Mesozoic Murder (15 page)

Chapter 19

At three o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, Ansel arrived in a middle-class suburb where all the houses looked cut from the same head on a giant Cab-Mate mineral-faceting machine. Mortimer Peyton had made a stab at individuality, painting his home beige with brown trim. She parked on a concrete drive behind a customized yellow Isuzu Trooper.

Her morning had been spent on presidential correspondence. While she wrote letters to society members and other organization leaders about the murders, her father moved her living-room furniture back into place. Pearl donated a large rope-braid rug to throw on the bare living-room floor. After these tasks were completed, she'd called Mortimer Peyton. He had agreed to meet her that afternoon.

Peyton lived in Poplar, a small northeastern agency town for the Fort Peck Indian Reservation. Poplar traced its beginnings to an Indian trading post and a freighting center for the Great Northern railroad. The town's claim to fame was the tribally owned A & S Industries, which manufactured camouflage netting and medical chests for the U.S. government.

Ansel went up to the door and rang a buzzer. On the phone, Peyton had been cordial and anxious to meet her. Suddenly a rail-thin, elderly man stood in the doorway. He smiled and a fluffy white moustache twitched. It reminded her of an albino Woolly-Bear caterpillar that might have crawled under his nose in search of shade.

“Welcome, Miss Phoenix.”

“Hello, Mr. Peyton. I appreciate you seeing me on short notice.”

When he moved back to allow her entry, Ansel stepped into a small living room. She didn't know whether to stare at Peyton's cottony hair and long, ladle-shaped sideburns or at the eclectic decor, which had a noticeable bent toward a historic, western motif. She settled for stopping beside a brown Naugahyde couch, over which hung a pair of Texas longhorns wider from tip to tip than she was tall, and watching Peyton's eyes sparkle like polished topaz nuggets.

Peyton closed the door. “Any friend of Freddy's is a friend of mine. How about something to drink?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Peyton. I'd really like to get this over. Freddy didn't tell me much. Just to show you the bracelet.”

“Before I take you to my office, I want to tell you a little about myself.”

“That's not necessary. I trust Freddy's recommendation.”

“You're as nervous as a snake in a hog pen, and I don't want you upset by what you'll see or imagine me to be. I'm just a regular guy working forty hours a week as a construction foreman, collecting his pay, drinking Wolf Pack beer, and watching TV. You've got to listen without thinking I'm a crazy ol' crackpot. The fact is, I don't solicit my services, and I don't try to convert anyone.”

Peyton eyed her silently. His likeness might have been that of an aged sheriff or a weathered wagoner of the 1800s. A leathery, paternal face and dignified mannerisms captivated her and radiated a character brimming with self-reliance, truth, and wisdom. What in the world was she going to see? she wondered. Chasing down information about Egyptian
utchat
charms and New Age spiritualism was so alien to her compared to the grounded academia of earth sciences.

“I'm ready, Mr. Peyton.”

Peyton's gray snakeskin boots scuffed the wood flooring as Ansel followed him past a wagon wheel ceiling fixture, white cedar pole end tables and coffee table, cowhide throw rugs, and bucking bronco lamps. They entered a kitchen rich in gingham accents. When Peyton opened a basement door next to the magnet-encrusted refrigerator, Ansel smelled cinnamon incense.

They descended a white birch staircase into a much cooler realm. At the bottom, Ansel stifled a gasp. This wasn't the average cellar outfitted with tool benches, rec-room pool tables, or storage boxes. In fact, the basement was unlike any she'd ever seen.

Two-foot-square white marble tiles covered the floor. The walls were solid panels of white birch. Every basement window had been draped with white velvet. There was no furniture, only an enclosed expanse filled with a veritable jungle of live potted flowers and plants. From somewhere behind the wall of greenery, the relaxing cadence of tumbling water echoed across the room.

“Being a pagan used to mean you practiced a type of Christian folk magic,” Peyton said as they left the stairs. “We knew about herbs, healing, and how to find wells, stones, rivers, and the like. It's only been the last two centuries that our beliefs have become distorted to imply pagans are demented or dangerous people who cavort with supernatural beings and practice destructive magic.”

Ansel walked through the indoor garden of burgeoning plant life including violets, geraniums, chrysanthemums, carnations, ponytail palms, philodendrons, and drooping ferns. She inhaled air thick with the smell of mulch, flowers, and growing greenery. Strategically positioned grow lamps in the ceiling not only kept the plants healthy, but gave the basement a soothing, sheltered atmosphere. It was beautiful.

Peyton walked beside Ansel, talking nonstop in his deep, hypnotic voice. “Magic isn't really a proper term to describe what I do. This is my religion. I listen to the earth just like Indians listen to the spirits of nature. I try to achieve a joyous union with all of nature and to use natural energies as a tool to sanctify ritual areas so I can improve myself and the world. You may pray in a building, Miss Phoenix, but my temple is a meadow or a desert.”

They stopped at the north end of the cellar. Ansel felt as if she'd stumbled into a secret forest grotto. This area had been reconstructed into a large, floor-to-ceiling waterfall with a fish pond. Just below high ceiling timbers, water cascaded down through a maze of slate outcroppings into a large, crystal-clear, oblong pond filled with tropical fish.

Ansel's gaze was drawn to a nine-foot-wide circle fashioned in front of the waterfall and outlined with crystals. Inside the circle was an oak altar where a variety of items were carefully positioned. She surveyed the small black cauldron, knife, bell, wooden staff, bowls of assorted liquids and powders, candles, and sticks of incense. In a bowl of dirt, a small upright pentacle had been drawn with colored sand.

Peyton moved to the southern rim of the sphere. “This is the Circle of Stones,” he intoned. “Its circumference is made of forty pre-selected quartz crystals. This is where all of my rituals take place. The other implements inside the circle are very important in helping to invoke the power of a particular God or Goddess whose essence reflects my needs.”

Ansel stared at him. She could see why Peyton and Freddy had hit it off. Freddy would have found Peyton's religious philosophies quite compatible with his own beliefs, which embraced Mother Earth, Wakan Tanka, and the spirits of nature.

“I'm impressed, Mr. Peyton, but I'm confused. I assumed you were a scholar on occultism.”

Peyton, magnetic green eyes gazed back. “Freddy sure didn't spill the beans, did he? No, I'm not one of those lambskin theologists from the university. I practice Wicca. I run a coven. I'm a witch.”

Ansel silently cursed Freddy for not warning her. This trip was going to be a complete waste of time. Trying not to show her annoyance, she replied, “Technically speaking, wouldn't you be a warlock?”

The foreman threw back his head and bellowed out a jolly laugh. When Peyton stopped, he regarded her with his twinkling eyes. “You sure do speak your mind. I like that. Most people with a peck of opinion are four quarts low on honesty. Come into my office, and I'll show you what a blue-collar warlock can do for you.”

A moment later, Ansel stood in the tiny office situated behind the grotto. The walls were raw cedar panels covered with long cedar bookshelves. All of Peyton's books concerned either nature studies or New Age topics. There was a small sofa and a desk with a computer as well.

“Let me see the bracelet.”

Ansel gave it to him still wrapped in Freddy's black handkerchief. He opened the cloth and took out the jewelry with one wrinkled hand, stooping beneath a halogen desk lamp to inspect it. Ansel told herself to listen to Peyton with an open mind. She really liked this spry man who had invited her into his home, sight unseen, and shown his secret lifestyle to her with unconditional candor. Few people treated her so openly in the outside world.

“This is interesting. Want to tell me where you got it?”

Ansel had considered what to say to this question on the drive to Poplar. Should she hold details back from Peyton as she had with Dorbandt? She decided she had to level with somebody and gave Peyton a brief synopsis of the circumstances behind Nick's death and her attack. Peyton's concentration never wavered from the charm.

“It's an
utchat
, isn't it, Mr. Peyton?”

“You know about
utchats
?”

“Just what Freddy said. It's a protection charm associated with the Egyptian god Horus.”

Peyton nodded. “The
utchat
, also called the
wedjit
, is known primarily as an ancient, Egyptian symbol resembling a heavily made-up eye with a symbolic beard and ostrich plume beneath, but it means a lot of things to a lot of different people. It usually represents the eye of Ra or the Eye of Horus, the Egyptian hawk-headed sun god who was the son of Isis and Osiris. Egyptians believed that pharaohs were the living incarnation of Horus.”

“Have you seen an
utchat
charm like that before?”

Peyton pursed his lips. “Never saw one on a bracelet, but I've seen a few. An
utchat
is either the right or left eye of Horus. This is the right. It represents the sun. The left eye is the moon. An
utchat
is usually worn around the neck as a charm for drawing protection or good health. It's also associated with metaphysical endeavors and the study of mathematics.”

Peyton handed her the bracelet. “So what is something like this doing on a Montana cowboy?” she asked.

“I gather from his name that your friend Capos was of Greek descent?”

“Yes, he was.”

“That's your answer. To the Greeks, the
utchat
represents the eye of Apollo. In Greek mythology, Apollo is the god of the sun. The cult of Apollo began from Egyptian roots and gained great power over the centuries. Apollo is the beautiful, golden-haired solar man and the patron of prophecy, art, and music. One of Apollo's divinatory aids, along with the lyre, the bow, and the dolphin, is the stylized, All-Knowing eye. Sometimes it's called the Eye of Apollo. There's a group right here in Montana that worships the deity Apollo,” Peyton said as he sat down in a creaky rolling desk chair.

Ansel stood behind him. The idea that such a bizarre group lived in Montana didn't surprise her. What else could she expect in a state known for its militant survival groups, racist militias, religious extremists, and all other manner of unconventional organizations that gravitated here for some uncanny reason.

“Do you think the cowboy belongs to this group?” The computer was booted, and Peyton quickly logged onto the Internet with a few clicks of the mouse. “Probably. That charm is a classic example of Greek magic generated through those who follow the Heroic Path and initiate their powers through mythic forces. Besides the
utchat
, the gold metal links represent the yellow-gold color associated with Apollo.”

Once he was on the Internet, Peyton's fingers tapped across the keyboard with amazing speed. He pulled up a Web page devoted to the Greek god Apollo and scanned it quickly. Ansel looked over his shoulder. A statue of Apollo, both the left and right
utchat
designs, and information on the god's position in the Greek pantheon of deities filled the screen.

Ansel's heart quickened. “Do you know where this cult is?”

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “There's some fraternal bonding between different esoteric societies. Since we're all under fire from traditional world religions, we tend to keep tabs on each other. I know exactly where your disciples of Apollo are and who leads them.”

Ansel couldn't believe her luck. “Tell me.”

“The group is called the Avis Arcana. They're based just outside of Lustre, near the Fort Peck reservation. Dr. Athanasios Stouraitis runs the group from a private retreat. He's a very wealthy Greek who immigrated from the old country. He's educated, popular in academic circles, and fully devoted to his religion. He is also a practitioner of augury.”

Ansel's brows knitted. “What's augury?”

“Augury is the divination of future events through the interpretation of the flight, sound, and feeding of birds. Usually this is done by taking twelve seeds or pieces of grain and feeding them to a chicken. Each piece of food is individually inscribed with a meaningful Greek symbol. As the bird eats, the diviner keeps all the grains that fall from the augury bird's mouth and reads them as prophetic messages from the gods. This type of divination is called alectryomancy.”

Peyton made a moue of disgust. “Stouraitis believes he's communicating directly with Apollo, who reveals the future to him. He divines the meanings and shares his messages or predictions with his disciples.”

“It doesn't sound like you approve of him, Mr. Peyton.”

“I don't. Greek magic is a powerful mythic force, but Stouraitis reduces it to a game of serendipity. If our lives depend on crop-stuffed poultry, we're in a sorry mess, Miss Phoenix.”

Ansel smiled. The idea of witches looking down their noses at oracles was amusing. However, Stouraitis could be a murderer. People killed for their religion every day.

“Do you know anyone associated with Stouraitis named Griffin?”

Peyton thought for several seconds. “Nope. Why?”

“Nick talked to somebody named Griffin before he died. They seemed to have a falling out.”