The Diviners (18 page)

“
I met you on the street in Ohio. We were married at the Kansas state fair. You left me lonely in Florida. Now I’m in a state of despair….”
Henry sang.

“Someday, Henry DuBois, you’re gonna meet a fella who sends you, and you won’t know what to do,” Theta teased.

The stage manager reappeared, clapping for attention. “All right, everyone. The Ba’al number from the top. Places, please. Miss Knight, that means you, too.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Wally.” She smiled as sweetly as a show poster for the glorified, all-American Ziegfeld girl just before dumping her second cigarette into Wally’s fresh cup of coffee.

Evie and Jericho sat at a long table with stacks of books, police reports, drawings, and assorted papers before them. Jericho had lit a fire in the library’s massive stone fireplace. It crackled and spit as it bit into the dry wood. They’d been at it for an hour, searching through musty books for some clue that might shed light on the baffling occult nature of the murder. Evie was tired and irritable. She didn’t want to think about what she’d seen the day before, much less wallow in it. But Will showed no sign of stopping. As he spoke, he walked the perimeter of the room, trailing ash from his cigarette.

“Right. Let’s review: What do we know so far?” Will asked.

“The killer has a fascination with the occult and with religion, possibly the Book of Revelation,” Jericho answered from his perch at the head of the table.

“How do we know this?”

“His note mentions the Harlot, the Whore of Babylon, and the Beast, possibly a reference to the anti-Christ.”

“Indeed,” Will said. “But the passage is only partially from the Bible. They don’t correspond neatly.”

“They’re close,” Jericho said.

“Any librarian or scholar will tell you: Close is not the same as accurate. And don’t forget that there are sigils as well. That’s more indicative of some ceremonial magic or mysticism than of Christianity.” Will indicated the scribblings running around the edges of the note. To Evie they just looked like scribbles—stylized crosses, squiggles, fancy letters, and geometric patterns.

“Now…” Will stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and immediately reached into his silver cigarette case for another without breaking his stride. “We have a symbol, do we not?”

“A pentacle,” Evie answered.

“Yes. I’ve no artistic skill. Evie, could you…?” Will handed her a nub of chalk fished from an old cigar box full of odds and ends. It took Evie a moment to understand that he expected her to draw the symbol on the slate. “No, you’ve drawn it right side up.
Inverted
, please.”

With a sigh, Evie erased her five-pointed star and drew it again with the two points up and the one down. “What’s the difference?” she grumbled.

“I’ve told you: Inverted means matter over God. Spirit becoming flesh rather than the other way ’round. And now the snake, if you would, please.”

Evie finished off the sketch. It was a rather nice likeness of a snake, if she did say so herself. Not that Will said thank you. Evie brushed the chalk dust from her hands. “What is the meaning of the snake?”

“Ah. That is a very old symbol, indeed. The snake devouring its tail, no beginning and no end. It exists across time and cultures. We see it in the Norse Jormungandr, the Greek Ouroboros, Gnosticism, the Ashanti, the Egyptian. It represents cycles, the idea
that the universe is neither created nor destroyed but returns infinitely, to be played out again and again.”

“The eternal recurrence, Nietzsche calls it,” Jericho said.

“Does that mean I’ll be forced to live through this afternoon again?” Evie joked. No one laughed, and she occupied herself by chalking in a fashionable hat on the snake’s head.

Will grabbed a handful of mints from a dish and jiggled them in his palm as he resumed his pacing, the cigarette still in his other hand. “We may assume, then, that our killer has some passing knowledge of the occult, of magical and religious symbolism, most likely the Book of Revelation. But he references the Whore of Babylon as the ‘Harlot Adorned upon the Sea.’ ” Will paused for a second. “Strange phrase, that. Baffling. Possibly from a religion of the killer’s own making.”

“How do you invent a religion?” Evie asked.

Will looked over the top of his spectacles. “You say, ‘God told me the following,’ and then wait for people to sign up.”

Evie hadn’t given religion much thought before. Her parents were Catholics turned Episcopalian. They attended services on Sunday, but it was all pretty rote, like brushing your teeth and bathing. Just something you did because it was expected. Evie hadn’t always felt that way. For a year after James had died, she’d cupped his half-dollar pendant between her pressed palms and prayed fervently for a miracle, for a telegram that would say
GOOD NEWS! IT WAS A TERRIBLE MISTAKE, AND PRIVATE JAMES XAVIER O’NEILL HAS BEEN FOUND, SAFE, IN A FARMHOUSE IN FRANCE.
But no such telegram ever arrived, and whatever possible faith might have bloomed in Evie withered and died. Now she saw it as just another advertisement for a life that belonged to a previous generation and held no meaning for hers.

“We haven’t answered the most basic question of all: Why?
What purpose is served by these murders?” Jericho asked, jolting Evie from her thoughts.

“He’s a monster,” Evie said. “Isn’t he?”

Will reached into a bowl of bridge mix. He juggled the candies in his hand without eating them. “Indeed. But that’s a what, not a why. Nothing is done without purpose, however twisted that purpose may be.”

“Why did he take her eyes?” Evie asked.

“He might be keeping them as souvenirs.”

Evie made a face. “A pinwheel from Coney Island is a souvenir, Unc.”

“To us, yes. To a madman? Perhaps not. But he might need them in some way for the ritual. Some cultures believe that ingesting the flesh of your victims makes you immortal. The Aghori of India eat the flesh of the dead in the belief that it confers supernatural powers, whereas members of the Algonquin tribe believe that anyone who eats human flesh will become a demonic spirit called the Wendigo.”

Evie’s stomach turned. “Well, there’s nothing in the Bible about holy cannibalism.”

“Transubstantiation?” Jericho said. “ ‘Eat of my body, drink of my blood’?”

“Right,” Evie conceded. “I’ll certainly never feel the same way about Communion again.”

“As I’ve said before—America is a young country comprising all sorts of people. Beliefs converge and become something new all the time.” Will finished his second cigarette and Evie could see his fingers twitching for a third, which, thankfully, he resisted. The cigarette smoke hung thickly in the air as it was.

“There’s something I don’t understand. The note…” Evie searched through the mess of papers on the table and retrieved the
photograph of the note left with Ruta’s body. “The note says, ‘This was the fifth offering.’ Why the fifth? Why not the first?”

“Yes. Troubling.” Will paced around the table, his cigarette case still clutched in his palm. “Jericho, could you telephone Detective Malloy and ask if there are any unsolved murders that might be similar in nature?”

“Don’t you think he would have mentioned that?” Evie said.

“Never assume,” Uncle Will said, and it was clear that it was his final word on the matter.

“It’s almost time for your lecture at the Women’s Association’s Ancient Order of the Phoenix club,” Jericho reminded Will.

Will squinted at the mantel clock as if he meant to rebuke it for displaying the wrong time, then gave two curt nods, like a headmaster finally accepting a student’s scholarly argument in class. “So it is. I’d best gather my lecture notes.”

“You left them upstairs,” Jericho said.

“Ah. Good. Good.” Will paused for a moment longer, his eyes scanning the room. “I can’t help feeling that there’s something we’re missing here. Something important.”

The fire cast Will’s face in shadows. He shook off his misgiving and was gone.

There was a knock at the door. Finally, a customer! Jericho was up first. From the way he bolted, Evie figured she wasn’t the only person worried about the museum. She heard voices, and a moment later Jericho returned with none other than Sam Lloyd in tow.

Evie’s eyes narrowed. “Well, well, well. I suppose you’ve got my twenty bucks.”

Jericho glanced from Evie to Sam and back again. “Do you two know each other?”

“Actually, I’ve come to see Mr. William Fitzgerald. Is he here?” Sam craned his neck.

“
Dr.
Fitzgerald. And what business do you have with my uncle?”

“Your… your uncle?” Sam smiled in surprise. “You don’t say! Now, isn’t that a coincidence.”

“Isn’t what a coincidence?” Uncle Will said, stepping into the room. He wore his hat and carried his briefcase. An umbrella hung from his left arm even though it was a sunny day.

Sam marched forward and shook Will’s hand with gusto. “How do you do, sir? Sam Lloyd. I have something I believe belongs to you.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, sir, I’m afraid it’s a story that won’t make me look like too swell of a fella. See, I was at the pawnbroker’s last night, hoping to get a few rubes for my watch—times are a bit hard. And I hear this fella saying he’s got some merchandise to sell. Rare treasures from the Museum of the Creepy Crawlies.” Sam gave an apologetic shrug. “That’s just what they call it, Professor.”

“Go on,” Uncle Will said. If he was put out, he didn’t show it.

Sam opened his bag and retrieved Cornelius Rathbone’s Masonic dagger. Will held it up to the light and peered at it. “That’s ours, all right.”

“I offered the fella my last twenty bucks for it, and he took it, seeing as the pawnbroker wasn’t too keen on taking it for more than ten. I didn’t know if there might be a reward for its safe return.” Sam paused, glancing quickly up at Will, then back down at his hands. “I just thought, well, it’s one thing to take what you need so’s you can eat, or to pinch from a bootlegger. It’s another thing to steal treasures from a museum. Why, that’s just bad form.”

Evie stared, her mouth hanging slightly open. Sam winked and said, “Hey, sister, careful there—wouldn’t want your tongue to fall out.”

Evie glared. “If my tongue goes missing I’ll know whose pockets to check first! Of all the cockeyed stories! Unc, you need to give him the bum’s rush. He’s a cheat, a liar, a thief, a liar—”

“You said that already,” Sam noted.

“Well, I’m saying it again! This is the son of a bitch who stole my twenty dollars in Penn Station!”

“Evangeline, not everyone is accustomed to your gangland charm,” Uncle Will chided after a pause. “Is that true, young man?”

Sam offered a reassuring smile. “Now, see, that’s all a big mix-up, Professor.”

“So’s your old man,” Evie spat out.

Sam adopted a pained expression. “I didn’t want to say this and get the young lady in trouble, but she stole my coat.”

“And you’re not getting it back until I have my twenty dollars.”

Jericho came to stand beside Evie, looming over Sam.

“Hi there, big fella. You her brother?” Sam asked.

“No.”

Sam glanced from Jericho to Evie. “You
married
?”

“No!” Evie and Jericho said, but not before Sam noted the blush creeping into Jericho’s cheeks.

“Listen, sister, I don’t know what kind of situation you’ve got going on here. I’m not the judging type. I’m glad to see you’re safe and sound here with your uncle and your”—he nodded to Jericho—“large friend. I was only trying to do a good deed, but I see that no good deed goes unpunished. So if you’ll just hand over my coat, we’ll call it even and I’ll beat it. I won’t even charge you with stealing my property.”

Evie sputtered for a second, then took off after Sam, chasing him around the long table, knocking over stacks of books as she did. “I’m going to kill him. Who wants to watch?”

Jericho raised his hand.

Will stepped into Evie’s path, stopping her. “Pardon me, but I’m rather confused, and I am also”—Will checked his watch again—“six and a half minutes late for my lecture. I don’t mind thieves, but I do abhor liars and people who keep me from conducting my affairs in an efficient manner. Now. Did you, in fact, steal her twenty dollars? Answer carefully, young man.”

For the first time, Sam appeared nervous, raking a hand through his hair and inching just a bit closer to the door. “Well, sir, a great man once said, ‘Subjectivity is truth; truth is subjectivity.’ ”

“Kierkegaard,” Will said, surprised. His tone softened. “Still. Facts are facts.”

Sam looked down at his shoes. “I’m sorry. I was planning on paying her back when I saw that fella at the pawnbroker’s and gave him my last dime to get that knife back. I thought maybe it could be a peace offering.”

“Oh, dry up,” Evie muttered. “He probably stole it himself.”

Sam forced himself not to look up. “I’m so broke I had to jump the turnstile to take the train. You can call a cop if you want to. In fact, I wouldn’t blame you a bit. But I’m as honest as a senator about finding your fenced goods, sir. I hope that counts for something.”