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Authors: Harry Shannon

BOOK: The Pressure of Darkness
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Pal turned. "She is not mythological in the strictest interpretation of that word. She is more psychological. Think of her in Jungian terms and you will follow me. She is a way of viewing the darkest side of the feminine, the Johari Window aspect of women that is neither loving nor nurturing but destructive and wild. Something they are rarely able to see within themselves."

"I understand."

"Yes," Pal exclaimed happily. He patted Burke on the sleeve. "Yes, I believe you do! Now let us sit down." On the couch, sipping tea from the second cup: "If memory serves, you wanted to ask me some questions about my relationship with Peter Stryker."

"You heard the news?"

"Just that he had committed suicide in a rather unpleasant way. It all sounds so very tragic." He did not ask further, merely waited.

"What did you two talk about?"

Pal set the cup down on the table. He yawned and stretched like a sleek panther. His face was remarkably free of lines for a man his age. "Let's see, now. Kali-ma, certainly, but if memory serves, Mr. Stryker was mostly interested in the Thugee sect."

"The robbers who practiced mass murder."

"Yes. They have been much abused by Hollywood over the years. Karma, no?"

"What did Stryker want to know?"

"How it originated. The truth is, of course, that no one knows for sure. I gave him a copy of
Confessions of a Thug
by Meadows-Taylor. We discussed the Mahomedans and how they plundered India both before and after the Tartars and Mongols arrived. Some believe the Thugee began there, but the Hindu used to hold that the sect had a divine origin and was thus derived from the goddess Bhowanee. In any event, the group ran wild in India until the British attempted to suppress them, and even the Empire made little headway in perhaps the 1830s."

"So perhaps Stryker was researching a book on the Thugee? Did he tell you anything at all about the project?"

"I never asked." Pal wrinkled his nose. "It was another one of those ridiculous pot-boilers of his, no doubt. I think he might have said it was for a silly novel about a new sect springing up to assassinate politicians in Washington, something like that."

"Did he ask you about anything else?"

"We talked a bit about Kali-ma because of the Thugee," Pal replied. He seemed to be searching his memory bank. "Oh, and about the Aghora and the left-hand path of Tantra. In case you've forgotten, the Aghora seek enlightenment by reveling in the distasteful, shall we say. They carry the left-hand path to implausible lengths."

"I remember, now. The emphasis is on the acceptance of everything, regardless of how dark or hideous it might at first appear."

"Yes. They might eat excrement or sit on a dead body, for example, as a way of eradicating every conceivable trace of disgust. Or even eat the flesh of the dead. By embracing the awful, one breaks down dualism, you see. And begins to experience the world as it really
is,
a thing of 'terrible beauty' rather than allowing it to continue to be perceived as merely terrible
or
beautiful."

"I recall it sounded pretty extreme."

"Oh, to a westerner it most assuredly would," Pal replied. "And yet there are smaller splinter groups deemed even more extreme than the Agouri."

"A group with practices more extreme than eating shit or the flesh of a corpse?"

"Well, let us take the Shahr-e-Khamosh, by way of example. The shamshan it uses and the group it describes are known as 'The City of Silence' because the term means cemetery and also that the spiritual work is to become virtually dead while still alive."

"To die to more than just desire." Burke steepled his fingers. "Or, to pursue the One in that manner as well, in other words?"

"Yes. And to connect with the spirits of the deceased. To a devotee of Shahr-e-Khamosh there are many spirits, Mr. Burke. As all seers, they see the Preta, who have died without proper services, Dakinis, who died in childbirth, the Bhuta who clings to physical life and refuses to let go. And these spirits instruct them about how to live better lives. Thus, as I said, the way of Shahr-e-Khamosh is to die while still alive, or to live while openly communing with the dead. Simply fascinating superstition, no?"

"It's all bit too farfetched for my taste." Burke didn't want to think about the little man who haunted his dreams. He spotted a waist-high, lovingly crafted statue to his left. "That's Egyptian, isn't it? Ammut or Ammit?"

"Or Ammenmet. She was an Egyptian demoness."

The figure had a crocodile's head with the torso of a leopard and the buttocks of a Hippo; Burke remembered that all three of those creatures were fierce and terrifying to the Egyptians because all were eaters of men. That awakened his interest again. Burke squinted, reads aloud: "
Hat em emsuh; pehu-s em tebt her-ab-set em ma
, is that correct?"

"Close. It is a description of the creature. As you may recall, in The Book of the Dead Ammut sits near the scales of Ma'at. When any dead person's heart weighs incorrectly, is found unworthy, she is there to devour and excrete their immortal souls. She was also known as the 'devourer of Amenta.'"

"The underworld."

"Yes, and also the west bank of the river Nile. To the Egyptians, west was always a direction linked with death. One papyrus contains a speech made to Thoth regarding the soul of the scribe Ani. It says something like 'His word is true, is holy and righteous. He has not committed any sin and has done no evil against us. The devourer Ammut must not be permitted to prevail and eat him' or words to that effect. The exact wording escapes me."

"Fascinating."

"Sadly, I am getting older, Mr. Burke, and my memory is not what it used to be."

"Your memory is remarkable."

"Are you boring Mr. Burke, Mo?"

The voice was sultry, flowed like warm honey; the accent was irresistible. Burke felt the hair rise on his arms and his stomach jangle like a bucket of ice cubes. Pal jumped to his feet. Burke struggled to remain composed. He rose more slowly, and when he could no longer politely delay, turned to look at her.

Indira Pal had also changed little. Her raven hair was swept back and to the right, where it dropped down to coil around her shoulders like a serpent. The luscious hair framed a face as seductive and exotic as her name. Indira had wide brown eyes with arched black brows, plush red lips, and a slender nose. She was dressed elegantly in a beige strapless evening gown that hugged her lithe frame. Carefully placed gold jewelry caught the waning light and glowed with mystic fire.

Jack Burke swallowed and thought that nothing on earth had ever frightened him as much as the presence of this one woman.

"Red, it's good to see you again."

Burke found himself close to her, inhaling her jasmine scent and touching her hand before he was aware his body had crossed the room. His own voice sounded alien to him, both reedy and unstable. "Mrs. Pal, how nice to see you again."

"Yes," she replied, meaninglessly. She slipped her hand away quickly, gracefully; the gesture was specific, the insult intentional. She joined her husband, gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Mo, I think we need to be going."

"Of course. And go we shall. Mr. Burke, perhaps we can meet again another time? Or if you have any further questions for me, you can e-mail them care of the university."

Burke held his ground. "Just one more moment, please. May I ask how well you knew Peter Stryker, Indira? Were the three of you friends?"

Indira tilted her head and her eyes were lava. "I am not sure I ever met the man. Did we meet, Mo? Perhaps at one of those awful office Christmas parties?"

"Perhaps," Pal replied, as if to soothe her growing irritation. "But if you did it was very briefly, dear. No reason you should remember."

Indira shrugged. "I guess that answers your question."

"I guess it does."

"So nice to see you again." Icicles dangle from the words. "You'll excuse us now, please."

Burke stepped back as if slapped. "Yes, I guess I should be on my way."

The man called Mr. Nandi appeared at Burke's side and gently took his left elbow. Burke was getting the bum's rush. He allowed himself to be led to the door by the much smaller man. He called back over his shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Pal."

"Oh, my pleasure."

Good,
Burke thought, his attitude sour.
Because it certainly wasn't mine.

 

TWENTY-THREE

 

SATURDAY

 

"This sucks." Detective Scotty Bowden doesn't want to work. He would rather grab some breakfast. He is pissed off and more than a little drunk. Also, Bowden doesn't like skid row, the stench of urine, vomit and that nagging vibe of hopelessness. Bowden is ending an all-nighter and has already packed away two shots of Wild Turkey dropped into mugs of cold, draught beer. He slides down Broadway, parks and exits onto the sidewalk. He pauses at the mouth of the alley to use a little breath spray.

Dawn is peeking over the towering office buildings with a baleful eye. A handful of driven executives are already turning into underground parking garages and rushing out of the doughnut shop, breath and hot coffee steaming in the frigid morning air. The sun will be up soon, but the full moon still hangs in the gray sky like a pocked piece of slate. Most of the bums are already stalking the pavement for handouts. They look like an army of the undead. Since Bowden was drinking when he heard the radio traffic, he is way late to the party.

A cherub-faced, stocky uniform is holding a couple of curious vagrants at bay. Bowden recognizes the kid. His rabbi in the department has been grooming him for Robbery/Homicide.

"What's up, Kasper?"

Patrolman Jon Kasper looks exhausted and a bit green. He speaks with a faint Boston accent. "SID was already here, sir. They dusted and photographed everything. The ME wagon is getting ready to load him up. I told them to hang on until you got a chance to look things over."

"Thanks. I got tied up with something else. You okay?"

Kasper blushes, pink on pale lime. "Actually, I nearly lost my doughnuts, sir. I thought I'd seen a few things in South Central, but this one is pretty bad."

Bowden is distracted by Sergeant Bob Tanner. "Scotty? About fucking time!" Tanner is a loathsome toad of a man, given to copping free blowjobs from the hookers near Selma and Hollywood in exchange for leniency. He is seldom caught without a cell phone at his ear and a wet cigar butt clenched between yellowing teeth.

Bowden approaches the crime scene. He is surprised by a rapidly festering sense of anxiety. There seems to be something hanging like bug spray in the morning air, something intangible but ominous. He shakes the feeling away. Bowden stamps his feet against the cold and winks. "Morning, Bob. Is some asshole actually making you do a little work for a change?"

Tanner spits a foul stream of brown juice into a nearby pile of trash. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Bowden."

"So what happened here?"

"Some homeless dude got his ticket punched, probably over a bottle of screw-top Thunderbird. What do you care? This ain't your regular turf."

Bowden shrugs. He is not above a little gossip, but he's also not about to trust a motor mouth like Tanner. "I've caught a couple of missing-persons cases around here lately, and I just pulled an all-nighter in the area. When I caught a piece of this over the radio, figured I'd come over and have a look." Then, as casually as possible: "So how did the guy check out?"

"The assistant ME says somebody strangled the dude, probably with a piece of rope or something. So far, it looks like no big deal. You get used to that. Shit, these ass-wipes will off each other over a pack of cigarettes or a porn rag. But catch this part. Our boy takes a knife to the vic, right? And I mean does him good. He tugs down his pants and cuts him up like a side of beef."

"Before, or after?"

"ME says probably after, from the splatters and preliminary tissue samples. Which makes it, like, why the fuck bother doing it?"

"Rage."

"More than that." Tanner chews the foul cigar butt, a whimsical smile tugging at his upper lip. He is enjoying this.

Bowden lets him have the moment, waits for the secret to build pressure. If Tanner knows more than he's letting on, he is bound to let it slip eventually. Bowden raises his left eyebrow high enough to indicate a question mark.

"Okay, you didn't get this from me but it looks like the perp carted away a few chunks of his leg." Tanner says this in a low, amused voice. "Now hear this, though. The ME found a couple of good sized baggies lying in the fucking mud!"

"Like refrigerator baggies?"

"The very same. So this may be some crazy Hannibal the cannibal shit. Nucking futs, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Have a good double shift, Scotty," Tanner says. "I'm out of here."

Bowden pats Tanner on the shoulder and crosses in front of him. His eyes are on the far end of the alley, where the yellow tape has sealed off the area and the corpse lays waiting in a partially zipped black body bag. The ME wagon guys are standing, smoking, careful to catch the ashes in their hands. They are a Mutt and Jeff duo, one tall and acne-ridden and the other short and chubby. Bowden squints, but he does not recognize either man.

"Let me take a look."

Mutt squats down, opens the bag the rest of the way. The man inside is naked, his body surprisingly hairy and quite simian. His face is twisted in a death grimace and his face darkened and mottled. The veins in his eyes are occluded with spider-webbed blood. His neck bears the indentation of something hard, yet flexible, like a bungee cord. Bowden wrinkles his nose at the stench. He looks around the area and notes a small picnic blanket, a candle, some fast food sacks, and a large, empty wine bottle.

"What kind is it?"

The short ME cocks his head, bewildered.

"The wine," Bowden says patiently. "Can you tell what kind it is?"

"Sutter Home, sir. White zinfandel, I think."

Strange choice for an old man with no money
. That means the perp probably sprang for the wine, even offered some kind of low-rent night on the town. Bowden motions with his hand and Mutt unzips the body bag the rest of the way. The stench is palpable, the sight grotesque. The body has been butchered below the waist, chunks of flesh removed, probably by something extraordinarily sharp, possibly medical in nature. Bowden swallows and leans back. This is no ordinary killing. The sight brings back buried memories of combat, and is surprisingly disturbing—especially to a man who used to collect human ears. Bowden nods and Mutt begins to zip the bag up for removal to the coroner's office.

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