The Pressure of Darkness (35 page)

"Left-hand Tantra."

"Mo has become a kind of
Rudra
. A man who makes others cry out to the sky because he brings them death itself. He can do it, Jack. He's become one with
Shiva
, the destroyer of worlds."

Burke did not argue with the implanted delusion. He could see conflicting emotions flickering. Indira had already begun to doubt herself. "But Shiva needs a consort, correct?"

Her lower lip trembled. She had never seemed so young. "He means to honor me, Jack. By being burned I would become a deity as well. Mohandas means to make me his
parvati,
a manifestation of Ma, the Mother Goddess. He thinks we have been in Kali Yuga, the fourth age of man, but that we are at the end of the 432,000 year cycle. We believe that the Old Gods will soon return."

Burke nodded politely. "I have noticed something. When you speak of this, you seem to switch back and forth from 'he' thinks to 'we' believe and back again. So I have a sense you recognize this apocalyptic nonsense for what it actually is, the ravings of a scared man who is terminally ill."

Indira jerked back as if she'd been slapped. "Many of us have joined him in
sadhana
, Jack. He is a master."

"Or a charlatan."

"Please. You said you would listen."

Burke tilted forward. "Okay, I'm sorry. I should not be arguing. Now, my understanding of the left-hand path is that the 'dying' which is to be devoutly pursued is one of ego boundaries and old ideas. Death on the physical plane should not be feared, but it need not be sought out, either. What am I missing?"

Indira continued, and as she recited the tenets she grew more enthusiastic. "We have been living in a corrupt age, Jack, with drugs and sex and violence on a scale unprecedented in human history.
Shahr-e-Khamosh
is the way of the true believer, for we are ushering in the end of the 432,000 years. The Kali Yuga is almost over."

He watched the brainwashed eyes film over. "I see."

"Mo even believes we should reawaken the concept of the Thug, or Thugee, because they served Kali directly in the olden days."

"They drugged and robbed people and then strangled them for human sacrifice."

"Well, I don't think he means to go that far . . ."

"One would hope not." Burke touched her hand, rubbed it gently. He smiled, went for broke. "And next you're going to be telling me you will all die together so that you can hitch a ride on the tail of a passing comet."

"Now you're mocking me."

"I'm trying to wake you up. I know you come from a superstitious background, but this is America in the twenty-first century. He's got you good. Come on, Indira. Do you
really
believe all this shit?"

"No. Yes. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

The shocked look again. Her eyes filled with water. "I don't know what to believe anymore." She grabbed his hands, squeezed tightly. "When I saw you again, my faith began to weaken. Once we'd made love . . ."

"What?"

"I wanted to live."

Burke kissed her. "I lost you once. Here is what
I
believe. I must not allow it to happen again."

"I feel so sorry for him."

"Sorry is not a good reason to agree to be burned alive. Wake up from this very bad dream," Burke whispered, urgently. "This is a cult thing, okay? History is filled with them. They are all built around one megalomaniac who thinks he is on a first-name basis with God and can predict the end of the world. They all end up the same way, too—with a very public humiliation or a bunch of dead followers."

"But our practice . . ."

"Let me tell you," Burke said. "There were psychedelic drugs involved, perhaps in the food. There were mushrooms, most likely, if not some version of LSD. The meditations were guided and he spoke hypnotically. Members of the group are forbidden to discuss its secrets and must cut off all contact with the outside world."

She remained silent. "He has a medical background, yes. There are drugs he says are holy. He makes them in a laboratory somewhere."

"So, I've pegged it all correctly so far."

With a sigh, Indira said: "I think some part of me has always known I should leave, that I do not belong with him. But I was so young. I cannot explain. I don't know how I allowed this to happen."

He tugged her arms. Indira stepped over the coffee table and sat in his lap. Her face nestled in his neck, feathered breathing slid down his chest. For his part, Burke had gone cold with purpose. "How many people are involved in this?"

"I have only met some of them, perhaps thirty or forty. I do not know any of their names."

"Who are they, Indira?"

"Mo says that they come from all walks of life, academics and politicians and scientists, some are even from the military."

"What is he planning?"

"His death, my death. A large funeral pyre somewhere and a celebration of the beginning of the end."

"Other than that. What is he planning?"

"I don't know." She looked deeply into him. "He is a man of limitless ambition, capable of anything." She steeled herself. "I could go back again now and ask questions, try to find out."

Burke stroked her hair. "You will not be going back. Not now, not ever. Like I said before, I will not lose you again."

They melted together like hot wax and despite the fear—or perhaps because of it—the loving was delicious.

FORTY-NINE

"I told you I would fucking handle it."

Deputy Mayor Paul Grace has thin white striations surrounding his lips. His face is pale and drawn. Bowden can smell the stench of fear lurking behind the expensive cologne. "Well, you
didn't
handle it." Grace sits down heavily, the plush office chair rocks. "So they took care of it for us about an hour ago."

Scotty Bowden's stomach drops to the parking garage like a depth charge. His mouth fills with a sour taste. He stares at Grace, whose worried face is now in shadow just beyond the glare of the high-intensity lamp. He knows what he heard, but cannot accept it.

Grace purses his mouth and shrugs like an accountant delivering bad news. "That's just the way it is."

Bowden turns away, lightheaded. Outside, the city lights ripple along the plate glass window. At first he cannot find his voice. "What have you done?"

Grace massages his temples. "It wasn't me. I didn't do anything. I just told them the truth."

"Who are you talking about?"

"The people we work for."

"Who?"

"Don't get any ideas, Bowden. They are not to be trifled with." Grace's voice drops to a mellow, eerie baritone. "I warned you to keep your friends away from this particular situation."

Scotty Bowden stumbles to the window and looks out. He leans on the glass and it is cool against his palms. When he lifts them away, ghost prints remain but gradually fade. "This isn't right." Bowden watches the world tilt sharply. He feels a twitch beneath his left eye, hears whistling in his ears.

"It is what it is."

"Doc Washington was a good guy."

Grace exploits the opening. "That's too bad. He should have listened to you."

"Level with me. Exactly what happened to him?"

"Officially? It was a suicide, nothing more. He overdosed on painkillers. He's dead, so let it go."

Bowden turns, anguish in his voice, face contorted. "Jesus, Paul.
Why
?"

Grace takes a gold pen from his desk and fiddles with it, screwing it open and closed. "He dug into the Stryker file and passed confidential information about it to your friend Burke."

"We knew that. Burke didn't get much, for Chrissakes."

"It turns out that wasn't all, though."

Bowden turns to face Grace. "What else?"

"He was screwing around with a blood sample from one of the bodies. The old woman, to be precise." Grace puts the pen in the top drawer of his desk. He leaves his hands there.

Bowden is baffled. "Well, so what? That was his job. It doesn't mean he ever put the two cases together."

"I was told I couldn't take that chance."

"You gave the order?"

Bowden reaches for the gun at his belt. Grace takes his hands out of the drawer. He is holding a .38 in his right fist. "Don't."

Bowden drops his hands to his sides. "Fuck you. You expect me to stand still for this?"

Grace clears his throat. The gun does not suit his personality. Bowden is not convinced he will use it. "We now have you on videotape acting as a bag man for your squad, Bowden." The cop lingo sounds forced and artificial, but the content is alarming. "We also have you paying loan sharks, keeping a cocaine stash from a drug bust you did in NoHo last year, and all kinds of material. You're also on video taking payoffs from me in the parking garage. If I go down, you go down. Hard."

Bowden shakes his bowed head, a man trying to recover from a beating. "Maybe I should just shoot you now."

Grace shrugs. "Better shoot yourself. You know what happens to cops on the inside, don't you? Might as well be a death sentence."

"Maybe I don't care anymore."

"Don't be absurd," Grace sneers. "You're not going to die for some little nigger in a wheelchair."

Bowden reaches for the holster. His eyes are pin-pricks of concentration and hate; one line of sweat runs down from his pale forehead. He watches Grace carefully and raises his own gun. Grace cocks the .38, but his hand is shaking. "One last thing," he offers, watching carefully. "Your kid will know you died a corrupt cop. Do you want that?"

Bowden approaches. His own grip is steady. Grace cannot fire. He lays down the .38 and raises his hands. His voice becomes thin, reedy with fear. "We're being filmed right now. I'm not armed."

Bowden wedges his 9mm between Paul Grace's teeth. He leans in quite close. "Smile for the camera, asshole."

"Don't."

After a long moment, Bowden wrinkles his nose. "You disgust me." He withdraws the gun. "Even on drugs and in a wheelchair, Doc Washington was ten times the man you will ever be. Now hear this, Grace. I'm out. My debts are paid."

"Bowden, look . . ."

"If you try to weasel one more thing out of me I'm going to come back here and give you two more nostrils."

Grace is squirming. His eyes fill with tears. "They don't let you leave, Bowden, take it from me. You're never done."

Bowden looks down. "I'll ask you one last time. Who are you talking about?"

"They run things," Grace is babbling. "They have money and power and a plan. That's all I can tell you. You can shoot me, but I say more than that and my family dies. Yeah, my family is on the line too. I shit you not. These people are ruthless. Nobody goes free, Bowden. You keep playing ball or they'll come after your kid."

Bowden kicks the desk. It slams into Grace, pinning him against the wall. He aims a second time. "That's twice you mentioned my kid. I think maybe you need killing."

Grace, sobbing, writhing, raises his hands in a pathetic, all-too-common attempt to ward off the bullet with flesh. "I said it's not me, damn it! It's them! Look, this is all on videotape now. You can go ahead. Kill me if you want. Then they'll come after you and your family."

Bowden wavers. "They'll find me if they want me?"

"Gerber, the fat prick from downtown that plays the horses all the time? They own him. Your friend Talbot, the desk jockey who just put in for retirement? Him too."

"Fuck them both."

"One of them would come to give you your new orders maybe twenty-four hours after I'm found. It would be like nothing ever happened."

Somehow, Bowden believes him. But who the hell would have that kind of power and reach? Not even the mob. Meanwhile, Paul Grace is a wailing, snotty mess. "They just keep turning the screws, man. Once you're in, you can't get out, that's all there is to it."

Scott Bowden lowers the gun. "You know something? I don't even think you're worth shooting."

Bowden slams the office door on the way out. His chest muscles constrict with grief. He needs a drink, ten drinks. He stuffs his hands into jacket pockets and stomps down the hall to the elevators, mind whirling and gorge rising.
Doc, poor Doc
.

Back in the office, Deputy Mayor Paul Grace gets to his feet, face crimson with shame. He looks up at the camera buried in the ceiling. The camera even the city bosses do not know about.

This humiliating experience will be watched by superiors and his sad performance evaluated. Worse still, the details will be shared with others. He will be openly mocked, then demoted. Finally, no longer considered useful . . .

Grace screams to summon courage and before he can change his mind, jams the .38 in his mouth, jerks the trigger. The low blast is somewhat muffled by his skull. The back of his head explodes into mist and creates red, white, and gray modern art on the pristine wall behind the desk.

FIFTY

The messenger's truck is little more than a glorified golf cart. It pulls to the curb and parks directly in front of Nicole Stryker's stylish home. The driver, a muscular man with tattooed forearms, busies himself scribbling notes on a clear plastic clipboard. He glances up at the house as if to verify the correct address. He drops earphones over his ears, begins bopping to the music, grabs an envelope from his sack and starts up the dark sidewalk.

But it is very late for a delivery.

"Gina!" The voice sounds strident, on edge. Gina finishes typing the URL she's been trying to break. Nicole Stryker is a nervous pain in the ass. Gina sits back with a groan and rubs her tired eyes. "I'm right here."

"I think it's him."

A starburst of adrenaline courses through Gina's system. She reaches into her leather Alessi holster, palms her little aluminum-framed Astra A-75. The Spanish pistol holds seven .40 shells with decent stopping power. Gina shoves her rolling chair backwards, away from the computer desk. "I'm coming."

They meet in the hallway, near the broad foyer. Nicole Stryker is holding herself against an icy, imaginary wind. "Gina, he has tattoos."