front office. A plump little Latina with a peroxide-blond flip and rusty brown skin, Olivia wore the trademark baby-blue pinafore of the Mighty Maids Company under her tattered down coat.
It looked as though old Pete Bowden had mistakenly put the CLOSED sign up on the door again. The old bastard had probably been dipping into that “secret” bottle of J&B he kept hidden behind the file cabinet in the back office, the bottle that nobody was supposed to know about. Olivia had stumbled upon early morning remnants of the innkeeper's little “secret” many times before. One time a couple of years ago the maid had arrived for her shift only to find a pair of women's panties hanging from the Mr. Coffee in the front room. Another time she arrived to find Pete Bowden passed out on the floor of the lobby, half naked, his underwear bunched around his ankles. That time it took all of Olivia Mendoza's willpower not to just bust out laughing at the size of Pete's shriveled little pecker.
But this time, the old coot had gone too far. Not only was the CLOSED sign facing out but the blinds were shut as well. And the lights were off. The place looked boarded up, condemned, gone out of business.
Which wouldn't be a half-bad idea
, Olivia thought with a sideways grin,
if I could only find another housekeeping gig in Portland
.
The maid let out a sigh and reached for her umbrella, which sat on the passenger-side floor, buried beneath a pile of Adkins bar wrappers. The rains had let up a little, but still were coming down hard enough to warrant an umbrella. The Geo's backseat was littered with cleaning products and empty cans of Slim-Fast. Olivia Mendoza had tried every fad diet known to man, and her latest fixations were the low-carbohydrate trips, which so far had only served to make her grouchy rather than thin. She grabbed the umbrella, climbed out of the car, wrestled it open, went around to her trunk, rooted out her little plastic caddy full of cleaning products, then trundled through the mist to the office entrance.
At first she thought the door was locked, but then realized it was simply stuck—or maybe
stuck
was the wrong word. It gave a little bit as she tried it, crackling as though something had dried and crusted along the bottom edge. She remembered when her youngest, Ramon, was just a toddler, and the kitchen door of their shotgun flat would get like that—sticky with egg and juice and stewed prunes.

Other books

Hide My Eyes by Margery Allingham
P. G. Wodehouse by The Swoop: How Clarence Saved England
Chiaroscuro by Jenna Jones
Oracle Rising by Morgan Kelley
Callejón sin salida by Charles Dickens & Wilkie Collins
Souvenir of Cold Springs by Kitty Burns Florey
Never Say Genius by Dan Gutman
Patricia Potter by Rainbow