Richard D. Weber
PROTOCOL-17
 
AUTHOR’S NOTE

PART I
PRIESTS OF DARKNESS

CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8

PART II
TYPHON’S STORM

CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13

PART III
THE PACT

CHAPTER14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

All Rights Reserved © 2002 Richard D. Weber

For
Peaches and Cream
Punky
And Mom
My Stalwarts

 
 
Map ofVatican City

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Author’s reference to locales within theVaticanandChicago,IL. are factual with a few exceptions: Swift Hall at theUniversityofChicagodoes not have thirteen floors, but does house theDivinitySchool. The inspiration for LEMURIA is based upon “The House on the Rock,” a tourist attraction located in Spring Green,Wis.The overall glass fortress design is the same with over three thousand windows and it lays claim to the world’s largest carousel.
 Visit theinteractive website’s photo gallery at www.darkprotocols.com.
While most events and persons in this novel are made from the whole cloth of my imagination, others are not . LeCahier de la Rose Noire actually exists in the form of Le Cahier Rose written by the Abbé Boullan and is indeed, locked away in theVatican ’s Secret Archives. All requests to view it have been denied. References to Occult Secret Societies and their practitioners are historically accurate. However, Protocol-17—while being the author’s invention—is based upon a historical document: The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. While attributed to the Russian Czar’s Secret Police, and later adopted by Hitler’s Nazi Germany as anti-Semitic propaganda, some believe it to be in reality—the hidden plan of the Illuminati. A plan for implementation of the NOVUS ORDO SECLORUM. Let’s hope not!
 
R.D.W.

PART I
 
PRIESTS OF DARKNESS

 
“From somewhere or other, the smoke of Satan has entered theTempleofGod .”
Pope Paul VI (attributed)

CHAPTER 1
 
 The Previous Night:10:00P.M.
  
OUTSIDE, THE MOON was full, a wasting globe still bloated with light. Somewhere a dog howled; the sound gradually fading into the wider silences of the night.
The flat consisted of a single room; dust covered, with half-eaten plates of food, piles of empty fast-food wrappers and pizza cartons that blanketed the floor. The only movement came from the whispery scuttling of cockroaches, crawling over the cracked and rust-stained porcelain of the kitchen sink. The stroboscopic flashes of the television’s flickering screen lanced the darkness of the room. The soundtrack, with its eerie violins denoting danger, was the only sound.
The figure sat alone. Still as death. And totally captivated by the images that glimmered across the screen.
The movie playing was THE LODGER , an old black-and-white, Gothic Noir film from the ‘4Os, starring Laird Cregar, in the role of Jack the Ripper. It was The Other’s favorite film and hard to find. He had found it nesting in a little out of the way video store inChicago’sOldTown. The clerk looked puzzled when he purchased it. Shaking his head, he said, “Thought I knew ‘em all, but not this one. Hope it doesn’t give you nightmares, buddy.” It wouldn’t. In fact, he watched it over and over as if paying homage to it.
Violins raked their shrill vibratos. Then, solidifying silence.
The dead silence was broken by the foreboding ring of the telephone. Not diverting his eyes from the screen, swallowing a handful of peanuts, The Other picked up the receiver.
“Golden Apples—” A disembodied voice whispered.
“In the garden—”The Other replied.
“Kill the traitor and the whore. Kill them brutally. It must be especially brutal.”
 The Other’s face was blank, his eyes vacant. He listened intently.
“Destroy them. Crush bone, rend flesh. Rip out the spawn! Butcher them!”
Click.
The hum of the dial tone.

CHAPTER 2
  
  I: Tuesday Morning: 8:00A.M.Chicago
   
 A full-fledged blizzard was coming.
The wind pounded like a sledgehammer.
Thin, gray, useless daylight, exuded all the warmth of gunmetal. Gritty spicules of snow were nails, piercing Sgt. Michael Ryan’s almost frostbitten cheeks. It was minus twenty degrees wind-chill factor. And as Ryan would discover before lunch, as good a day as any for—Murder.
The metallic squeal of the EL Train reverberated overhead as a shower of blue-white sparks fell to the brittle, pot-holed pavement below.
Despite the numbing cold, or because of it, Ryan vaulted the front steps to the 18thDistrict’s Area Three Violent Crimes Detective Division two at a time. He left a trail of Starbucks coffee with each hurtle. And then pulling a last hard draw from his Marlboro, he flicked it at a passing baby-faced uniformed officer scurrying down the steps.
Ryan flashed his knock-em-dead smile at the young rookie who, upon recognizing the senior detective, swallowed his words, “Hey, you asshole!” in midsentence, along with a chew of tobacco pinched in his jaw. The rookie gulped-green and stammered, “Morning, Sergeant . . . uh-h, sir.”
Ryan rushed past, through the main doors, past the duty officer and into the warmth of the corridor. The squad room doors burst open and in sauntered Mr. Cock-Of-The-Walk himself. Another grand entrance.
Ryan was tall, blond and ruggedly handsome. A man who, though in his late thirties, still moved with the fluidity of a college track star. His muscles were as toned as his charisma; his eyes, cobalt-blue. Unlike his fellow detectives, particularly his partner, Sam, who dressed in couturier by ”I get no respect” Rodney Dangerfield , Ryan was Mr. GQ. Except for the hairline scar that traversed his eyebrow and a voracious appetite for the ladies, Michael Ryan was perfection.
The squad room at this ungodly, 180 proof hangover time of the morning, unlike in the movies, was not a beehive of activity: no handcuffed miscreants pleading for a break, no hookers with jittering jugs on parade, no fidgeting witnesses about to ID the crooks in a line up or screaming complainants, ranting on and on about being a taxpayer and owning the P.D. The answer was none of the above—just cops, plain old everyday cops.
The epitome of which was Sgt. Sam Goldstein, Ryan’s partner and lifelong friend, seated in his usual alert mode, poised for action at his army-surplus designer desk. Well, not really, unless Sam was guarding the cream cheese bagel resting in his lap. He sat with his feet crossed on the desktop, a coffee mug in one hand. Sam leaned back full tilt in his chair, while trying to smoke a cigar, slurp coffee, and turn the pages of the morning Tribune. Sam’s dexterity was legendary.
Ryan broke Sam’s intense concentration by shouting, “Drop it, Dirtbag!”
The scalding coffee fell into Sam’s crotch. He threw down the paper. Spilled more coffee. Cursed. Danced a Mexican hat dance on the newsprint, and finally sulked off to the restroom to rip off his stained polyester pants, and soothe his injured ballsand pride. He was a Jew with an attitude.
As Sam emerged from the john, he was heaping curses on his Chicago Bulls coffee mug and everything and everybody in sight. Ryan grabbed him by the shoulders, shouted to get his attention.
“Sam, hello, Sam. Who’s your buddy? Who’s your pal? Earth to Sam, come in, Sammy boy.”
“You frickin’ Goyim! These were my only good pants—”
“If that’s the case . . . I just did the world a big favor.”
Suddenly Detective Marty Budzynski’s (AKA The Ferret  ) tiny head appeared around the corner of the squad room door. “Hey guys, the old man’s comin’ in early. Surprise inspection.”
“Whatta ya say we hit the streets, partner?” Ryan said, tossing Sam his Goodwill-issued, tattered overcoat.
Shuffling feet, chairs scraping under desks, in seconds the room was empty, faster than Slick Willy could say last call for lap dances in the Oval Office.
 
* * *
 
 II: At the Flat, Previous Night:10:15P.M.
  
THE OTHER RESPONDED like an automaton, a machine devoid of feeling, answering to the programmed hypnotic trigger. He was compelled to act without hesitation, without question. He rose in a stifled motion, stopping only to remove a syringe from a small leather case, inject himself as he had done countless times before, and grab his black rain slicker. He cupped a curved, cold, stainless-steel scalpel in his hand, tucked it skillfully into his coat pocket.
His soul coiled with resolute purpose—deliver the traitors to his master and gather their pound of flesh. Pork.
 
* * *
 
 III:Tuesday Morning:9:30A.M. In theLoop
  
THEY HAD SPENT their whole morning on the street trying to tie up loose endson some strange disappearances and homicides—brutal homicides that were plaguing the 18th District.The eviscerated body of a teenage girl found discarded like yesterdays values on the breakwaters of Navy Pier; the reported disappearance of a number of juveniles from the Catholic Services shelter in Des Plaines.
Seated in their unmarked car.
The hiss and crackle of the police-band radio.
Snowflakes collided soundlessly against the windshield.
The wiper blades thumped out their tune with metronomic monotony.
The car’s heater strained to warm the deep freezer on wheels. They called it the meat wagon: cold enough to hang a side of beef. Sam fidgeted with the heater’s controls as he drove. The worn plastic seat crackled beneath his shifting weight. It was like the sound of footfalls on a winter pond whose thin skin of ice cobwebs with fissures with each step.
They had no way of knowing it, but their world was about to become marbled and rent. The cold waters of chaos were about to pull them under.
Ryan’s pager went off, startling him from a near-trance. He checked the number and saw it was the distinctive “911 ***” code of Commander O’Halihan. The boss. Ryan raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Here we go again.” Reaching toward the cell phone mounted on the console, he punched the speed dial code for the Commander’s direct line.
“O’Halihan.”
“Yeah boss, it’s Ryan . . .whatta ya got?”
“Another body, my boy. This is high profile. Get your ass over to Holy Name Cathedral right now. The newsies are already on the scene, and I’ve got the area cordoned off.”
Ryan’s mood soured. “Are we the only two dicks in the whole department these days? Damn skipper, we’ve both got a shit load of unfinished cases.”
“I’ve got the Mayor’s office playing Dr. Feelgood Proctologist with my asshole, and you tell me you’re busy. Well, let me put it this way: Get your fucking prima donna little butts over there and don’t give me any more lip! Understood?”
“Yes, sir. We’re about ten minutes out. Are the lab boys and medical examiner on the scene yet?” Ryan asked. He could feel the hot fumes of Commander O’Halihan’s scalding Irish-temper coursing right through the speakerphone.
“That’s more like it. Oh, by the way, the illustrious State’s Attorney, Mr. Adams, is also en route.”
Dropping the cigarette from his lip, bending to hit the kill switch on the speakerphone, Ryan said, “Fuckin’ great.Adams is en route to the scene. Just, fuckin’ great! Where’s my damn cigarette? You got any aspirin, Sam?”
Sam said, “Maybe you should cut back on the caffeine a little. Seems to make you rather irritable in the morning, honey. Check the glove box. Should be a bottle of Midol there.”
“Just drive the car, will ya? And I am not frickin’ irritable in the morning.” Ryan fumbled in his coat pocket for another cigarette, his tenth this morning. Sam acknowledged Ryan’s outburst with a shrug as he mashed the accelerator. The car’s rear end fishtailed slightly on the snow-skinned pavement. Sam nodded toward Ryan’s feet. “Don’t look now, Mr. Sunshine and Lollipops, but your pant’s cuff is smoking.”
The speakerphone barked.
“Hey, Ryan. You there? Did you hear me?”
Ryan punched the kill switch to reconnect. “Right here, Commander. Sam hit a pot hole.”
“Like shit, he did. You watch your pretty little tush, Ryan. And try to keep Goldstein’s big claptrap shut!”
End of call.
Ryan poured what remained of his coffee into his smoldering pant’s cuff, dry swallowed two aspirins and cursed.
Sam said, “You ever get the impression that O’Halihan studied for management at the Jack Web School of Performing Arts?”
“How so?” Ryan asked, knowing he was about to play the straight man.
“I say,Dudley. You know, a code 301 from the Mounties’ handbook—overacting.” Imitating Inspector Fenwick from Dudley Do-Right, Sam continued. “And I quote directly from TV Guide , ‘Tough, crusty, old police Sgt., Capt.’ . . . whatever . . . ‘runs roughshod over handsome young detectives. One the intellectual, wise cracking, type’—that’s me; ‘the other, a square-jawed, let’s do-it-by-the-book, hero type’—also me, of course.”
“Hey, what part do I get?”
“Yeah, baby . . . you need a better agent!” Sam affected aHollywood smile as he cranked the wheel hard left, forcing the squad’s tail to slue slightly on the snow-slick pavement, spraying the curb with dirty-gray slush.
Ryan made an over exaggerated grab for the dashboard. “No, forget the part, forget the agent, I need a new stunt driver.”
Sam feigned hurt feelings. They traveled half a block in silence. Detective Sgt. Sam Goldstein was what they politely called a bit eccentric. The guys on the force weren’t so polite. They affectionately called him The Professor to his face and Mr. Fardreyt Hahmie ( the confused nutcase) behind his back.
Cops don’t speak in politically correct words and phrases. Sam knew the secret nickname, but never considered it to be a racial slur. Lt. Myers, now working at a different district, had christened Sam with the handle at his son’s bar mitzvah. Sam had earned the Lt.’s and his fellow officers’ respect years ago, and he knew it.
Their quick banter and jokes served as a spray coating of Kevlar. Despite having worked major crimes for six years, despite the self-effacing black humor, a homicide scene was never something you got used to. And if you did, you’d have gone south, rubber-gun squad time.
An icy breeze stirred, and the overcast sky parted to reveal the towering spire of the Holy Name Cathedral looming just ahead onState Street . The TV news crews were already lined up like vultures with their telescopic, microwave-necks craning for a morsel of information, penned out of harm’s way behind the cage of the police barricades.
A line of blue-and-white police cars blocked the street corner. Revolving blue light bars and stuttering strobe flashes pulsed through the light snow fall, dying the falling flakes in a blue-white aura, aquamarine and then diamonds, aquamarine and then diamonds. A uniformed officer waved them through.
The ghouls—the press—called their names and shouted questions as they exited the car. The press loved Goldstein. The Jeff Goldblum of CPD as Jane Bodrey, the dulcet-voiced news anchor of WBBM, had dubbed him. He had that same off-in-space penetrating stare, those same swarthy Semitic good looks: dark, wavy hair; large, doleful eyes. And that same I-know-something-you-don’t-know smirk. Ryan ignored the scavengers of doom’s existence. But Sam flashed a toothy grin, flexed his dimples and shouted, “No Comment.” City Hall could rest easy this night. Maybe.
They strode across the sidewalk and into the alleyway behind the cathedral proper.
Like a lifeless photo negative, the narrow passageway of the alley stood before them. Colorless. Cold. Dead still.
As they passed the uniforms, Sam caught a fleeting image from the corner of his eye. A large rat with a deformed and twisted hunched back scurried down the edge of the alley. A garbage Dumpster stood massive and silent at the far end, framed by a group of officers and lab technicians. Their breath spewed clouds of vapor with each exhalation, smoking the air.
As they drew closer, they could smell it. The bitter cold seemed to only amplify it. Death’s fetid breath cut the air. Intense. Nauseating. More than just a smell, it was an actual gas, thick and moist, lancing their sinuses. Death’s ripe scent clung to their skin, their clothing. Ryan tossed a jar of Vicks VapoRub to Sam who swabbed his finger and tossed it back to Ryan. They smeared their upper lips with the ointment to mask the stench. Then came the sound of sharp clicking footfalls from behind and a different flavor of stench; the odor of excessive, pricey cologne floating in the brittle air caught their attention. Without even having to turn Sam and Ryan knew who it was. It was Aleister Adams.
Craning his head to the rear, Sam said, “What brings you out on this bright and beautifulChicago morning, Mr. State’s Attorney?”
Ryan cringed.
“You had better can that sarcasm, Sgt. Goldstein. I want a full briefing, and I want it now,”Adams said.
Adamshad eyes cold and black as a rabid mongrel dog, framed by silver-wire-rimmed glasses. His face was flat, as expressionless as a shovel. And he wore his coal-black hair strait back: the wet look. His custom-tailored blue dress shirt with starched white collar, and two-thousand-dollar suit, couldn’t conceal the truth. Every inch of Aleister Adams’s five-foot-seven frame was a limp-dick, lawyer-politician who never got his own hands soiled, never rolled in the mud and filth, never wrestled an armed perp twice his own size to the hard asphalt. He was haphephobic—afraid to touch or be touched. And he personified a true sycophant: a self-righteous, self-serving bastard and a sniveling coward. If Hell had a Miss Congeniality contest, he could have beaten out Vlad the Impaler—the historical Dracula, Lizzy Borden—Ms. Thirty Whacks, and the Wicked Witch of the West—sans flying monkeys.
The boys on the force loved to spread rumors. This one was started by TunaCan Charlie, a midnight-cowboy informant from vice (so named for the resemblance of his schlong to four stacked cans ofStarKist Tuna). Rumor had it, that the mayor’s wife had adjourned early to her bedroom during the height of a Halloween party at the mansion, only to find Adams decked out in one of her black chiffon dresses and matching pumps, dancing a tango with a broom. TunaCan played the role of the broom if you get the picture. The boys figuredAdams had the goods on the Mayor’s missus. She, it seems, always had a fondness for designer clothing and designer drugs.Adams became her dressmaker.
But this meant thatAdams enjoyed the cloak of power. And being aware of the history between Sam and Adams from a previous case, Ryan jumped in to take control of the conversation. “We were just about to get the report of the medical examiner.”
“Suck up,” Sam whispered from the side of his mouth, intended only for Ryan’s ears.
“I would be most honored if you could help shed any light on this, sir.” The words became bitter and foul; Charnel house residue on Ryan’s palette. “I’ve been instructed to give you our full and immediate cooperation.”
 Bet your ass, you have, thoughtAdams, as he placed his hands in the small of his back, tilted slightly forward on the balls of his highly polished oxfords, and instructed them to proceed.
 
* * *
 
 IV: The Previous Night:At the Orphanage.
  
MIDNIGHT. The clock on the mantel chimed out twelve beats. The witching hour when time and God’s universe were betwixt and between forms; time hung suspended. Leaden. Blind. Outside, a blanket of winter mist, laced with swirling curtains of sleet, rolled over the knolls. Sowed itself between furrows of skeletal corn stalks and across crystallized blades of grass, inching ever onward to the boy’s place of refuge—The Old Orchardville Adolescent Home.
As the winter wind moaned through the barren limbs of the apple trees, Archbishop Agrippa sat in solitude, reading his compline. A green-shaded lamp cast a halo on light across his prayer book and polished oaken desk.
The haunting refrain of the Rakozy March from The Damnationof Faust soared through the room from the turntable of an old Zenith stereo.
Ever the patriarch, from his purple skullcap to his glossy polished boots, to the aura of aloof, aristocratic, condescension, which shrouded his face. A face that radiated all the warmth of cold marble. But on this night, the humanity buried deep within began to chisel through to the surface. Sometimes a soul, no matter how hardened by hate and sin, seeks attrition.
Forgiveness for abominations committed against its fellow man, forgiveness for crimes against the innocent—the children.
Crimes and atrocities made that much worse because he was a man of the Cloth. 
 It was in this frame of mind that he had flown to this remote little corner of the world, the suburbs ofChicago . Here he would end it all. He would cast back the thirty pieces of silver, spit in their faces regardless of the consequences to himself.
He didn’t believe he was damned or beyond the forgiveness ofThe Almighty. To believe such was the Brotherhood’s great lie. The lie that held its members in tow. A cable-tow strung tightly about their necks. Why even contemplate remorse if salvation was lost? In their world-view, the great lie had been perpetrated against man by a false god. A god who bound mankind in slavery. Do’s and don’ts ad infinitum. Free will was strength . . . power. Salvation was at hand but only for the select few. The secret elite who seized the truth and acted without regard to society’s petty dictums of morality. The Brotherhood of P-17.
Yes, the great lie. Damn them! Damn them all! He cradled his weary head against clenched fists on the desktop. He wept.
Upon a solitary fencepost, a crow stood and shivered in the night wind.
 
* * *
 
 V: In the Alley:
  
THE CHIEF MEDICAL examiner was a short lump of a man; the Michelinman with a moon face. His red, bulbous nose dripped as he spoke. He kept sniffling. “We have a male Caucasian, approximately sixty-years-old. Making a rough judgment based on the lividity of the body, I would place the time of death at about, saymidnight to twoA.M. this morning. No ID on the body, but he appears to be a . . . a Roman Catholic priest judging by the cassock he’s wearing.” The ME placed a squeeze-bottle inhaler in his nostril and breathed deeply. “Ah, that’s better. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Cause of death undeterminable due to extensive injuries and mutilation. Second body that of Caucasian female, middle-aged, and time of death also aboutmidnight this date. Also, no ID but wearing the—.”
Fire rose toAdams ’s cheeks.
“Oh, enough of this nonsense. You mean to tell me you can’t determine the cause of death. Is this a homicide or not . . . you incompetent buffoon?”Adams asked, displaying the tact of a sensitivity training dropout whose idea of empathy was giving a homeless person a box of matches and a can of gasoline to stay warm.
The watery eyes of the medical examiner met his stare, but he said nothing.
Sam cocked his head to one side and gaveAdams “the look,” while rolling his eyes. “Well, let’s just have a look-see.” He stepped forward, jostlingAdams with a slight bump as he moved toward the Dumpster.
A bone-numbing gust of wind screeched through the alleyway. The wind suddenly ceased. Silence. Sam reached out and flipped both of the Dumpster’s lids wide open. They crashed to the sides with a loud, metallic rapport that reverberated off the hard, indifferent brickwork of the alley. From a makeshift platform of pallets they looked down into the Dumpster—the vault.
The twisted and wretched body of a priest lay in a bed of refuse. Tiny flecks of maroon light glinted defiantly back at them from the darkness, huddling in the dank cold, seeking body heat— rats’ eyes. A purple sash cut deep into the bruised flesh of the priest’s neck; the other end of the sash was bound tightly round his ankles, forcing his body to arch backward crab-like. The more he struggled, the tighter the sash became; the more he kicked, the more it constricted, the more he choked.
As Ryan stood peering down from the gallows-like platform into the metallic coffin, his legs quivered like a hanged man. The breath choked from his lungs. He felt faint and lightheaded. Not from the macabre sight, not from the bitter cold, but from the echoes of stirred images remembered. His eyes bore down upon the purple stole and then panned to the black of the dead priest’s cassock.
Purple and Black. Black and Purple.
The dew of perspiration beaded his forehead. Trying to turn away but compelled to look, he stared fixedly—absorbing every subtle nuance of the dark fabric. Its texture, stitching, every fold, and most of all its color—unrelieved blackness.
A sense memory. Something moves in the memory shadows, nimble and practiced.
Blackness upon blackness.
Tormentor upon the tormented.
He tumbles ever downward into the blackness of a childhood nightmare. The flash of amidnight cloak surrounding him, drowning him in fear. A putrid, rank stench of body odor and then, pressure—bear-hug, squeezing pressure—crushes down all around him. It suffocates him in its embrace.
Ryan shook his head to clear the cobwebs and leaned against the cold steel of the Dumpster. Sam’s iron grip on his arm shocked him back to the present. With a look of grave concern, Sam whispered, “Hey, you okay there, buddy?” Ryan nodded silently, giving a quick thumbs-up. No one noticed the exchange. They were too appalled by the sight before them.
 
 VI: Previous Night:12:20A.M.
  
MEANWHILE, in another part of the adolescent home, another act unfolded. Sister Adéle gripped the young twelve-year-old boy’s hand firmly in hers. The boy’s feet tried to pedal backward, but it was hopeless. She wrenched his arm, almost lifting him off the floor, as she marched down the corridor, toward the kitchen. The large double doors burst open with a crash; she entered, stooping to effortlessly lift Matt up onto the cold, stainless-steel table.
“That will be enough of your bellyaching, Matt. We shall have some milk and cookies. And then—” Sister Adéle said. With those two words fingers of panic clawed at Matt’s stomach. He knew the next four words . . . play our little game . . . only too well.
She reached down and stroked his bangs, gently moving them from his forehead. His hair was soft, like a sandy-blond cloud sitting on top of his head. Matt shuddered at her touch. Tears began to track down his freckled cheeks. She handed the milk and cookies to him, took a treat for herself, and nipped off a bite of gingersnap.
“Ummm. Delicious . . . Numnum ,” she said, winking and nodding as her other hand slowly crept along the inseam of Matt’s pajama leg, higher and higher. All the time Sister smiled and munched the gingersnap. She giggled and bit her lower lip saying:
“This little piggy went to town.” Her hand rose higher. “This little piggy stayed home.” Still, higher. Matt’s hand began to tremble and the glass of milk he held broke free, crashing to the kitchen tile. Sister Adéle’s expression turned in an instant to utter rage. Cheeks red, temples throbbing, she backhanded the boy so hard he fell sprawling, lips split and bleeding, onto the cold floor.
Outside, in the stark silence, the stencil of a shadow streamed across the inky pall.
 
* * *
 
 VII: Tuesday Morning:9:55A.M. In the Alley.
  
OBSCENELY BENEATH THE priest but slightly to the side, laid the body of a nun. Her cold, blood-soaked habit hiked high above the waist. Defiled. Two bodies postured by a demented sculptor of living form, a poisoned mind, suggesting debauchery and sin.
Bodies desecrated.
The medical examiner wiped his nose with his coat sleeve and spoke again. “The lab boys finished their work before I examined the bodies, Mr. Adams. Normally, I wouldn’t do this much in the field but . . . my boss said the Mayor’s office wants some answers immediately. I know it would appear to be simply strangulation, but closer examination showed . . . Well, Mr. Adams, a symbol of some sort has been carved into his chest. See where the cassock was pulled back? And that’s not the half of it. All his major organs are gone.”
Adamsstood in abject silence, the blood drained from his face, as if now only confusion and terror pulsed in his veins.
 
* * *
 
 VIII: The Previous Night:At the Orphanage.
  
ARCHBISHOP AGRIPPA steeled himself, sitting upright and ridged. He prepared himself for the work at hand. Reaching for the laptop computer on the desktop, he lifted the cover, logged onto the Internet and placed a miniature CD-R in the drive. He clicked into his encryptedVatican e-mail, downloaded the CD and paused. He began to read the message under his breath. The words came slowly. Words of contrition catching like chicken bones in his throat:
 
CONFITEOR
 
I will end this now. It may be too late for me, but not for the innocent. Sister Adéle and I have wallowed in degradation and have, I fear, created from this sinful union—a child. The missions and work of the SOCIETY FOR THE REPARATION OF SOULS, all the charitable work, the caring for the sick, the shelters for the children, all are a sham and a carefully constructed ruse, Your Holiness. A falsehood of horrific proportions. The Brotherhood of the Lunatus, Protocollo Diciassette (P-17), actually exists. I and many other prominent members of theHolyChurchare minions of the darkness. A complete list is attached. The underlying purpose of this organization is to discredit the church by—
 
An uneasy sensation of dread overshadowed the clean, purged feeling that filled him. Chills, like ice water, streamed lazily down his spine.
As he reached for the return button on the keyboard, the reading lamp flickered—and then was extinguished as if by some unseen hand, throwing the room into total darkness.
Outside, the night wind rattled the eaves and pressed its lips against the windowpanes.
A sensation of static electricity crawled across Agrippa’s scalp and up his forearms as a blurred presence moved in the darkness. It hovered in the thin air directly in front of him. He cried out into the void, “ Chi éLá ? (Who’s there?) IlDio , miperdoni . (God, forgive me.)”
There was no response—only disquieting silence.
He edged from his chair; instinctively grabbing the lavender prayer stole of penitence from the desktop. Perspiration oozing from his pores, back pressed to the wall, he stood motionless. Covered by the blackness that enveloped him. Squeezed him.
He felt his heart exploding in his rib cage. Sharp painsraked his chest. His senses greeted death one by one. First, the smell of it, the premonition of imminent tragedy—musty, damp and decayed. Second, the feel of it, as with a jerk the purple stole was wrenched from his hands, the feel of smooth silky satin against his neck, constricting tighter and tighter and then, choking, biting deep into his flesh. Now, excruciating pressure, followed quickly by vertigo, confusion and finally, blackness.His face was now taut and contorted, pulsing with the stately hue ofEpiscopalpurple . 
The pathologist would find an inverted numeral four carved into the archbishop’s chest by some “unknown” scalpel-like instrument.

 
 The HangedMan. The calling card of the Brotherhood reserved for the profane and the traitor . 
The grim reaper grabbed the laptop and floated phantom-like out the door.
 
* * *
 
All the children in the home were sleeping soundly, all but little Matt—soNOTenjoying milk and cookies in the kitchen. Matt sensed the arrival of the uninvited stranger,The Other. The Savior.The Other’sethereal image, floating outside the window, was visible to Matt, but Sister Adéle was otherwise occupied—busy hands. Soulless, luminous, cat’s-paw eyes hovered in the night.The Other raised his finger to the glass pane, made a subtle hand gesture, and traced an inverted number four on the frosted glass.
Matt’s and The Other’s eyes fused, along with their thoughts, across the expanse of space. Matt’s hand slid upward, opened a drawer, and removed a long serrated butcher knife. The carnage was over in moments. Sister Adéle lay in a fetal position, holding her abdomen, as if to shield something in a lake of her life’s own blood. This little piggy’s dead.
They would never, never . . . play thegame again.
The heavy sound of dead weight being dragged across a frosted gravel drive. The thick heels of black polished boots digging deep furrows into the frigid gravel. A trunk lid pops open and in the ambient light one lifeless bundle falls—THUD; followed by a second careless . . . THUD.
Marching one by one, they go without exchanging a word, a glance. Marching two by two they go . . . the boy and the beast. Marching to the mute, baleful tune of the demented Pied Piper. Into the car. Into the wicked night.
The night wind’s death grip slowly peels back the clouds to reveal the solitary cold-blue stars of the night sky. They look down in silence. Without judgment. Without compassion.
Cold-blue. Cold-clear.
 
* * *
 
 IX: Tuesday Morning:11:05A.M. In the Alley.
  
“AND THE FEMALE?” questioned Ryan, balling his fists.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me,” chuffed Ryan. Sam placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder as if to say, “I am here, pal. We’ll do this together.”
“She has fresh surgical sutures along her abdomen. See there . . .” He painted the incision with a red laser pointer as he spoke. “Some of them didn’t hold. It’s like a reverse C-section . . . best I can describe it.” Lowering his head, licking his wind cracked lips, and clearing his raspy throat, the medical examiner continued. “It appears that . . . an aborted fetus was placed inside.”
“What the Hell are you saying?” shouted Ryan. State’s Attorney Adams took two steps backward, bit his lower lip and stared intently at the tops of his shoes as if to divorce himself from the proceedings.
“I told you . . . ya wouldn’t believe it,” the ME said. “We will know more when the pathologists do a full work-up. But for now that’s what we have. And one more thing. The fetus isn’t human.
“I can’t be sure, but from my boyhood days on the farm. Well, I would guess it’s Suidae. An unborn PIG.” 
With that, the high gloss polish of State’s Attorney Adams’s dress oxfords was suddenly covered in a deluge of his own vomit.
Regaining his composure as an aide handed him a handkerchief,Adams began barking orders.
“I want a full media black out on this whole thing. Is that clear everyone? I want it tighter than a pigeon’s asshole. I’ll be sending in someone from the Attorney General’s Office to head this up. CPD is off this as of right now! All pathology and investigative reports come directly to me and only me.”
A calm and studied voice broke the torrent of orders spouting fromAdams .
“Excuse me gentlemen for intruding, but I feel I must.” All faces turned to see the tall, commanding figure of Cardinal O’Neil, his coat tails whipping in the arctic air, his eyes watery and flickering with anger.
“No, excuse us, Your Eminence. We didn’t see you,” stammered Ryan, embarrassed byAdams ’s crudeness.
The cardinal met Ryan’s eyes. “I called the Mayor’s office when I realized the identity of the deceased. The Medical examiner was kind enough to allow me a brief look at the bodies prior to your arrival. The priest, or male, as you so coldly referred to him, is none other than Archbishop Agrippa who is on sabbatical from theVatican and residing temporarily at the shelter inDes Plaines to avoid notice.
“The . . . female . . . is, Sister Adéle Chevalier, abbess of the Sisters of theChurchofCarmel— Oeuvre de laMisericorde —inParis,France . You can see that aside from the horrid nature of this whole affair, we have an international situation, as far as the Holy Church of Rome is concerned. I am sure that you gentlemen will put aside your territorial bickering or pissing contest, to state it in your vernacular, and get on with this investigation.”
Cardinal O’Neil stood over the foul Dumpster. Making the Sign of the Cross over the bodies, he said, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Santi. Amen.”
The State’s Attorney began to speak, but the cardinal whirled on his heels, and vanished into the cathedral.
They stood in stark silence, taking in the gruesome images of the crime scene. Without a word the partners turned and walked away.Adams followed suit.
From the lofty heights of the cathedral’s spires it sat in profound silence. A gargoyle. Its keen, almond-shaped eyes surveyed the street below. It watched and waited on high.

CHAPTER 3
 
 I: Roma, City of Infernal Love
  
ALITALIA FLIGHT #013 was on final approach. As it descended through the cloud cover, the female passenger in seat number 3C slept soundly, her head snuggled in a pillow, facing the first class cabin window. Dawn’s fingertips bathed her face in a serenity of expression, the subtle play of light and shadow, chiaroscuro, as in one of Raphael’s Madonnas. She dreamed of earlier times. Visions flooded her mind in waves: images of private school and university life inParis , of Carlo—her first lover, of her father (Tateh), his back stooped with age and huddled over a table strewn with old books and manuscripts. She pictured Muta, her mother’s warm Italian features—her beauty.
Her mother’s dulcet voice floated through her dreams, singing an old Yiddish lullaby, Shlof, Mayan Tokhter: 
“Sleep my good daughter
 Sleep in your cradle
 I will sit by your side and sing you a song
 I will rock you in your cradle and sing you to sleep.
  Lulinke, mayan kind . . . Hushaby baby . . .”
But now, violent flashbacks bombarded her peaceful dream world: muzzle blasts flashing in deep, dark, narrow alleyways, the din of explosions, screams in the night, the screams of children, of mothers and daughters, of fathers and sons—visions of war.
She was a lone warrior, a gladiator who served her emperor, her country, her God. A member of Mossad,Ha Mossad leModiyn ve leTafkidimMayuhadim (The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations).
She had bounced between Paris and Tel Aviv throughout her youth, attending private schools inParis and joining theGadna( youth brigades)inIsrael .
Her father was the world-renowned professor of Theology, Dr. Max Schulman, of theHebrewUniversity inJerusalem . He had been posted to the Sorbonne inParis , theVatican inRome , and now, held a visiting professorship at theUniversityofChicago ’sDivinitySchool .
But more importantly, he served as an advisor to the Israeli government, and aSayan (a volunteer Jewish helper outside the boundaries ofIsrael ).
Her mother,Muta Ennoia, was an Italian-born Jew. A budding Italian rose, an opera diva, who gave up her Roma and her career for Max Schulman and their daughter, Josephine. Gave up her religion to convert to Catholicism.
Josephine lived briefly inBrooklyn,New York and completed her Masters at NYU. Upon graduation she returned toIsrael , and was soon recruited by one of Tateh’s colleagues at theHebrewUniversity . She trained at Mossad’s academy, the Midrasha, located just north of Tel Aviv.
She began her career as a courier, then junior intelligence officer, and finally a Kasta (foreign case officer) with postings in various third world countries. Lastly she served inBelgium where she drowned in waffles and was busied by keeping tabs on NATO.
She had been burnt and soiled by the politics ofcompromise—the eighth deadly sin. She was a lightning bolt that needed to be constantly grounded. A manic-charge. Ground her quickly or she would eventually dissipate, instantly burning out in the atmosphere. But not before setting flame to the world around her. As a result of this flame out, her career had been grounded but only temporarily. Her rabbi in the agency (her guardian) had saved her. She was transferred to Metsada , a compartment within Mossad that dealt strictly in Covert Ops. Josey, as her friends called her, was made a combatant in the Kidon (the Bayonet), which only dealt in wet operations: murder and kidnappings. Here, her voltage could be amplified and tuned to its maximum effectiveness.
Josey began to awaken, slowly taking in the world around her, but still slightly groggy from the 2-mg. tablet of Xanax she had popped to overcome her chronic claustrophobia, her mild panic attacks.
A lithe but buxom flight attendant sashayed down the aisle. Stooping, she hung her derriere directly in the face of the Little Man, a passenger seated across the aisle from Josey. Still, not moving her fanny from his face, she just adjusted it in a teasing wiggle. Josey took in the Little Man’s ogling session through a purple haze. The flight attendant gently shook Josey’s forearm. She woke with a start, instinctively grabbed for the flight attendant’s arm, only checking herself at the last moment.
With a raise of the eyebrow the attendant explained, “ ScussiSignorina , we are about to land. Please bring your seat back upright.”
Josey was relieved but pleased she could control her reflex response when needed. A slight smile came to her as she pictured herself grabbing the haughty attendant’s wrist and making her knee-walk down the aisle, begging each passenger’s forgiveness as she went. These prima donnas were such rude taskmasters , Josey thought. Give them a designer uniform and a little set of wings and look out. 
She shook the fantasy off, returning to the moment, and gave a curt but polite, “Thank you.”
The Little Man across the aisle, face now flushed by the taunting young attendant’s body language and the momentary flash of tension in the cabin’s air—a catfight—was apparently overwhelmed. He popped a blood pressure pill and loosened his collar.
Josey looked at—no, studied the reflection of her face in the LCD screen of her darkened laptop computer. Her star-fire, topaz eyes still had their brightness. Her face retained its smooth texture; the glow of youth and a healthy tan, her auburn hair glistened like Muta’s.
Not so hard on the eyes, a looker, Tateh would say. She thought to herself— you bet your sweet toches, babe. 
   But when she looked deeper into the reflection, the truth glared back. She was exhausted, played out, osygeshpilt, and sick of the game. Sick of the lies, the endless stream of airports and bland, expressionless, new faces. Sick of the hotel rooms and hotel lobby bars. She had slept under many different flags and under many assumed names. Under many different men. Her haunts ranged from the seediest of backwater dives to the five-star luxury palaces of opulence. In the end they were all the same. They were not home. She had no home . And most of all, she was sick of the hollow desolation that gorged her heart; s he was sick of the whole damned thing.
The flight attendant returned and instructed her to put away her laptop. Josey puffed her cheeks and blew amuffled—“ bitch”  —from between pursed lips. The Little Man, the voyeur, looked on. Josey imagined that his manhood was throbbing almost as fast as his heart.
The bark of rubber against the tarmac. The thunderous whine of jet engines. The shudder and push of G-forces against her body. These collectively seemed to steel her thoughts. They reminded her of the adrenaline rush that her career had always provided. The fix.
This was a simple assignment. In and out fast. An early brunch with Monsignor Scarlotti,Zio(Uncle) Lotti, her mother’s brother, pick up the book and on toChicago for a long awaited reunion with Tateh. The plane coasted to a stop at the gate.
The Little Man from across the aisle, feeling suddenly very Italian and overcome with sexual fantasy, rubbed up against the flight attendant and pinched her ass as he deplaned. She wheeled round and slapped him hard on the cheek. The Carabinieri were called and he spent the night soothing his pride and protecting his manhood in the Leonardo Di Vinci Airport lock up. So much for La Dolce Vita .
Josey queued in the shortest line at passport control, plunked down her Mossad issued Canadian passport (made of authentic paper stock, complete with bonafide cover story and verifiable references), and hopped a cab to the Excelsior Hotel just up the street from the American Embassy. She took a long leisurely bath. She had two hours to kill. So, she did what any self-respecting women of international intrigue would do; she went shopping in Roma.
 
 II:Chicago
  
SAM SAT QUIETLY as they drove, brooding and thinking. The world could be a godless nightmare of images, montages of decapitated bodies, decomposing corpses, and the eyes, the vacant eyes of the innocent pleading with you. This would be more of the stuff that nightmares were made on. The nun’s corpse had one eye bulged to the side, staring blankly upward, begging for an explanation for this diabolical insanity. But there were no answers. Only questions and senseless, senseless pain. Forgive me Tata, but God’s lack of pity for the innocents was sometimes a disgrace. Maybe in the next world Tata, maybe in the next.
Yes, SamuelYosef Goldstein was a Jew, not a practicing Jew to the chagrin of his father, Rabbi Uri Yomach Goldstein, and certainly not a true believer in his faith, only his heritage.
Samuel’s family had moved fromBrooklyn,New YorktoSkokie,Illinoiswhen he was only three. He grew up in an ethnically blended neighborhood of Jews, Italians, and Irishman. They weren’t poor. “Only by God’s will, we should be comfortable,” as his mother Goldie would say. Mother Goldie was always fussing, cooking, cleaning, and fussing . She watched over her children like the mother hawk she was. Especially his older brother, the favored son, Jacob. Yes, Jacob the perfect, Jacob the handsome, Jacob the wise.
But his older brother, Jacob, and Mama had an understanding.
If you could die from kibitzing, Samuel would have gone to an early grave with two pupiks , bellybuttons, not one, from Mama’s constant drilling into his stomach with the great finger of wisdom. “Such a fine boy,” Mama would say. “Samuel, God forbid that you could be just a little like your brother.” Of course, it was Jacob who would follow in his father’s footsteps, becoming Jacob Yomach Goldstein—The Rabbi.
Tata used to blame the Irish boys. “ThoseO’Dougal boys with their baseball, whiskey, girls, and worst of all—Father Michael Patrick. It’s no wonder my Samuel is a policeman. Couldn’t be lawyer like his cousin Murray.” At this point Tata would practically froth at the mouth. “Oh, no . . . a policeman . Why my life should be such a disaster, God only knows.” He would turn an eye to heaven and wink.
When Sam and Ryan graduated from college, graduate school, and finally theChicagoPoliceAcademy together, Tata wasn’t there—-only Mama. Maybe that is what turned Sam away from his faith as an adult.
Sam and his brother Jacob hadn’t spoken, hadn’t written, hadn’t set eyes on each other for twelve years. Not since Tata’s death. A combination of adolescent rebellion and disdain for Tata’s old stuffy ways, tradition, tore at the seams of their relationship. But the truth was that Sam loved being a cop, just that plain, just that simple.
Sam’s lack of sophistication and poise, a crumpled slob as Ryan called him, was counterbalanced by his gift for the gab. People in general, especially women, didn’t see him as abrasive, or an unkempt mess. Because when he opened his mouth to speak, the words flowed forth like honey over the tablespoon; captivating, hypnotizing words that made damsels swoon and men nod in agreement like those little dogs on the back ledge of the family car.
“Such a charmer. A good catch,” Aunt Sadie would say with a wink. “If only I were twenty years younger.”
He could charm them all, all but Tata.
Yes, Samuel Goldstein was lacking in nothing; he loved his work, the city, his partner, the ladies (in his dreams)—nothing but the faith of his convictions. But then…
TheBell Tolled Twice.
First Tata’s sudden death and then Annie. Poor Annie’s passing, a dragged out, miserable surrender to cancer. Death hovered over him, ripping at his heart. And soon it would hunt him.
TheBell Endured.
Endured in silence like his Universe . . . Leaden.
Loss and Grief. Grief and Loss.
Together they consumed him, ate away at his guts, his soul, his faith. He had seen the murky-dark underbelly of man’s cruelty, his disregard for the sanctity of life, disregard for the innocents, and the shredded results of man, the animal’s—bestial drives—one to many times in his career.
And it sickened him.
 
* * *
 
 III: Roma
  
THE LITTLE MAN got the one obligatory phone call. It was to Bill Cotter, RSO (Regional Security Officer) at the American Embassy.
“Cotter—”
“The bird has landed,” said the doughy-faced Little Man with a slight lisp.
“Don’t say anymore, this is an open line you fool,” Cotter whispered.
“Oh, I will say more. Get me the hell out of here!”
Click.
A grinning, toothless, giant of man sat leering at the Little Man from across the cell. His rancid breath and body odor were in Olympic competition. As the guard pulled the phone back through the pass door of the cell, the lumbering giant rose and moved toward the Little Man. The effeminate Little Man stared intently at the approaching beast. Pearly beads of perspiration dotted his brow but he kept glaring at the beast. The towering beast’s tongue protruded between curled lips, salivating like a starving wolf eying a tethered goat. He moved ever closer.
Buzzing, louder and louder, droned in the brute’s ears, pulsing in sync with his pounding heartbeat. Fusing into a high-pitched wail.
As if caught short by an invisible wall, he froze, clutched his chest and toppled in a heap to the floor.
The Little Man, thoroughly devoid of emotion, strode directly up to the collapsed giant. Then drew back his tiny foot, kicked him sharply in the temple. He sat on the dead beast and sighed, “ Oh, tale melodrama! ”
The guard returned.
“ Scussi, Signoré Dottore. La Madre Benedetta! What happened here?”
“Poor diet I would guess,” the Little Man said. “Am I free to go?”
“ Si, Dottore. Si, mi perdoni . . . Il mio Dio, mi perdoni.” 
 
* * *
 
 IV:Chicago
  
SAM WINCED AND shook his head. “Tata used to say, ‘they buried nicer looking people than that.’ ThatAdams fries my balls.”
“He’s definitely one big flaming asshole. But screw him, if he wants the case, let ‘em have it.” Ryan chuffed.
“You know, I don’t know about you, Mulder but I’ve had enough of this X-Files crap for one day. Let’s regroup and do lunch.” They popped the gumball on the roof, hit the siren, and barked rubber tothe luncheon spot—The Bergoff. A Spartan German restaurant in theLoop , with male waiters in black waistcoats and long white aprons who spoke in heavy eastern European accents.
They drank their lunch. They tried to forget.
The partners drove down crumbling, salt-stained, winter streets, passing shivering pedestrians huddled at bus stops.
The snowfall was heavier now. A blizzard was coming.
They drove past a school. A tide of laughing, shouting children spilled through the front doors, onto the ivory-covered sidewalk, into the creamy snowfall. A white gown that covered the harsh grayness of the city in a pure fabric of sparkling sequins. A dazzling wonderland. Bundled in wool caps, brightly colored earmuffs, flowing scarves, mittens with elastic fasteners, snorkel coats, and high snow boots, they toddled like penguins, arms outstretched because of the many layers of insulation they wore. A parade of cuddly, stumpy-legged panda bears en route to the teddy bears’ picnic.
Now the wipers beat time to Ryan’s thoughts of the future, of Sheila—his fiancée—of children. Maybe a son to replace the one he’d lost. He noticed that Sam saw the kids, too. He noticed that Sam’s eyes slid away quickly.
Onward they drove in silence, next stop: ‘Soldiers Field,’ home of the Chicago Bears. They badged their way past the ancient security guard, Uncle Mel, and into the empty stadium. Then they did the one thing both tough cops had been afraid to do all day: talk.
They both knew that Ryan’s engagement to Sheila Riley was the beginning of the end for their friendship, as they knew it. For a long time they sat staring out into the empty playing field.
Ryan broke the awkward silence first.
“Hey, remember that Packers-Bears game? Those two sisters? What were they?”
“Tollbooth operators,” Sam said.
“No, they were strippers from the Cheetah. The tollbooth girls were the twins fromHomewood . We took them camping and kept getting the two of them mixed up.”
Sam shook his head in disbelief. “The strippers were fromHomewood. The twins were fromCicero. . . Latinas who kept shouting— Miré , Miguel, he’s going to kick a home run,” taunted Sam, in his best imitation of a bubbling Salma Hayek.
Michael Ryan grinned despite the bitter gusts of wind that blew off ofLake Michigan , slapping at his cheeks. His eyes began to tear. He squinted off into the ashen sky, pointed a gloved finger toward the score board and said, “The board says I’m 0 and 2. Connie and I were married too young. Lasting relationships don’t bloom from within the steamed windows of your dad’s station wagon, I guess.”
“Oh Yeah, those old submarine races in the forest preserve on Saturday nights,” chuckled Sam.
“If only she hadn’t run off toFlorida with that hippie, long-haired, son-of-a-bitch. My Danny was only four years old, Sam. That prick takes my wife and son and then—”
“It wasn’t your fault, bubeleh. Connie ran off with that doper in the middle of the night. As Tata would say— Sieahutgevainacourva in de momma’sbouch (she was a whore in her mother’s stomach). Hell, you didn’t even know where she was! Didn’t even know she and Danny were killed in the car wreck. Didn’t know shit until word filtered back to Connie’s mom and eventually to Father Pat who told your mom.”
“I suppose . . . you’re right.”
“You’re damn right I’m right! How you think, I feel? Annie was everything to me. We were going to have a girl for her and a boy for me. When you’re young, so young, and madly in love, you feel immortal. You never even consider death, consider that young brides sometimes have or could have leukemia. But she did. I could look a lifetime of lifetimes and never . . . never come close to what Annie and I had.” Sam blinked and wiped his runny nose with a tattered coat sleeve.
“It was that special? That perfect, Sam?”
“Fuck yes, you goy bastard. It was that special. You and Sheila have it, too. The magic. I can see it in your faces when you’re together. Feel it in the air. I would give anything for that again. Anything.” Tilting his head back, pausing, Sam turned and pulled two Bergoff specials——hot rubens on rye with a kosher pickle——from his pocket. “A little nosh makes the unbearable bearable, no bubbe?”
They ate their sandwiches in sober silence while the groaning wind echoed their pain and anguish.
As the man once said, “True friendship comes when silence between two people is comfortable.”

CHAPTER 4
 
 I:Vatican City : Unspeakable Words
  
IT WAS EARLY morning as Monsignor Scarlotti’s footsteps echoed off the cold marble floor of theApostolic Place . He hurried down long vacuous corridors. Most of the other priests, cardinals, and secretaries were attending a sunrise mass in the Sistine Chapel with His Holiness, the Pope. The gossamer vibrations of a celestial chorus reverberated through the hallowed halls of the palace. The colorful frescos and marble sculptures stood mute.
Monsignor Scarlotti was First Assistant Secretary to the Curatore General of the BiblioticaApostolicaVaticana , the Vatican Library. He had crossed theBorgia Courtyard, walking directly up a hill from the Gate of Santa Anna, through the ViadellaFondamenta , and entered a building off limits to the general public. He was now headed downward, down an endless series of winding stairwells, deeper and deeper into the very bowels of the library— ArchivioSegretoVaticano . . . The Secret Archives of theVatican. 
The musty, damp air infused his nostrils and conjured images of things ancient and arcane: yellowed, vellum manuscripts. The odor of former and forbidden things. Illicit and denied things.
Over five million bound volumes and eighty thousand manuscripts were sequestered within these walls. Since 1447 learned men, scholars, noblemen, clergymen and magicians—students of the alchemical arts—studied and translated these ancient tomes and treatises from the Greek, the French, the Latin, and even the ancient papyri of Sumer, Babylon, and Egypt.
Monsignor Scarlotti pulled a key from the pocket of his black cassock, inserted it into a tarnished bronze lock and twisted the key. The heavy brass door creaked and moaned, as it slowly swung open.
He entered the room, as a man with trepidation would enter the newly discovered tomb of a Pharaoh. The premonition of some horrific curse that lay in wait leached into the marrow of his bones. His hand reached out gingerly. And he twisted the light switch.
A large, ominous, brass plaque stretched across the topmost arch of the ceiling before him. Like a caveat of doom its bold letters read:
 
INDEX REGISTRUM LIBRORUM PROHIBITORUM
 
He was in the Library Registry of the Prohibited. He felt a slow trickle of perspiration crawl down his spine. His mouth was chalky, powder dry. He willed his legs to move. They reluctantly obeyed, shuffling one foot before the other as he inched forward like a condemned man to the guillotine.
A scarlet curtain hung like dragon’s tears just ahead in the ambient sulphurous light. Scarlotti reached out and yanked the curtain back. There before him stood a glass case and emblazoned on a wafer-thin, oval, greenish-copper plate he saw it.
The Seal of GiovanniCaligari —SigilloII.
Around the edge was a Latin inscription: ArcanumArcanorum-ArtesPerditae-Augua etIngiInterdictus-Acheruntis Pabulum (Secret of Secrets-Lost Arts-Forbidden Fire and Water-Food of the Acheron)
In the center were two entwined serpents, crowned by theseals of the Pope: the scepter, the miter and the crossed Keys of Peter—the Keys of Blood.
This was one of the “private cases” of the previous Curatore General of the library. To enter and break the seal was almost a mortal sin and would surely end his career. But he realized that a secret battle was being waged and one either took a stand or was, as Christ said, vomited from our savior’s mouth for one’s indifference. He’d also known and trusted Professor Schulman for years. Friendship had its own solemn oaths.
He broke the seal. A gust of ethereal, frigid air slapped his cheeks and sent distant, icy, fingers running up and down his spine. He lifted the glass lid and there within the case lay a register and a single book covered in vermilion-rose velvet.
The cover was inscribed in French:
 
Le Cahier de la Rose Noire
Abbé Ordinaire
 
Scarlotti knew something of its history. The Black Rose Notebook by the Abbé Joseph Ordinaire was discovered by the French novelist, J.K.Huysmans , author of Là-Bas  (Down There-1891). The book ofmotsindescriptibles , unspeakable words, had been written by a defrocked priest, the inheritor of the diabolicalChurchofCarmel . Ordinaire was a Black Magician—a practitioner of the Path of the Left Hand, a Satanist, and alleged pedophile. He endorsed bestiality. Remaining true to his twisted nature, he married a young nun, Sister Adéle Chevalier, of the Convent of LaSalette . Legend had it that he sacrificed the child of this unholy union during the celebration of the ultimate of blasphemes—The Black Mass.
This was the age of the continued rebirth of occultism in Europe, an age of The Holy Office (The Inquisition), the Rosicrucian Orders, and the infamous necromancers:Péladan ,ÉliphasLévi , and the Paris Salon Set: Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats and Debussy.Paris was a forum and melting pot for an exchange in the so-called heretic belief systems of alchemy and occultism in general. A psychic war between the Rosicrucians and Ordinaire ensued. Ordinaire was accused and marked for revealing cabalistic secrets to the profane, those outside the Brotherhood. Actual magical and real-life duels were fought.
But Monsignor Scarlotti had always suspected that something more lay hidden beneath the surface. Abbé Ordinaire was defrocked and imprisoned by the Inquisition but for only a brief time. The Holy Office found him not guilty and released him, restoring his office. Scarlotti saw the despicable trail of conspiracy within the church itself. A church that had protected Ordinaire and issued an edict that he not be harassed despite his alleged acts of wild sexual license, and belief that the sex act should be used as the highest and purest sacrament. The very name of the notebook itself was a clue: Rose was an anagram for Eros—Greek carnal love as opposed to—Agapé, the Christian unselfish act of love.
Legend also stated that anyone readingLe Cahier de laRose Noire, who was not in a deep state of holy grace, would be driven mad by the twisted letters, glyphs and formulas that darkened its pages. Scarlotti’s worst suspicions were now to be confirmed. But what profound secret had Ordinaire possessed that insured his protection by the Holy See?
Monsignor Scarlotti pursed his lips, made the Sign of the Cross, and intoned, “Cosediabobiche(evil things). La Madre Benedetta loprotegge (Blessed Mother protect me).” He opened the register and his heart nearly seized.
His suspicions were confirmed. There staring back defiantly was, entry after entry going back years in time, the signatures of the most prominent scholars of Theology, high-ranking cardinals and officers of the Holy See, various historical figures and politicians. His hands shook so violently he could scarcely turn the page.

* * *
 
 II:Chicago
  
CHICAGO CAN STILL be as cold as a witch’s tit in February. In spite of the cold, the detectives knew this was an occasion to celebrate. InChicago that meant one thing, “The Gold Coast,” where the bars and the bistros dotted both sides of State and Division Streets.
This was the night scene that inspired DianeKeaton’s brutal demise in Looking for MisterGoodbar . Despite the fact that most of these clubs where actually, in the vernacular of the day, “Meat Markets” or “Singles Bars,” the only thing Sam and Michael were looking for was a bottomless pitcher ofBecks’s Dark Beer.
They checked back into the station. Cleared some paper work, and did their Three-S’s (shit, showered, and shaved). They hitRush Streetat the stroke ofmidnight—the witching hour. The duo made a beeline forMothers. They squeezed past a gaggle of teeny boppers trying to flirt their way into the club with fake ID’s, down the steep stairway into the basement which was Mothers proper, and into the open arms of Ms. Succotash, their waitress in waiting.
As they mounted the stools of the high table, Ryan performed his customary ritual: a triple pat—weapon, badge, wallet, followed by a tug to insure his semi-auto was still concealed under his Chicago Bears sweatshirt. He let Sam order and cursed himself for not switching to his smaller backup piece and ankle holster. If there was one thing, one cardinal sin the CPD frowned on, it was not wearing the firearm off duty. Wear it or get suspended, wear it to your own damned funeral, but never, never leave your piece sticking out like your dick in plain sight. Never. Some stupid ass civilian could get their undies in bundle at the mere sight of a handgun, and call the uniforms who just might mistake you for a bad guy and cap you right in the middle of a cold one. They would have to carve “Dumb Shit” on your tombstone.
Ryan could picture Sam delivering the eulogy, “Here lies GEORGY PORGY VON SHMUCK; he showed his nickel and got plugged in the pickle and made all the poor girls cry.”
Ryan decided he would break the news to Sam tonight. The big boys, the Feds, had called him yesterday at six-thirty on Sunday morning. Don’t these guys ever sleep? He was half awake when a cold, no-nonsense voice on the other end of the lineasked, “Are you willing to bear arms, travel and reside overseas, endure long hours and hardship, serve GOD and country?”
He thought it was a joke, a prank. The Feds didn’t share Ryan’s sense of humor. In fact, he had come to the conclusion the State Department Bureau of Diplomatic Security (DSS) surgically removed your funny bone at the training academy during the same procedure where they shoved a huge two-by-four up your ass.
With his dream job realized, Ryan had popped thebig question to Sheila. Let’s not let this one get away. 
Ryan, Michael Ryan, international man of intrigue, would drag his pain-in-the-ass, rumpled partner, Sam, along for the ride.
Sam would only come kicking and screaming in a leap of faith like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Jew.Special Agents Ryan andGoldstein? Why not?
Ms. Succotash was quite striking, at about five foot four; good things come in small packages. Her deep hazel eyes were accented with small gold flecks that mirrored the sparkle of her personality.Chicago was full of mom-and-pop Greek restaurants staffed by waitresses with classic Hellenistic features, but their Succotash was different. Her beauty was a combination of features and personality, that taken separately was nothing singularly striking, but when combined, formed a mosaic of peasant sensuality and feminine guile.
She enjoyed the coquette banter with regulars like Sam and Ryan, as they enjoyed the non-commitment of the relationship. She was always ready with a new joke, some flirtatious barb, usually tossed over her shoulder, as she flicked her long, silken, auburn mane and flashed that contagious smile. Tonight was no different. As she slid the frosted mugs onto the table, she didn’t disappoint. Leaning in so close that her perfumed scent bathed Sam in anticipation, she whispered, “Say, what’s the difference between parsley and pussy?”
Her eyes drank in their souls as she paused for effect, nibbling lightly on Ryan’s finger and purring like atigress. “Well, nobody eats— parsley.”
Sam couldn’t resist the straight line. “But—Ryan eats parsley.”
“Does he now? Too bad,” she said with a pout.
Through tears of laughter, Sam responded, “Hey honey, why do they call you Succotash?”
Without missing a beat, she said, “BecauseSucc-o-tash is like stew, a little bit of this and a little bit of that blended together to come out like this.” She held out her arms, rolled her hips, and thrust her pelvis forward causing her small, firm but ample bust line to jut out like Madonna’s cones of wonder.
They ordered ribs, their usual fare, fromLeon ’s in advance.
The boys in blue delivered them.Leon’s was a tiny shack onChicago’s infamous “West Side.” Not the safest neighborhood unless you were a crack dealer or wore a badge. You stood outside, shivering in the cold while your partner stood guard at your back, watching the ribs brazened over a mesquite fire through the dirty, scratched, Plexiglas window. They pushed the ribs out through a sliding drawer beneath the bullet-proof glass. This combination, a whiff of danger and the delectable aroma of the grill, transformed mere ribs into forbidden fruit to be savored by only the fool hardy or theP-O-W-L-E-A-C-E.
Motherswas not your typical bar. On any given night, due toChicago ’s constant hordes of conventioneers, you could see Japanese, German, or Scandinavian businessmen trying to hit on the stunning, leggy, blondes hired for their perfect, blank faces. Barbie Dolls who tried to negotiate the floor in spike heels and leotards. They’d balance a rack of multicolored test tubes filled with unknown liquors in one outstretched hand, the other hand poised suggestively on their hip.
Sliding up to a customer, they would batter their eyes, bump them with their hip and ask, “ Would you like Sex on the Beach?” To which the dumbfounded conventioneer would babble and drool a snappy retort such as, “Ah-h, yeah, sure.” The waitress would quickly plant the drink in his hand, extend her palm, smile demurely and say, “That will be five dollars, kind sir.”
The customer’s friends would laugh and say, “She got you good, (Hans, or Sven, or Chin). Pay the girl.” Then, on to the next unsuspecting horde she would sway, leaving her victims craning their necks to get a last glimpse of the vanishing vision of her—Oh so beautiful—and expensive , ass.
Sam and Ryan took in the exchange, shook their heads, and headed for the backroom—the wet T-shirt contest. Who saysChicago isn’t just chocked full of culture? They badged their way in to avoid the cover charge. They only did this out of sheer necessity, such as Sox games, Bulls games, the CTA bus, and the EL train.
It wasn’t graft. The civilians wanted cops around these locations. You never know when a mad Arab terrorist would infiltrate a strip joint and make off with the baby oil the girls used to rubdown with. It was a matter of civic duty. 
 Seated at the bar, Sam turned to Ryan.“Wanna talk about what happened back in the alley?”Ryan shot Sam a look. 
“ Nope. Just made me think of something that happened a long time ago, I guess.” 
 “Well, if you have to talk about it, go ahead.” 
Ryan rolled his beer glass between his palms, looked down, and then back at Sam.“You’re notgoin ’ to get me with that BS. Not tonight, partner. We’re here to celebrate, remember?”
Sam shrugged.
It wasthreeA.M.so the dedicated protectors of the innocentchugged the remains of their last beer, belched, and trudged up the stairs into the crackling winter air. The bracing wind lashed at their cheeks like millions of tiny ice picks. Turning up their collars, bending forward, they staggered onward to the last refuge of the drunk, the weary, andthe hungry—The Copper Top Cafe.

CHAPTER 5
 
 I: Roma
  
THE TELEPHONE ON Colonel Pico’s desk chimed. Pico was the head of the Vigilanza, theVatican ’s police force and intelligence branch.
“Prontó?”
“Take immediate precautions with the package!”
The phone went dead but Pico recognized the voice of the American, RSO-Cotter, and understood the message. Reaching for the Beretta 9 mm. on his desktop, he tucked it into his waistband and ran for the door. Pico’s code-name in the Brotherhood was Janus, fitting since serving two masters required the powers of a two-faced god. But right now, at this moment, he wished he’d been christened Bast, the Egyptian cat goddess. Then maybe he would be blessed with nine lives. And as he ran it occurred to him, that before this day was done, he might use all nine.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
MONSIGNOR SCARLOTTI ALSO knew he was living on borrowed time and every minute, every second, counted. But he needed spiritual strength so he knelt in prayer. He envisioned the immaculate heart of Jesus, concentrating on its radiant light, bathing in its sanctified glory. Then from behind him came the clamor of racing footfalls, pounding on the iron-work of the stairwell.
He instinctively leapt to his feet, killed the lights, and took refuge in the cloak of shadows that filled the corners of the room. A figure pounced into the room, panting and short of breath. It raced to the “Private Case” and withdrew the infernal book and registry. Turning now, a spray of light fell across the face of the figure—Colonel Pico’s face. Pico held a flashlight under his armpit and began to bundle the books in butcher-paper wrapping. He then produced a candle, lit it and poured red sealing wax over the twined knot of the package. Next, he took a gold seal and pressed it sharply into the wax—the seal of theHolyChurch, The Keys of Blood. 
Monsignor Scarlotti knew what had to be done. He silently reached high into the towering bookcase at his side. Standing on tiptoe, fighting to hold his shallow breath, fumbling, his hand finally found purchase. It grasped a heavy bronze bookend perched on the shelf. He struck panther-quick and brought the blunt object down in an arc, crashing into the skull of Colonel Pico.
“Jesus, forgive me,” Scarlotti sighed.
He bent over the limp body of Colonel Pico, tore the blood-red books from the Colonel’s gnarled death grip and ran.
 Let God claim his own and be my judge. 
 
* * *
 
 III
  
THE BELLS OF theChurchofTrinitá dei Monti chimed twelve.
The hallowed vibrations rang down across the canopy of flowered gardens at its feet, down the precipitous Spanish Steps, weaving through ascending columns of pious nuns in flowing, sterile-white habits, weaving through dreamy-eyed lovers climbing slowly, arm in arm, rapt in each others very existence, and finally across the Piazza of Spain to Josey Schulman.
Josey was seated at a courtyard table in the Cafe’ Dellini’, savoring an espresso ristretto from a tiny white cup, and the pure ambiance of the moment. At sixty degrees the weather was unusually warm for February. She dressed for her role, encased in a glove-soft, red leather pantsuit and matching jacket that looked as if it had been spray painted on. It hugged the soft curves of her svelte body. She was ever the spitting image of Mrs. Emma Peel, The Avenger , her childhood idol, for one era, and a Terminatrix for the X generation; stunning, poised, but as tough as nails. A real ball-buster.
A dark-kind-of-handsome Italian man dressed in a custom-tailored suit (done with the flare and subtle eloquence that only Italians could achieve) sat at an adjacent table.
He raised his wine glass in a toasting gesture toward her and smiled long—too long. His smile had a strong undercurrent of lechery. He took a sip of wine, maintaining eye contact, as if to drink in her sensuality; breathed in her scent with his flared nostrils, undressing her with his eyes. A white-heat washed over her as she pretended not to notice him. Animal heat. But he caught her reaction. Josey gave the subconscious signal, the body language of the mating ritual: the careless flick of her hair with one hand, and a barely noticeable shudder of sexual excitement between her shoulder blades which crept slowly up to the nape of her neck. The gentleman smiled knowingly to himself.
She stared at the menu, then ordered proscuittocrudo and bresaola , with a bottle of their finest Recoaro . After all, this was a celebration. She hadn’t seen her Uncle Lotti for years.
The Italian studied his menu, wishing such a woman, such a vision, could be found between its covers. He thought to himself: No, only pasta, and she was a rare AMBROSIA, food forthe gods. Such a pity that he should have to kill her without the chance to savor the taste of her on his palate. But kill her he would. 
The romantic sounds of a strolling violinist as he playedMona Lisadanced in the noon air, floating between layers of happy sounds: sounds of laughing children, their feet skipping across cobblestones; more sounds, the brooom of passingVespa motor scooters, the tinkle of a bicycle’s bell as it streamed past, all these sounds seemed to glaze his ear like sugar and bring a perverse joy to his heart. Roma still possessed its splendor, a quiet dignity unspoiled by a popular culture of fast food, neon andHollywood that had turned American cities into festering necropolises. Roma was still a picture postcard world.
The Italian gentleman sipped his wine and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. Americans and Israelis  , his mind spat out the words in disgust.
Josey saw the towering visage of Monsignor Scarlotti as he approached. His form bobbed and wavered, levitating phantom-like over the back of an old man stooped to drink from the cool refreshing water of the Piazza’s fountain. Tall and gaunt, shoulders back, dressed in his black cassock with scarlet piping and buttons, he strode with purpose and station.
She rose to embrace him like a schoolgirl, teary eyed and giggling.
 “Ciao, prinapessina mia. Comestai ?” 
 “Sono bene, ed il mio zio preferito?” 
 “ Cosi,Cosi .” The priest sighed. “And your father the professore ? ” 
“He’s fine. Stubborn as ever, I suspect. It will be so good to see him again. It’s been five years now.”
“Too long. Much too long, but you have your work and he has his. Are you still with the diplomatic corps?”
“You know I am, Zio .”
“Yes, I suppose I do . . . and I imagine that’s what brought you here. But indulge an old man a little longer, my sweet principessa. You know, I can’t help staring at you. Especially here, now, as we are together in Roma. You have your mother’s eyes and her beautiful, infectious laughter.”
“Always the troubadour. I haven’t heard myself laugh much lately.”
“We should always take the time to laugh. I am sure God laughs daily. We are such amusing creations. No?”
Smiling now, her dimples showing and face flushed-pink, Josey signaled for the waiter to bring the food. Josey remembered Monsignor Scarlotti as a handsome man, with debonair silver-gray hair brushed back from his forehead, and skin elastic and smooth, almost without wrinkles. But the man before her looked more like Max VonSydow , FatherMerrin , from the Exorcist . He looked like a withered replica, a portrait left in the sun too long to crack and weather in the elements. The portrait of Dorian Grey . His hands were gray and liver-spotted, his flesh pale and translucent as curdled milk, his cheeks magnified all that his eyes betrayed.
Yes, the eyes told the brutal truth, as truth frequently is. Death glared back at her. The cold, callous fiend that she had seen before in the marbled eyes of her enemies just before her bullet struck home. The same merciless beast that stared back from within the eyes of comrades, of children, who had died in her arms. The thousands of pleading eyes that haunted her nightmares and threatened to burst into the cold light of day and some day—drive her mad. These were the eyes that now peered back at her. She shuddered. Her blood ran cold. Cold as UncleLotti’s fallow eyes.
Scarlotti gently folded his hands on the white tablecloth. They trembled. He took a long hard sip of the wine and pushed his plate away. Fumbling for a pack of Players, struggling to pull the cigarette out of the box and to his lips, his hands were so unsteady now that he couldn’t strike the match. Josey lit his cigarette. He took a deep drag, French-inhaled and continued.
“Josey, why does your father want this book?”
“Did you bring it, Zio ?”
He shook his head in anger. His lips glistening with saliva, he said, “Why does he want this damnable thing?” His fist crashed on the tabletop. “Does he realize the danger to you? The perdition and torment it breathes into the world? The menace brought to all who even possess it—merely touch it? The suffering it has already brought into mine? The vile, insipid filth that fills its pages? Does he?”
“He doesn’t even want it, Zio. They do.” 
Scarlotti glared harshly with exactness into her eyes as though he had just been told the earth really is flat and pigs really can fly. “Don’t speak in riddles. Don’t ridicule what you don’t understand. And don’t—” He paused as her last words gripped his mind in their weighty talons and shred his anger. He stared upward, eyes glistening. He understood.
Nodding his head, swallowing hard, he bit his lower lip and said, “ They want it. ITand YOU are the BAIT.”
“Yes, damn it! Yes. Now you understand, don’t you, Zio?
“All too well, my child. All too well.”
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
FROM ACROSS THE Piazza, seated in a black Fiat sedan, Josey’s backup team watched intently. In the rear seat, the sniper peered through the eyepiece of the Unertl telescopic sight fitted atop the Anchutz .22 match competition rifle complete with sound suppressor. Loaded with small caliber explosive rounds, it was silent but lethal. He tucked the butt of the rifle snugly against his cheek and pressed it hard into his shoulder. His finger curled around the trigger. He adjusted the focus of the scope and the image of the handsome Italian gentleman, watching Josey’s every move raptly, appeared within its crosshairs and stadia marks.
He focused on the man’s hand, following it as it reached downward to raise his inner pant leg. The man’s hand slowly pulled a stiletto from his boot. The sniper blinked as beads of perspiration slowly rolled down the nape of his neck and forehead.
“Uri! Target One has a knife. Tell her,” shouted the sniper to the driver.
The strolling musician played faster and faster, raking his bow across the cat gut.
“Is he moving?” whispered the driver.
“No. Just watching.”
“Then check the other target. Damn it!”
The sniper panned to another target seated at a table to Josey’s rear; the driver spoke into his lapel microphone.
“Josey, Target One to your right. Knife.”
 
* * *
 
 V
  
AS THE WORDS streamed into her molded, wireless earpiece, she stole a quick glance at the Italian gentleman to herimmediate right, calculated the distance, and continued her conversation. No flinch. No reaction at all. Never let them see you sweat. 
“But Zio, what’s wrong? What has happened? You can’t lie to me. You never could,” Josey said.
“No, I never could fool you, principessa. Don’t worry about me now. I am but God’s servant. He will chart the course.”
With that, Scarlotti reached into his attaché case and slid a butcher-wrapped package with the Vatican Seal across the table to her. He glanced around warily and removed a scroll, passing it to her beneath the table.
The shrill, dissonant squeal of the violin punctured the air.
 VI
  
THE IMAGE OF Target Number Two formed in the scope. The man withdrew a Beretta semi-auto from under his jacket and slid his gun hand under the table. Then with his free hand he withdrew a sound suppressor, and deftly applied the silencer to the end of its barrel.
“Josey, Target Two, behind you. Gun. Stand down we have him,” said the driver into his mike. And turning slightly to the sniper, the driver whispered intensely. “Neutralize Target Two, then One. Fire at will, Uri.”
Always take the bigger threat—the gun—first.
 
* * *
 
 VII
  
AS JOSEY LISTENED to the words in her earpiece, she took it all in without as much as the flick of an eyelash. She glanced into her lap and unrolled the scroll just enough to read the title:
 
 PROTOCOLLO DICIASSETTE 
 
 “ Protocol 17 ,” she whispered under her breath. “But I thought this was just some damn legend; some paranoid American talk radio conspiracy theory of a plan for world domination. Has this got something to do with LeCahier de la Rose Noire ?”
She reached for the package on the table. Monsignor Scarlotti grabbed her wrist hard. “You must be in a state of grace, Josey! I will hear your confession now. Don’t argue with an old man. Just look into my eyes and trust me.”
Stammering, she shook her head violently.
“I can’t. No! I can’t.”
Gripping her wrist with all his strength, fighting her, he rasped, “You must or you will die. Or even worse—be driven mad.
Do it for Mama then.” Smiling gently, he repeated, “Do it for Mama.”
Though not a Roman Catholic convert like her deceased mother, not even a practicing Jew, Josey held the utmost respect for her mother’s faith and beliefs. And so, she did confess, and in that moment, for the first time since childhood, she opened her mind and her heart. Josephine Schulman, the woman, cried out to the heavens and released the anguish, the guilt, and the black resin that had lacquered her soul. Uncle Scarlotti, the priest, the confessor, absolved her and blessed her.
The jagged edges of her sixth sense ripped her attention into a crisp focus. She was a consummate professional who never, under any circumstances, totally diverted her attention from the world around her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the handsome stranger rise to his feet and cover the few short steps to her side in an instant. But an instant was too slow. Her reflexes were keener, her mind and body remained on theWest Bank , the war zone, yet bathed in blood and adrenaline. His movements, as if he waded through mud, were in slow motion in her mind’s eye.
Death occurs in present time. No matter when it strikes, yesterday—this moment or even tomorrow. Death occurs in real time.
Josey pivots with a blur of seamless motion, raises the bottom of her Dunhill cigarette lighter upward and mashes the top flange with her thumb. A burst of light from the high-intensity strobe flash embedded in the underside of the lighter’s case, catches the charging attacker’s eyes. Blinded and disoriented, he instinctively raises his hands to his eyes and leaves a minute window of opportunity.
Then she’s on him. Closing the distance in a nanosecond, Josey grabs the attacker’s wrist, twists violently and drives the razor-edged blade of the stiletto downward sharply. The blade’s tip cuts across his inner thigh and into the femoral artery. The attacker’s eyes swim in terror as life’s warm blood gushes from his wound.
 
* * *
 
 VIII
  
THE SNIPER’S FINGER curls tightly around the trigger. Target Number Two begins to rise; his gun hand almost clearing the tabletop. The finger squeezes, a faint puffing sound emits from the muzzle. The round finds its mark, entering the eye socket and exploding in tiny fragments within the brain. The head slumps forward.
No one notices.
Josey turns to the Piazza. A black Fiat sedan screeches to a halt in front of the cafe. The sniper leaps from the rear of the sedan, grabbing Target Number One and places his head beneath the man’s armpit to support him.
Blood runs in torrents down the inside of the attacker’s leg, filling his shoe, and squishing with each faltering step. The sniper mutters to the patrons something about the man having a heart attack and drags him into the back seat of the Fiat. Josey spins and grabs the scroll and the notebook from the table.
She bends to kiss Uncle Lotti gently on the forehead. Visibly shaken, he nods and kisses her hand.
“Go now, prinapessina mia . Get out ofItalyquickly. And do not open the package. Go!”
Her heart still hammering, she runs flat out for the Fiat, gasping for breath. The car tears away from the curb with a shriek of smoldering rubber, as its tires spin against the cobblestone street. It speeds off almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Now silence, frozen and crystal clear.
The waiter approaches Monsignor Scarlotti, pausing as if by intuition because he knew the priest would not respond. Monsignor Scarlotti’s hand clutches the crucifix that hangs from his neck in fragile, soft, colorless fingers. His lips are curled in a faint angelic smile. His eyes cast upward toward the sky. Tranquil repose. He is gone. His heart so desirous of peace, so anxious to join its creator, that having fulfilled its servitude on earth, seized and flung his anxious soul to God’s sweet embrace. The waiter ever so gently closes the dead priest’s eyes.
 
* * *
 
The wise shall exercise dominion over the stars. God had claimed his own.
A living wall of gray and white explodes into air. Pigeons. First just a rustling, a flutter of wings. Then, a shock wave of pulsating thunder. Frenzied flapping wings, climbing higher and higher, fervent flapping wings, moving in mass against the azure sky. The handwritten communiqué of angels etched in the heavens. A map to Elysium. Upward, a lone white dove soars high above the flock. Ascending to the thrones ofOlympus . To the outstretched hand of God.

CHAPTER 6
 
“Disobedience . . . Man’s first original virtue.”
Oscar Wilde
 
 I
  
ACROSSSTATE STREET and upMichigan Avenue a sable-black Mercedes 600C careened around the corner ofOntario Street , screeching to a halt at the front entrance of the statelyChicago landmark, the Drake Hotel. The head doorman opened the car door as the driver reached for his thin-line, stainless-steel, Zero briefcase on the passenger seat at his side. As the driver exited the auto with exasperation dripping from his brow, he barked a curt, “Hello,Stanley . Has he been waiting long?”
“Oh no, Mr. Adams. I think he was busy,” saidStanley , winking and pointing toward the upper floors of the hotel. “If you know what I mean? A lady friend.”
“Good. Where is he?”
“I was instructed to tell you that the Doctor is waiting for you at his table in the bar.”
Without acknowledgment, Aleister Adams tossed the car keys in the doorman’s general direction and scurried for the door.
Two other doormen with plastic smiles pulled the entrance open at his approach.
Adamswas teething with anger for being called out at three in the morning like some little errand boy. Me, the State’s Attorney forCookCounty. The old bastard! At his constant beckon and call, like some obedient lap dog summoned by his master. Well, whose fault is it Aleister? Who do I blame? 
He could blame his wife, Abby, for her never-ending charitable donations and trying to live like the millionaire’s daughter on his salary; he could blame Father for passing on genes filled with insatiable, blind ambition, or Mother for her constant warm but somehow prodding, icy assurance that he would amount to something great one day. No, it was none of these. The root cause was an unquenchable thirst, a gnawing hunger for power, control and influence that drove him. Power is a narcotic; it’s seductive, enticing, and addictive, whose tolerance level increases with usage. It required stronger and stronger lightning bolts of juice, the fix, to overwhelm his sponge-like senses.
As he bounded the thickly carpeted crimson stairs, turning to the right and into the bar, he heard a tapestry of sound: the low mummer of voices, glasses tinkling, and music from the piano bar. At the piano sat Pops, an ageless black man of timeless talent, pounding out . . . That old black magic has me in its spell . . . in a raspy haunting voice . . . The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine . . . .
The Drake was a last vestige of civilization. Its decor was appropriate with hunter green wallpaper, rich dark old-money walnut paneling, and cozy, white, linen-covered tables, upon which sat little black shaded lamps that imbued the room with a warm amber glow.
Posh, subdued, secluded—perfect for romantic or more nefarious rendezvous. It was late, tiptoe into the house late; only a few patrons were finishing their last round of drinks. A sixty plus, painted lady sat in quiet loneliness at her table, nodding in a tipsy stupor to a melancholy torch song that wafted through purple-gray plumes of cigarette smoke, congealed in the fog, and hovered like mourners around the grave.
Aleister’s eyes darted about the room searching for familiar faces hidden in the flickering shadows. No one. No eager young, inquisitive young, legal eagles pretending not to notice, but secretly recording the date and time of his entrance on the photo plates of their legalistic, cunning, little pea brains.
Seated in the corner table facing the door sat Dr. Dagon Drexler. His eyes bore down with the manic intensity of a diamond cutter as he sliced slowly into a waxy red apple with his ornate, silver Cartier penknife. His nibble, tapered fingers took a second apple, rolled it back and forth in the dancing lamplight. With obsessive care he wiped and polished every inch of the tempting fruit with a white silk handkerchief.
 
* * *
 
 II: Roma
  
BILL COTTER STOOD silently, watching from his vantage point within the American Express Office, located across the street from the Cafe Dellini. The tableaux of chaos that unfolded before his eyes left him visibly shaken. His breath thickened in his chest, his hands shook. Drawing hard on his cigarette, he cursed under his breath and pitched the butt onto the floor, mashing it violently in a twisting motion with his foot. Cotter took a deep breath to steady himself and bolted out the door.
Cotter strode briskly down the sidewalk, looking nervously like a ferret in each direction. Then ducked around the corner and up the hill to his parked car. He jerked open the door handle and climbed inside. There on the passenger side sat Dr. Felix Ordinaire, the Little Man from the plane.
The sticky-sweet scent of lavender overpowered Cotter’s nostrils. Ordinaire was the personification of Truman Capote’s evil twin. His doughy face, slightly rouged cheeks and effeminate air somehow magnified the cruelty of his persona.
He sat, hands steepled to his lips, a cherub-like but farcical smile on his thin lips.
“Hi, Billy. Surprised to see me?” Ordinaire asked.
“How the Hell?”
“Oh now, Billy, shame, shame everyone knows your name!”
“NO . . . I just meant that I didn’t expect you to be here.”
Slapping his thighs with both hands, Ordinaire said, “Of course, that’s exactly what you meant.” Nodding toward the cafe at the bottom of the steep incline before them, he lisped, “Such an ugly word . . . FAILURE . . . don’t you think?”
Cotter caught the implication as a fish swallows the vicious hook; it ripped at his intestine. Beads of sweat trickled down the sides of his torso, down his back, matted his shirt to his spine.
A fatherly reassuring look of concern washed over the Doctor’s face. He patted Cotter’s thigh.
“Let’s forget this peccadillo for a moment, shall we?”
“Whatever you say,” Cotter said.
“That’s better.Let’s play a game.”
Cotter froze in a fugue state. His eyelids flickered.
“ToKnow,” Cotter responded woodenly.
“To Dare,” the doctor said.
“To Will.”
“To Keep Silent . . .” the doctor chimed.
Totally immersed in an altered state of consciousness now, Level Alpha, Cotter was the puppet and Ordinaire thepuppet master. In fact it was his code name “ Il Burattinaio ” within the Brotherhood.
“Failure is a terrible thing, Billy. It brings shame and ruin. It makes one disappointed. Life no longer has meaning. Your life has no purpose, Billy. No meaning. Do you understand?”
“I understand. My life has no purpose.” Cotter’s cheek quivered, just a slight tick, as a tiny droplet of dew, a droplet of shame rolled down his cheek. He plunged deeper still, into the Omega Level.
“You’re an abject failure, Billy Cotter. An unnecessary loose end. Such a bad boy. Listen and obey,” Ordinaire said.
“I will listen and obey.”
 
* * *
 
The passenger door closed softly and Ordinaire’s tiny feet walked across the cobblestone roadway and down the steepsidewalk toward the Piazza di Spagna . He marched triumphantly, swaggering down the walk to the very bottom where he purchased a carnation from a beautiful young girl. He pinned the crimson flower to his coat and whistled, “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.” As he sauntered away, he stole a last peek up the hill toward Cotter’s car. He smiled.
Cotter’s hand turned the ignition; the engine sparked. He slowly moved the gearshift into drive.
In the distance the “EE-AW . . . EE-AW” of the Carabinieri’s Klaxon rose and fell. Cotter’s two-and-a-half ton sedan began to roll down the steep incline of the street.
The shrill pitch of the Klaxon grew closer now.
Louder. Clearer.
Cotter’s sedan began to build speed. Faster and faster.
The Klaxon’s wail was much louder now, much closer.
EE-AWW . . . EE-AWWWW.
The sedan now hurtling downward. Faster still.
The sound of screeching tires breaking too late, the sound of tortured metal and broken bodies clawed the air. As Cotter’s car bolted into the path of the onrushing police car, his vehicle was catapulted into midair by the force of the collision.
SWUSHHHHH . . .
As if in slow motion, Cotter’s sedan flew through still space, turning and twisting, spiraling like a touchdown pass, until it crash-landed, nose first, into the fountain. A single blaring car horn sounded taps for those who fail the Brotherhood.
 
 III:Chicago
  
DR. DREXLER’S QUIVERING, talon-like hands poured the steaming coffee into the bone china cup before him and closed his hooded eyes in deep thought.
His father, Rosenkruez Drexler, was a highly respected industrialist from the old country,Germany ; staunchly catholic, staunchly pro-Nazi, and yet, the very epitome of propriety and philanthropic generosity. He had moved toChicago shortly after the war where he made a fortune in the budding electronics industry. In turn, he provided Dagon with an outstanding education in the new frontier, Physics. Father Drexler and his uncle, Wilfred who resided inNew York , founded the great First National Bank itself, now known asCountryCorp . Father had taught him to appreciate the finer and not-so-finer things of life: deviant tastes that inclined toward cruelty and the ruin of his fellow man, woman and child.
Servants in Father’s employ, both male and female, but particularly young females, had disappeared in the thick of night never to return. Those that made it to the safety of home fires were bought off with hush money to insure their silence and avoid any problems with the law. Rosenkruez introduced his son, Dagon, to the dark echoes of the soul at puberty. Debauchery was a parlor game at the Drexler estate.
Dagon had caught his mother and a few male guests in the act of one of their more rank episodes. He had gone to the study to retrieve a schoolbook when he heard his mother’s faint cries. Stopping short of the door, he had crouched on a bended knee. And watched the searing tableaux unfold. Three men were servicing her at the same time. She writhed in wanton lust with each stroke and each slash of the riding crop. When the first three had finished, another group took their place. She was bathed in sweat and bodily fluids. Dagon had run to his father in protest urging him to act swiftly. He did. He forced the young boy to not only watch, but to participate in acts of forbidden love, the love that has no name, and incest. Dagon’s roots, like a poisoned oak, became gnarled and deformed beyond redemption by a mother’s love. A mother’s touch.
Dagon’s mother died when he was only eighteen. Her game of eroto-asphyxiation had gone awry. The stool slipped. Dagon stood fascinated as she gasped and kicked frantically in midair, hanging by the neck, eyes swimming in terror.
Dagon made a half-hearted attempt to reach for the stool and place it beneath her feet. But the sight of his mother’s writhing body and contorted features gave him pause, then joy. He rejoiced in her pain, her agony, her torment. His only disappointment had been that it was over as quickly as it had begun. He slept with his father for solace and warmth. Unnatural warmth.
But Dagon’s father met a rabid end. The coroner wrote: “Death by Natural Causes” on his father’s death certificate, because Dagon had paid both, he and the family doctor off. An autopsy would have revealed residual heavy metals in his father’s tissue. Not-so- natural causes . And so Dagon inherited the family fortune at the age of twenty-eight. He had no need for a mother and father. He had the Brotherhood.
Dagon Drexler learned well from his father. “Stay politically connected,” he would admonish. His father had heaped vast sums of money on both political parities since their earliest inception. The family was a co-founder of the Chicago Symphony and the Drexler Museum of Art. Dagon inherited his father’s seat on the Chicago Board of Trade and wrapped the family fortune in the opaque arms of large holding companies. Rumors of unsavory foreign banking, money laundering for the drug cartels, trafficking in arms and heroin, all abounded, but anyone foolish enough to investigate was obliterated from the face of the earth. Some by a painful and protracted death by “natural causes,” some by not-so-natural causes.
But there was an even darker, seamier side.
Dagon, like his father was a 33-degree Shriner, which many local, professional and business associates, including threeU.S. Presidents and numerous Congressmen knew. They played at the same clubs, attended the same social galas and functions; they were all bottom feeders in the same pond. What they didn’t know about was Dagon’s ranking membership in the British Order of the Garter, currently headed by the Prince of Whales. The Order extends back to King Edward III and his legendary dance with the Countess of Salisbury who wore the Blue Garter (the mark of the Queen of Witches).
Legend has it that while dancing at the royal palace, the Countess accidentally dropped the Blue Garter from the thigh of her long, exposed leg in the whirlwind of merriment. The crowd gasped in horror and awe, but King Edward quickly placed the garter on his thigh and shouted, “Evil to who thinks evil of it!” This provided the protection and sanction of the monarchy for ages to come. Similar to the Medici family’s veiled sponsorship of the occult arts inFranceandFlorence.
This ghastly and predacious lineage was passed to his father from his grandfather, Viscount Anton Drexler, the true founder of the Drexler fortune who had traveled throughoutEurope moving in mysterious circles.
Anton’s sponsorship of the Royal British Museum’s Egyptian Antiquities section and membership in some of the most aristocratic of the French, German, English, Italian and Bavarian Secret Lodges granted his spawn, Rosenkruez, the position of Inner Head of the iniquitous, OTO,Ordo Templi Orientis(Order of the Eastern Templer) and its German branch, the Germanenorden .
 The English branch of the Order had its Outer Head, a showpiece like Aleister Crowley, but the Inner Head controlled an invisible cabal of power, wealth and purpose. Wheels within wheels. They practiced the Left Hand Path of untold perversions: sadomasochism, sex magick [sic] and the ultimate blasphematoire—The Black Mass. 
 
* * *
 
 IV: Roma
  
JOSEY’S BLACK FIAT screamed across the tarmac and up to the Grumman Gulf Stream IV that sat fueled, engines whining, ready for immediate departure. The plane was registered to an Israeli owned electronics firm that did regular business inRome . No one found it suspicious that it filed for an expedited departure. As she entered the cabin, theRome station’s Kasta sat at a workstation poring over a file. He was a short, barrel-chested man with coarse wiry hair and pale blue eyes. His features resembled a rock quarry: all jagged and sharp edges, pitted not smooth. As unrefined as his true nature.
“Ms. Shulman, kindly be so good as not to return toRomefor oh, say the remainder of the millennium!” said theKasta, looking up and peering through the half-lens of his reading glasses.
“You momzer ( bastard). Kushmeer intochis (Kiss my ass). It was to be a simple exchange. Why didn’t you know a hit was waiting for me? Or maybe you’re still looking through the book, trying to figure out how you could have been such a total fuck up inCairo?” Josey’s face flamed with the heat of anger.
“Okay, I guess I deserved that,” the Kasta said, his eyes slid away for a moment, then ticked back, quick and furtive. “Did the bastard talk on the way here?” The Kasta’s eyes seemed to glow with the same cold-white light that pours from behind a furnace grate.
“He was busy bleeding to death. He just muttered something about being better off to die quickly than to face the death of a thousand cuts. He’s barely alive. I assume he was a freelance hired gun . . .
“You can do your own dirty work. I leave him in your . . . capable hands.” She mocked him with her eyes, mocked him with the inflection in her voice.
Josey and the Kasta had a history, an ugly history of betrayal. He had left a good friend of hers with his ass hanging out high and dry inCairosome years back. She had to inform the mother that her twenty-seven-year-old son died and that the body was not recovered, which was the truth: you couldn’t count the poor kid’s severed finger, mailed to the U.S. Embassy, as a body could you? The Kasta was an anal retentive fool and an idiot who did everything by the book because otherwise . . . he was clueless.
Josey hated the very smell of him, the stench of him. She had no delusions about her work, but had always held the belief that people in her line of work should be more of the poet or mad artisan, not a chauvinistic, incompetent chazar, a pig. She took her marching orders from the head of Metsada , Abraham, and no one else. She decided that the three crescent-shaped burn scars she found on her assailants forearm was a detail she would keep to herself. She was a bayonet, a KIDON , not a bureaucrat, and certainly no one’s flunky.
“Very well. Here are some files that the institute sent by express pouch for you. Strange business. They’re sealed. Care to fill me in, Ms. Shulman?”
“No. It’s strictly on a need to know basis. Andyou don’t need to know. Oh, just Fuck Off!”
“I bring out the best in you, obviously?” The Kasta’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You Metsada people are all the same. I’m warning you, Ms. Schulman. Don’t push me too—”
She stepped over his words. “Take this book and document; send it express to my father inChicago by diplomatic pouch. And do not . . . open it! Understood?”
The Kasta decided to try a different tactic: destroy her with feigned sympathy.
He softened his voice and referred to her in the familiar. “Josey, you better have a seat. Please? I just received a damage report . . . Monsignor Scarlotti suffered a heart attack at the scene. He’s gone, Josey. I’m terribly sorry; I know he was your uncle.”
Josey slumped into the seat and bit her lower lip to stop the tears, but they continued to well up.I’m not going to letthis bastard see me cry. Making one last effort to blink them back and failing, Josey gave in as the tears finally erupted.
Switching gears again, the Kasta said, “Ms. Schulman, The American RSO/Bill Cotter’s body and embassy car were also found at the cafe. Care to offer any conjecture?”
Josey regained composure almost as swiftly as the Kasta had switched gears.
“I told you once, Gai tren zich (GO FUCK YOURSELF)! I’m sure you know more than I do; we have been at odds with our cousins over liaison intelligence with theVatican since the 1960’s. I developed and nurtured Monsignor Scarlotti from a distance and you have always resented it. I intend to ask the institute what the hell is going on here. You’re still an incompetent moron!”
Glancing over the top of his half-glasses, the Kasta nodded his capitulation. “If there is nothing else, I suggest you depart immediately.”
“No there isn’t. Just have the package expressed, don’t open it. And have theAL agent (deep cover case officer) contact me at the other end inChicago with fresh ID and tools.”
“Shalom, Ms. Schulman.”
“Shalom.”
It wasn’t until they departed Italian air space that Josey had the strength to go about the business of trying to put the pieces together. An Israeli student with clearance, doubling as a flight attendant, brought her a double scotch. As she fumbled for a cigarette, he began to admonish her about smoking on the aircraft. But one look into her marble-cold eyes was enough. He decided to keep his mouth shut, live long enough to graduate school and someday lose his virginity. He took his seat at the rear.
 
* * *
 
 V:Chicago
  
DR. DAGON DREXLER was of indeterminable age, uncounted wealth, and a Physicist who held a chair at theUniversityofChicago . His real work was done at Fermi Lab inBatavia,IL .
He had joined the OTO’s Agape Lodge while employed at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory inPasadena,California (he forged a letter of recommendation from his father). A boy genius, he was assigned work under Dr. Jake Whiteside Clergy, a grandfather of the space race, and the Outer Head of the OTO in theUnited States . Here he had met his bride, Honora Celine Boullan. It was a prearranged marriage, orchestrated by the Brotherhood, but both found it more interesting to pretend otherwise.
Ah, young lust, he thought to himself as he reflected.
Drexler’s face was the poster child of hatred; a consuming malignancy that over the years had carved his face into an ashen death mask. His thin, bloodless lips, paper-slit mouth and pale, waxy complexion were framed in raven-like blue-sable hair. All-in-all giving another-world-like effect. His tightly braided and socially acceptable ponytail, combined with his aristocratic demeanor, contributed to an old world charm.
But an unpenitent evil lay cloaked beneath his disquietingly glass-smooth voice. The words flowed like honey over the palate of the mind; as if the bee’s honey was laced with ground glass, with each swallow, his words shaved and peeled the brain’s tissue until only a carcass of idiocy and madness remained.
His colleagues frequently spoke, although never to his face, of his expressionless eyes, blank as a cataract-filmed eye. Eyes that follow you, track your every move as if the Mona Lisa itself hung before you. Eyes that devour you as they burn with a cold-fire. And as those eyes stared through you—you would see it, deep inside, coiling like a thread of smoke, something moved.
Aleister joined Drexler at his reserved table secreted behind heavy, clouded-glass, double doors. This afforded privacy and acted as a sound barrier to the rabble of sounds coming from the bar. Drexler seemed to sense Aleister Adams presence standing impatiently before him. He dismissed Jasper, the waiter, with a caustic grunt and motioned for Aleister to take a seat.
“Well, Mr. State’s Attorney, burning themidnight oil are we? You’re late!” he rasped.
“Late? My ass, I’m late. You were upstairs in the penthouse with one of your little playthings, anyway. How old was this one? Will she need a trip to the emergency room like the last one? You arrogant bastard you. It’sthree thirty in the damn morning. I’ve got a trial today.”
“Sit sown and stop behaving like a child, Aleister.”
Aleister composed himself, blew a breath from puffed up cheeks, and accepted the invitation to be seated.
“Have some coffee and a smoke, my boy.” Drexler slid the china cup toward him. Aleister took a sip of coffee and lit a thin black cigarette proffered by Drexler. It was custom- blended Turkish tobacco, so harsh that it burned his lungs, as if he had inhaled the fumes from a cauldron of sulfuric acid.
“Aleister, do try to relax now. Tell me, how is Abigail?”
Drexler always referred to his daughter, Aleister’s wife, as Abigail rather than Abby, as if she was a museum piece, something in his art collection, a once interesting piece that now gathered dust in the attic. Aleister thought to himself:
How I detest this son-of-a-bitch.
Without waiting for a reply, he whispered, “You haven’t forgotten that tomorrow, or rather today, is my little birthday celebration at the mansion, now have you, Aleister? It couldn’t come at a more opportune time. We are in need of a little ceremonial working to counteract the run of failure and betrayal that has been our lot as of late.”
“I hope you don’t expect a cake!”
“You will cease this insolence at once,” Drexler snapped as he gripped Aleister’s inner thigh with an almost inhuman strength.
A sardonic grin rose over his translucent, anemic lips. He gave a perverse chuckle; a guttural laugh that exuded a suffocating cloud of filth, torment, and depravity.
Invisible currents of anger, undulating through a sea of fear, flooded over Aleister. He rubbed his bruised thigh as he cursed under his breath, “Damn you, Dagon. Damn you to Hell!”
“Now that I have your undivided attention, young man. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“By all means . . . by all means,” Aleister said. Realizing that he was beaten, Aleister lowered his eyes in submission and homage to the master, like Igor to Baron Von Frankenstein—groveling—praying to be spared the lash.
“Good. Now, I assume you have taken the necessary steps to muddy the waters in regards to the recent demise of Archbishop Agrippa and Sister Adéle?”
“Yes, of course. But for God’s sake—Dagon was this necessary? Such high profile . . . theatrics?”
“Necessary, you ask? We incorporated the methods of the Assassins and their founder, Hassan bin Sabbah, centuries ago and they have served us well. To deal in any more subtle fashion with a traitor shows weakness Aleister . . . weakness. We have a mission, a grand design and it takes money, vast sums of monies, to accomplish this goal.
“Agrippa was going to go public with our infiltration of the Vatican Bank and the Banco Ambrosiano, in some delusional and equally juvenile attempt to purge his soul. My God, man. We are talking of over eight billion dollarsU.S. in assets. Such high profile theatrics, as you call it, sends a clear message to others who would contemplate betrayal or failure.”
“I have the situation in hand. I am just trying to understand.”
“Then shut up and listen. Where was I? Oh yes, Agrippa’s successor, Cardinal Sindona, is already in place as head of the Vatican Bank and the transition will be smooth. The counterfeit bonds are on deposit inRome and will be washed throughMandelstat bank inZurich . There are no loose ends.”
“What about the IMF investigation to be discussed at the World Monetary Conference?” Aleister asked.
“Leave that to me. We already have a way to . . . silence those wagging tongues! Remember the forward of our Protocol-17: ‘We are the chosen; we are the only true men. Our minds give off the true power of the spirit; the intelligence of the rest of the world is merely instinctive and animal. They can see, but they cannot foresee; their inventions are merely corporeal. Does it not follow that nature herself has predestined us to dominate the whole world?’”
“Yes, Dagon. And I want my place in that new world.”
“Be patient, my son. And obey without question. There is one little problem, however, an unanticipated variable.”
“The infant?” Aleister asked.
Drexler glanced down at his hands, drummed the tabletop, pausing for effect.
“No. The infant is safe and sound. ButThe Other seems to have developed some sentimental bond with the boy that was not in his conditioning or programming. He was not to remove the boy. The child must be returned immediately. I will discuss this in detail with Dr. Ordinaire upon his return fromRome tomorrow.
“Unfortunately his objective there was not accomplished. A messy business, but he assures me the book is absolutely necessary to complete the next phase of the testing. You just concern yourself with the investigation for now. If we need more . . . well, we know where to find you don’t we Aleister? O-hh, do wish your mother and father a happy anniversary for me won’t you? They’re still living inBarrington —aren’t they?”
Aleister seethed with anger, but knew best when to play his hand. Or thought he knew.
“Now listen to me very carefully, Aleister,” Drexler said as he slowly slid the silver tray across the table and lifted the scarlet apple gingerly with aged but supple fingers. In one swift smooth cut the sphere was halved. As Drexler slowly twisted the knife, the blade’s reflected light glimmered and swathed Aleister’s eyes. His eyes flickered slightly.
“ViaCrucis (via the cross),” Drexler said almost whispering.
“ViaLucis (via Lucifer); yet the two ways are one,” Aleister responded—already in a trance state.
Vibrating with sheer energy, Drexler continued, “You will exercise your free will Aleister, your true will. Look deeply into the center of the halved apple. Yes, look . . . the Mark of Lucifer—the pentagram found at the center of the forbidden fruit of the Garden of Eden where the Bringer of Light, The Bringer of Knowledge and Truth freed man from the chains of the false god, the demiurge of the Old Testament.
“You will follow his call, do his bidding and deny the usurper, the false god—Jehovah, Adonis. Do you swear by your blood, your very life, to maintain the pact?”
“I swear by Lucifer, Our Father Almighty of Evil and Truth, who art below, the Destroyer of all things, Perturbator of Heaven and Earth, Hallowed be thy name . . .” Aleister said in a solemn, but wooden tone.
“Now, take this money and room key. Take the elevator to the penthouse of this hotel,suite217, collect your wife, Abigail, and pay the two Whores. I’ve had my fill of them for tonight and so, probably has she. You shall have no recollection of this action nor these words. Do understand?”
“I understand.”
Neither Aleister nor Abigail would have any conscious recollection of the vial acts that took place earlier in her father’s suite. Drexler and the Brotherhood exerted absolute control over them through hypnotic triggers and conditioning.
Wooden marionettes, Punch and Judy, animated by the devil’s own hand, upon a stage of blackness. Nothing more.
 If one listens closely to the night wind, listens in the bitter-black silence of night, in the midst of theforest—closes one’s eyes and listens, holds one’s breath and listens . . . even now, right here in the center of the concreteforest called the city—one could almost make out the lyric and the tune. A tune song by a silken yet throaty and sinister voice, “I’ve got no strings to tie me down . . .” 
 
* * *
 
 VI
  
JOSEY TOOK A long swig of the scotch, let it burn; let it seep its way into her soul. She hoped that it would somehow cut the pain that festered there. It didn’t. She lit another cigarette and tore open the security seals on the files. What she read stretched credulity to new heights.
 
* * *
 
FLASH REPORT/TEED
TO: SCHULMAN
FROM: ABRAHAM/ TEL AVIV COM CENTER
TOC/009/089 EYES ONLY:
THROUGH OFFICIAL CHANNELS
COSMIC
   
 LOHAMAH PSICHLOGIT (PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE)
BACKGROUNDU.S. INTEL PROJECTS:
 
PROJECT ARTICHOKE1955CIA/ASSASSIN/MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE
REMOTE MIND CONTROL. HYPNOGENIC/ELECTRICAL/IMPLANT/
STIMULATION. PROJECTMKULTRACIA/NON LETHAL WARFARE WEAPONS SYSTEMS
SUBLIMINAL MESSAGING/HIGH FREQUENCY INDUCEMENT OFMEMORY LOSS-UNCONSCIOUSNESS . AUTOMATA THEORY. MANKIND RESEARCH UNLIMITED (MRU)/CYBERNETIC RESEARCH/ BEAMING OF DATA TO INDIVIDUAL NERVE CELLS/HYPNOTICS LSD/REMOTE VIEWING.
INFILTRATION AND ASSIMILATION OF OCCULT ORGANIZATIONS TO ACT AS CONTROL GROUPS AND FUNCTIONING MODELS.
 
ARPA/ADVANCED RESEARCH PROJECTS AGENCYWALTER REED ARMYINSTITUTE OF RESEARCH/EM ELECTROMAGNETIC BRAIN TRANSPONDER STIMOCEIVERS DIODES/BIOLOGICALFORCEFIELDS .
 
PROJECT PANDORA/EDOMELECTRONIC DISSOLUTION OF MEMORY.PSYCHIC DRIVING/HYPNO INDUCED CONDITIONING/ELF EXTREME LOW
FREQUENCY EFFECTS ON EMOTIONS AND BEHAVIOR/EM BURSTS 25 TO 130 CYCLES/SEC. CORNELL UNIVERSITY STUDY ON AUDITORY SYSTEMS RESPONSES/SYNCHRONIZATION OF PULSED MICRO WAVES TO MYOCARDIAL RHYTHMS RESULTING IN HEART FAILURE.
 
PROJECT MAJESTIC12/BIOCOMMUNICATION/PSYCHOTRONICS/
DIRECT COMMUNICATION BETWEEN BRAIN AND COMPUTER MICRO CHIP IMPLANTATION/HYPNOSIS/DOWN LOAD OF BRAIN WAVES DECIPHERING RECORDING TWO-WAY MENTAL COMMUNICATION ENHANCEMENT
 
HEMP PROJECT/CURRENT CIA/NSA BLACK OPS PROJECT/MIND CONTROL ELF MICROWAVE BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION/USE OF OCCULT ORGS AS CONTROL GROUPS/POSSIBLE MIDEAST CONNECTION IN THAT TECHNIQUES ARE UTILIZED TO HEIGHTEN RADICAL ISLAMIC FUNDAMENTALISM/DORMANTAND ACTIVE TERRORIST CELLS IN US/NO FURTHER DATA
 
* * *
 
The nervous young flight attendant brought dinner. It sat uneaten, but Josey ordered another round of scotch and two packs of cigarettes. A rather handsome young copilot ventured back to her seat. He tried to introduce himself and make small talk as he ogled her body openly.
He was greeted with a terse, “Aren’t you supposed to be flying this thing, or would you rather we fall out of the clouds? I’m busy! Why don’t you take your cock back to the cockpit where it belongs and leave me alone.” She flicked open a butterfly knife with lightning speed and stabbed a cheese blintz on the table for effect.
In a self-protective reflex action, the copilot covered his privates with his cap. It was similar to an infantryman who covers his little head with his helmet instead of his big head. He stayed in the cockpit for the remainder of the flight with his hat still covering the family jewels.
 
* * *
  
  VII: The Diner
  
THE COPPER TOP cafe was a greasy spoon gorged with the usualthreeA.M. bar rush: an assortment of hookers; street people; ecstasy-eyed ravers; and loud, obnoxious, college kids too wasted to read a menu that was a blur to the eyes and greasy to the touch. Into this jumble of night creatures they entered, stomping the muddy snow and sludge from their shoes, shuddering from the freeze-dried night wind that crystallized the two officers’ bone marrow.
Rubbing his hands to restore circulation, Sam nodded to Mums, the grisly, sagging-old waitress, dressed in a faded pink uniform that was frayed at the hem. She was wrapped in a yellowed, food-stained apron that was the victim of countless nights of runny eggs, spilled coffee, week-old chili, and pieà la mode. Mums scratched the menopausal moustache that inhabited her upper lip with the back of her forearm, and bellowed across the diner’s babble of sounds.
“Hey, Jack and Jill. Plant your little butts in number five.”
Ryan performed their usual routine of pointing to himself and Sam, as if to say—“who us?”—to which Mums let out a raucous belly-laugh and shouted back, “I sure as hellain’tsavin ’ it for his honor the Mayor, now am I?”
As they slid into booth number five, a table of “working girls” hoisted their coffee mugs in a toast, singing in unison, “Good evening . . . OFFICERS.” A sultry, emerald-eyed redhead licked her glossy pouting lips and gently blew Ryan a kiss.
Sam responded with the “Queen Act.” Ryan hated this routine, this bit. Sam glanced at Ryan, winked, and waved off the flirting hooker with an exaggerated limp wrist. He cooed in a shrill—Geraldine like—giggle, “Stop it, girlfriend.” Rising, he placed his hands on his hips, rotating them like big mama, and scowled. “You know, this man’s bootie is all mine.”
They all laughed as though that horrid night three years ago was only a nightmare. They laughed as though the scars, now healed, and buried under three layers of makeup didn’t exist. They laughed as though the redhead’s hips weren’t held together by pins, as though her voice didn’t crackle and wheeze when she spoke, when she laughed. Her windpipe had to be reconstructed. Sam and Ryan found the redhead, Tiffany, lying in a pool of blood, her hair pulled out in clumps, her delicate face and tiny body savagely pummeled by her pimp, Mr. “P’s,” Louisville Slugger.
Tiffany failed to “Give it up, Bitch. Hold out on me you sorry assed HO,” which is what her loving man, Mr. P, shouted as he vented his sociopathic rage on her helpless body.
Mr. P graduated to pimpdom from an earlier career as aRush Street bouncer. He was a short fireplug, with a massive black body that looked like bulldozer parts welded onto a steel barrel.
He had worked across the street at the Ratskeller, a hip retro disco, where he stood guard at the top of a steep staircase, bedecked in an armor-like chest plate of gold chains. His huge sausage-sized fingers were covered in fake diamond rings that were later replaced by the genuine article, when he landed a reoccurring part in a series of black exploitation motion pictures and moved toHollywood .
Sam could never get Tiffany to testify against Mr. P. So when the call came in from LAPD informing him that the partial remains of one Mr. Lawrence “P” Jack’sen, the movie actor, were found in a seedyVentura motel room, Sam knew justice had finally been served—served Mr. P’s decapitated fat head.
Tonight the flashbacks of Tiffany’s beating were drowned in a gulp of black coffee and spoon full of Mum’s homemade right-out-of-the-can chili, buried in onions, cheese, and saltines. A culinary delight.
As the ketchup dripped . . . plop . . . plop from Sam’s burger onto the platter’s surface before him, it emulsified into an image of bloodstains, into an omen. Crawfish skittered up and down his spine. A blast of frigid night wind howled through the diner’s front door. An alien presence engulfed the restaurant in the second it took the bell above the door to shudder a premonitory . . . tinkle.
Sam’s soul felt the change. Visible silence. It was like air pressure dropping sharply before a storm. From the corner of his eye came a stranger— The Other —floating like a black phantasm across his field of vision.
Mums felt it, too. Pulling at the ends of her tattered sweater sleeves, she moved cautiously toward the stranger—the pale rider. She was relieved when he straddled a stool out of her serving area.
The dark specter, the ghost-rider, seated at the counter, was tall and lean, fit with broad shoulders. A square-jawed cowboy type, decked out in blackLevis , a black silk shirt and a black rain slicker. This absence of color in his wardrobe mirrored the absence of pity and empathy in his soul. His silver-tipped, eel-skin cowboy boot tapped against the counter. He adjusted his broad rodeo-style belt buckle.
The waitress approached as he drew his hand bullet-quick from the rain slicker’s inside pocket. He placed a cigarette rolling paper expertly between his thumb and forefingers, poured measured taps of tobacco from a black velvet pouch, and then, pulled the pouch’s draw string closed with his teeth all in a seamless motion.
The waitress, Wanda, interrupted his ritual with a nasal, Fran Drescher, whiningBrooklyn accent. “What’ll it be, cowboy?”
Her face and neck flushed. He made her wet. As he pressed the cigarette to his cruel mouth, a diminutive paraplegic man with stubs for arms, wearing an army-surplus pea coat with matching stocking cap pulled down tightly over his ears, cleared his phlegm gurgling throat, and spoke from between yellow-stained teeth.
“Oh, I’ll have the Shepard’s Special, sweet cakes,a little . . . ewe . . . with a side of thighs .”
 The Other glared through piercing, blue-gray eyes, and for instant, just a moment, his face shimmered and rippled, changing into a beast—a rabid wolf, leering at the crippled dwarf, and then, back again . . . into a man.
Wanda threw down her order pad, poked a pencil at the little man, and turning toward The Other , she said, “Oh, never mind ol’ Elf, honey. He couldn’t get it up, or hold on to me even if I gave the little creep a ride. Now you on the other hand, you look like you could ride the range all night.” She smacked her gum and blew a bubble. Pop.
Sam took in most of the sideshow. He nodded to the Elf man, made a mental note of the stranger’s face, and filed it away under—STRANGER THAN FICTION. Then shook it off and returned to his burger and fries.
The stranger, The Other , struck a farmer’s match with his thumbnail, pulling the flame across Elf’s face, close enough to sear his eyelashes. He lit his roll-up and drew hard. He ordered a bottomless cup of coffee and a heaping plate of baby peas—no entree’—just a double side order of baby peas. Prison and psycho trauma had contributed to his strange food cravings. The Other’s more bestial cravings, flesh and blood, would be consumed later, for the night was bountiful.
 
* * *
 VIII
  
JOSEY CONTINUED TO read, committing most to memory since she could not take notes.
 
* * *
 
SINO SOVIET RESEARCH:
 
OBJECTIVES:ERASURE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS MIND/DEVELOPMENTOF EXTRASENSORY PERCEPTION/INDUCTION OF PARANORMAL EFFECTS ON DREAM STATE/MECHANICAL EQUIVALENT OF NUEROPSYCHIC ENERGY/INSOLATION OF THE PSI GENE/SCALLOPS OF INFRA-SOUND WAVES DISSOLUTION OF MEMORY/INDUCED SIMULATION OF PARANOID SCHIZOPHRENIC AUDITORY AND VISUAL HALLUCINATIONS/EM INDUCED OFFENSIVE BEHAVIOR/SURGICAL IMPLANTATION OF BIOTELMETRIC GPS GLOBAL POSITIONING SYSTEM TRACKING DEVICES.
 
HISTORICAL BACKGROUND: ABOVE LISTED PAST AND CURRENT PSY.OPS NONLETHAL WEAPONS SYSTEMS/ FURTHER DETAILED DATA TO FOLLOW/TECHNIQUES BEING USED CURRENTLY BYU.S. AND EUROPEAN INTEL ORGS.
 
FINANCIAL HISTORY: INTERNATIONAL CARTEL/CABAL OF INFLUENTIAL AND INTERCONNECTED BUSINESS LEADERS
AND BANKERS FORMEDPROTOCOL 17SHORTLY AFTER WWII/STOP
 
ORIGIN OF INITIAL CASH INFUSION WAS OBTAINED BY ALLIANCE WITH GERMAN ORDER/GERMANENORDEN AND THE KREISAU CIRCLE PART OF HITLER’S HIGH COMMAND/5 BILLION (US)IN MISSING RIECHSTAG GOLD AND ART TREASURES
CONFISCATED FROM EUROPEAN JEWS INTERRED IN DEATH CAMPSWAS SECRETED INTO P-17 BANKS AND HOLDING COMPANIES INCLUDING THE VATICAN BANK/MUCH WITH THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE BOSS WHO AIDEDGESTAPO CHIEF KLAUS BARBIE IN HIS ESCAPE TO BOLIVIA./SOUTH AMERICAN THIRD REICH ESTABLISHED AND FORMED ALLIANCE WITH GENERAL JUAN PERÓN OF ARGENTINA FUNDED BY P-17.
 
IDEOLOGY: FASCISTS/RACIST DOGMA
 
* * *
 
Josey’s stomach began to curdle; the acidic taste of bile rose, stinging her throat. She closed the file and pushed it away as though it was contaminated with flesh-eating bacteria. She removed a miniature CD stored in a pocket of the file and placed it into the custom laptop on the table. The disk was TEED
(Tactical End-to-End Encryption Device), the latest in spook hardware, and as secure as Monica Lewinski’s lips wrapped around a cigar.
She opened the file. As the computer crunched the data, her heart skipped a beat. She somehow sensed that this whole mission would be a trip on the “Good Ship Lollipop,” that is, if the ship and she—Shirley Temple—were crossing the river Styx into Hades and eating bonbons all the way.
The screen lit up with her assignment. “Finally, the straight poop,” she thought out loud.
 
OPERATION DANGLE/
OBJECTIVE: USING CONTACT AT “M”/CODE-NAME RUACH ELOHIM/
OBTAIN BOOK/CODE-NAME FLOWER/AND INDUCE US INTEL SPONSORED CHAPTER OF P-17 INTO SURFACING.OBTAIN HARD INFO ON PROJECT HEMP/FROM HUMINT AND ELS COMM INTERCEPT SOURCES.AUTHORIZATION GRANTED TO UTILIZE OVERT TARGET AS DECOY.ESTABLISH WATCH LIST AND TARGETLIST/NEUTRALIZE TARGETGROUP/SPLASH AUTHORIZED AT YOUR DISCRETION/END.
 
PRECAUTIONS:NORMALUSINTEL CHANNELS AND SUPPORT TO BE AVOIDED AT ALLCOSTS/MOLES ARE IN PLACEAND HAVE COMPROMISED COUSINS/PSYCHIC COMBAT IS MAIN THREAT.
 
CONTACTS: UTILIZE AL AND SAYAN ONLY/END.
 
* * *
 
Josey stared at the screen for a moment. The words PSYCHICCOMBAT stood out from the surrounding text like a wart on Michael Jackson’s penis. Psychic combat . . . bopkis, let’s see if I am equipped for my style of combat.
She grabbed the Zero case off the floor, snapped the latches, popped it open, and pried open the case’s false bottom. There, snuggled neatly in two socketed compartments, lay her artillery. Two Beretta semi-autos: the first being a Cougar 8045 “F,” a 45 ACP that fired both double and single action with custom-tooled action, and a lightened trigger pull, fitted with a Sure-Fire Tactical light it was a man stopper; the second, her backup piece, was a subcompact, lightweight (28 ounces) model 9000S Type “F” also, that handled the large 40 caliber S&W load, with a ten shot magazine capacity.
The scent and feel of the gun oil on her hands as she held the weapon restored her spirits. It was like having an old, trusted friend show up unexpectedly. Something a bleeding heart liberal who never learned to handle firearms could never understand, refusing to acknowledge their purpose and necessity. It would be like expecting Gore Vidal and Oprah Winfrey to do the play-by-play coverage of a cockfight inJuarez . They could never understand that you can’t always depend upon some hired guns, your government, to save your family, your village, your country.
The citizens ofIsrael understood: they walked the walk and talked the talk. They were unshielded from the terror of everyday random violence and bloodshed unlike the younger American Jews, who only experienced the horror of war from grandfather’s tales until more recent events inNew York occurred. But even so, American popular opinion and organizations shielded the public’s eyes from the reality of violence: denied its cause. Groups like the Mothers Against Violence and the amoral politicians whose family values more resembled the Marquis de Sade than the Brady Bunch, blamed man’s dark nature and school violence onHollywood and Gangster Rap. Ozzy Osbourne and Marilyn Manson. Their answer? Build more prisons. Hire more cops. Cure it all by placing a V-Chip in the television, by pumping the kids with Ritalin and their mothers with Prozac.
Ignore the dark beginnings of man’s nature. Treat the symptoms not the causes; that was the world’s answer.
Likewise, the citizens ofPalestine held fresh in their memories the recent deaths of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers . . . Yes, they understood. The smell and feel of gun oil was a solvent that washed away the bloodstains of anticipation and fear. Sometimes violence was their only release valve.
However, these weapons would be the only amulets of protection Josey needed. That she could fathom and trust.
She loaded the first magazine—never call it a “clip”—as her instructor had told her a million times, and then the spares, all but the last magazine.
Her mind thought of Zio Lotti, the Nazi death camps, the stench from the crematoriums, the oily smoke wafting through the air, the blank amorphous face of the unknown evil that assuredly awaited her arrival.
Josey removed ten more rounds from the ammo-box and placed them neatly in a row on the table in front of her. She took one, grabbed a file, and carved an X across the tip of the slug saying under her breath . . . “This one is for Zio Lotti.” She took a second slug and repeating the ritual . . . “This one is for Auntie Frieda—Auschwitz,” and then a third slug . . . “This one for Cousin Benjamin . . .”

CHAPTER 7
 
 I: The Other
  
BY NOW, IT was the betwixt and between hour of the morning. The lonely, hushed hour. The street traffic was light. The sidewalks were empty. But in another two hours, the whole rat race would begin again: commuters piling out of trains at Union Station, trudging like cattle out of the chutes at the stockyard, out of the bowels of the station and up the escalator into the bleak, cold morning air. Trudging. Huddled masses swarmed over the bridges of the jewel-greenChicago River as the golden-rose hue of dawn dyed the sidewalk beneath their feet—trudging onward to their lonesome cubicles in the cityscape’s towering monoliths.
It was in this silence that blanketed the night, rolling like a heavy fog over the streets, through sewer grates, creeping onward through alleyways, that a muffled scream—a gagging, gasp of desperation—poured mist-like through the keyhole of the Elf’s flat, and into the dingy, rancid, urine-soaked hallway of the Cabrini Green Housing Project. His home.
The Elf was a trusting soul to a fault, a pitiful soul. But this was part of the act, a sympathy ploy— poor me theVietnamVet—look, I’ve got stumps for arms and legs. BooHoo . The irony was that he had left home to escape one nightmare and by joining the Army had only found another one, one that haunted and crippled his body and chewed away at his mind like an earwig eating its way through his brain. His mother drove his father and five brothers to the bottom dregs of a wine bottle and then prison. His sisters took refuge in the streets, selling their bodies for drugs and churning out cocaine babies.
He sent Mama a little envelope each month with a note that read: IOU SHIT!
Despite this history, despite his handicap, Elf thought himself to be superior to his fellow man. They with their whole bodies, so smug, so condescending: screw them all .
To his way of thinking, they were more crippled than he; they were crippled by their ignorance—their do-gooder attitude. He didn’t want their damned sympathy . . . only their money; money to score more and more crack cocaine and money to buy whores, lots of whores—because one appendage of his body was still whole and fully functional. He exercised it every day. Twenty bucks a blow.
In this delusional state of superiority, Elf thought to lure the stoic but generous stranger— The Other —to his crib. TheOther bought him an eight ball (a half-ounce of coke). Elf’s eyes had zoomed in on the stranger’s wad of money.
 Fuckin’-A, my man. Take the dude back to my crib and have my ol’ buddy, Tiny, slip over and twist the MOTHERFUCKERS head right off. Tiny was six foot four and a hulking three hundred and fifty pounds of mean streets. It was Tiny who usually earned the twenty bucks a day for services rendered.
Elf and Tiny never got the chance to dance.
The only thing Elf heard, coming from behind him, was the crunch of a cockroach—smashed beneath The Other’s boot, as two massive hands pressed down and against the side of his head with a jolt, fusing his vertebrae in the aftershock of the force.
His torso writhed, wrenching in the wheelchair like a fish flapping in a net, hooked and fighting for its life. Elf filled his lungs to let loose a wailing cry, but something sweet and wet was viciously rammed into his gaping mouth, splintering a few teeth in the process.
An apple . . . he’s stuffing me like a pig.
His lungs, burning with life’s breath trapped and sealed inside, he redirected his breath to his nostrils . . . too late. A giant hand crashed downward smashing his nose, clamping down and hermetically sealing his face.
A gagging scream.
Then four things happened almost simultaneously: first, a guttural howl that sent chills seething through his body; second an image, the refection of the gleaming scalpel that mesmerized his psyche; third, a fetid, pungent breath poured over him, as though a hungry wolf lay in wait, panting just inches from his face. And fourth, the sweet smell of tobacco wafted in the air. These were the macabre tapestry of odors, sights, and sounds that assaulted the last moments of life, all woven over a raspy, animal voice:
“The offering, that’s you, Elf. Must be in a state of pure terror to properly release the life forces, the astral light. Well, are you terrified, my little man? Are you? I need to feed!” The Other said.
A muffled cry. More gagging. Scream upon scream.
Pure terror washed over the Elf’s battered face as he stared intoThe Other’s now distorted half-human, half-beast of a face.
The scalpel gleamed white-hot as it floated before him. And The Other asked the final question.
“I will sever your heads, little one. The only whole appendages that remain. And you put them to such foul use. A pity.
Which one? Choose!
Above or—— Below? ”
“Mmmmmmm. . . !” Elf gagged.
“What’s that, little man? Can’t decide? What do you say we start at the bottom and work our way . . . UP. You know, theAmerican Way .”
 
* * *
 
The morning brought a cleansing, golden sun as hordes of commuters passed by the spot onJackson Boulevard where the Elf usually sat, perched in his chair with his “show money” lining the tin cup, near the river bridge. But now just a ghost image remained—a flashback would be all that remained of the Elf.
No one would notice the wretched little man’s departure from this earth. No one but detectives Ryan and Goldstein whose morose task involved sorting through the lives of lost souls. Souls lost in the pages of a legion of homicide files. Files: boxes and rooms filled with files, warehouses brimming with files. A file dedicated for each member of the legion of bodies that had been washed out of the good citizens’ memories, and onto the banks of theChicago River .
 
 II
  
THE OTHER—The Shape Shifter—had a name, Virgil Cage, or at least that’s what the original birth certificate had read. He had two brothers, Jacob and Esau; Mama liked her bible. Jacob, the younger brother, died by drowning at the unripe age of twelve. The memory of that day haunted Virgil’s every waking moment. The brothers were swimming in their favorite Saturday afternoon spot, Old Black Hole Lake, when Jacob dove off the high rock. Jacob was twelve-years-old, and Virgil seven.
“Hey, watch me, Virg. I’m gonna jump just like those guys inAcapulco ,” Jacob shouted.
Virgil stood on the shore, waving and hollering. “Nah, do it like Tarzan. Pretend you’re on theBrooklynBridge .”
Virgil sensed a dark, empty cloud descend over his soul as Jacob’s form pierced the surface of the water. Jacob’s arms flailed, and with water filling his lungs he struggled to make a last pleading cry, “Virgil, Virgil help me!”
Jacob’s arm slowly disappeared into the pool—devoured by the lady of the lake.
Virgil stood frozen—a pillar of salt—hot tears streaming down his cheeks. The world turning but canted, revolving in slow motion.
He couldn’t swim. Couldn’t swim worth a plug nickel.
Then somehow, Virgil’s spirit was perched on high, peering downward like an out-of-body peak experience. It looked downward to see his own body right there beneath him. This was the first indication, the first sense, that he was different. He could eventually leave his body at will. He possessed strange abilities. It frightened him. Terrified him and yet . . . empowered him. He’d seen the movie The Sword in the Stone ; it was an epiphany. He’d been fascinated by the concept of Merlin teaching young Arthur how to change into anything, any animal he desired. He knew he had the power.
But on that day, that dismal day, he was powerless. He lay like a little Raggedy Andy Doll, in a fetal position, cleaving to the safe and dark recesses of his mothers womb. He just lay there for what seemed an eternity. Finally, the adrenaline took charge and jolted him back to reality. Running for the old Ford pickup truck, knowing that he couldn’t drive but trying anyway, he paused; that’s when he saw it. A big black inner tube lay there in the truck bed, staring back in silence, taunting him.
“I could have saved him,” he sobbed. “Damn . . . hell damn. I’m a chickenshit, worthless—stupid!” In that instant, a small bit of his soul turned to granite. If he could stop trusting, stop loving, stop hoping and caring, maybe just maybe, the pain would stop. Oh, how he had wished the pain would stop.
Five years later the dark visage of the Angel of Death would darken his life again. Virgil had one person left, one person he wasn’t afraid to love, to trust—his big brother Esau. Esau was now twenty-years-old and Virgil twelve. He worshiped him.
Esau had grown into a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips—BIG BAD JOHN—Daddy Jack had called him. A towering giant with the maturity of a ten-year-old boy. He’d suffered brain damage from one of Daddy Jack’s beatings. His favorite movie was The Yearling . He would steal off to the woods and just sit for hours waiting for the mother doe and her fawn to lick the block of salt he had placed beneath a tall pine tree.
Esau had an intuitive, but feeble understanding of his condition: he identified with the little fawn, now so helpless and gangly, but soon to grow into a strong young buck like himself. He kept moving the block of salt closer to the house. And one morning just as he was finishing his breakfast—he heard the echo of gunshots. Daddy Jack, liquored up on Crown Royal, had shot the doe and yes, also the fawn. Daddy Jack made Esau and Virgil help him dress out the deer. At first the boys refused, but Daddy Jack put the blade of the hunting knife to Esau’s throat, and held it there as he threw a second knife to Virgil.
“Get to it, Virgil. Or I’ll slice you and your brother up and hang you both out in the shed with that damn deer,” Daddy Jack commanded.
Virgil held the knife in his trembling hand and turned to Mama for help and consolation. All the while Mama looked on, reciting verse and scripture from the commandments: “Honor thy father and mother. Obey your father, Virgil. Don’t defy the Lord. You killed your brother Jacob by your sins of omission, boy. Thou shall not kill.” She had retreated in a delusional state where Daddy Jack’s cruelty and deviant behavior were “just the Lord’s work.” And little Virgil had become the “scapegoat” of the family. He was forced to carry the sins and guilt for all misfortune that befell the Cage Family. The whipping boy.
 Late at night Daddy Jack would steal from Mama’s bed. She pretended not to hear the plodding footsteps on the stairs, the cursing and drunken rampage erupting from the kitchen. And later the creak of the door as Daddy Jack entered the boys’ room. She pretended not to hear the whimpering of a child, and sometimes the screams. Who was she to defy the will of God, her boys were in the Lord’s hands and would someday grow to be strong. Strong and “loving” just like their father.
When Esau grew to be too big for his father’s taste, he would lay there, his head buried beneath the pillow, crying and convulsing with fear, listening. It was Virgil’s turn tonight. He was not required to do the work of the Lord this time.
But Daddy Jack was proud of Esau; he was never a disappointment to his father or mother like Virgil, only to himself. Esau Cage would suffer the inheritance of his birthright. The despair of depression, and its downward spiral into alcoholism, was the legacy left to him by Daddy Jack.
Daddy Jack was an ex-con, having spent ten years in Marion Penitentiary for a botched bank job. Yes, Daddy Jack taught his boys well, when he wasn’t falling down drunk or locked up again.
“Never take shit off nobody, boys. Nobody!” Daddy Jack said.
And of course—never cry—which he gave the boys ample opportunity to practice during the weekly “strapping” sessions he dealt out with his thick, black belt, first to the boys and then to Mama. If you cried you got more of the buckle than the belt. Either way, everyone had to watch. Everyone had to hold in their fear, their rage, and mostly their tears: Never let ‘em see you cry, boys.
Late at night Virgil, Esau, and Shep, their six-month-old Golden Retriever, would sit up for hours after Daddy Jack had passed out on the couch. They shared daddy’s whisky, smoked his Camels, while old Shep dined on Daddy Jack’s Oreos. The boys would pull them apart and let Shep lick the creamy filling.
Sometimes they would laugh and talk of life and girls, but never the future or dreams. They never spoke of the nagging doubts that haunted most young men on the threshold of manhood: Will I be somebody . . . anybody . . . a policeman, a fireman or a doctor? Because they both believed that the future held no promise, no hope. No wife, nor kids, nor house with a thirty-year mortgage, a station wagon in the garage. And no love . . . just an empty, murky abyss.
Virgil held his brother’s horrifying words in his memory forever:
“Little brother . . . I love you, man. But life’s crap, pure crap, and as soon as I can get up the nerve . . . I’m checking out of this fucking nightmare. Forever!”
At first Virgil told himself that Esau meant he was leaving home, running away, as far away from the nightmare as he could run. But down deep inside the truth stared back out of the depths of the bottomless well, the well of false hope. The truth floated up from the darkness of the well, it whispered to him, it taunted him. Soon, very soon, he would be alone, totally and absolutely alone. His soul enfolded.
He had to tell someone, stop this terrible thing from happening. But then a new voice, a destructive and disapproving inner voice whispered back, “Tell who, asshole? Tell who?”
The cold voice of reality.
Then his worst fear came true. It was late November, one week before Thanksgiving. The first winter snow had dusted the soil of ruralIllinoisjust in time for deer hunting season. Outside, the wind soughed through the eaves, and lightly rattled the windowpanes of their old farmhouse. Virgil was watching his favorite TV show, The Fugitive , huddled on the cold floor. He sat cross-legged, elbows on his knees, his chin resting in the palms of his hands. He could empathize with Richard Kimble—David Jansen—feel his pain, for he, too, was a fugitive. A fugitive from a nightmare.
The flames of the LP gas space heater, which stood in the corner, filled the room with a shuddering orange light.
Plink . . . Plink . . . the sounds of the space heater as its metal casing expanded and contracted. The gentle roar of the flame. Soothing, quiet sounds.
Mama in her plain gray dress, an afghan covering her knees against the damp chill of the old house, pitched slowly back and forth in her favorite rocking chair while humming Just a Closer Walk with Thee quietly under her breath, and intently reading her family Bible by the dim glow of lamplight. The lampshade, like the Bible she clutched, was faded and worn.
Daddy Jack was sprawled out on the couch. His snoring and wheezing were in fierce competition with Shep’s soft woofing and chuffing, as the dog lay stretched out at his feet, lost in puppy dog dreams of rabbits and squirrels. Shep’s body shuddered. His legs made jerky stabbing motions, as if he was running through a dream woods. Then, so rapt in his doggie slumber, so carried away with the chase—he fell right off the sofa.
Plop goes thefurball .
Shep let out a startled yelp, glanced about to get his bearings, sneezed, and shook his ears. He padded toward Virgil, nuzzled his head under Virgil’s arm and sighed. Virgil scratched behind Shep’s ears immediately invoking old Shep’s imitation of Shirley MacLaine’s famous CanCan dance; the doggie involuntary leg kick.
Shep heard it first, pricking his ears at the sound, the sound that came from an upstairs bedroom. Esau’s room was upstairs. The dog bounded for the stairway door and howled.
The old farmhouse’s wooden stair steps were ice cold and splintered, hurting Virgil’s bare feet, as he bounded thestaircase two steps at a time with Shep close on his heels. The air was musty and chilled. Chilled by fear and dread—and Vacant. 
He ran this gauntlet each night, racing against the imaginary ghosts and monsters that haunted the hall, its closets, and most of all, the foreboding empty room at the end of the hallway.
He froze dead in his tracks at the top of the stairs.
The hallway and reality somersaulted before his eyes; it flipped end-over-end into a long shot now, with the door to the empty room rushing away, the corridor narrowing, as if he were viewing the hallway through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.
The door at the end of the hall stood silent. Enigmatic.
Shep’s trembling body hugged Virgil’s leg. Then lowering his head, hackles rising on his back, his haunches visibly tensed as if ready to pounce, he sniffed the icy air. He whimpered as he stared intently at the doorway to the empty room, cocking his head to one side.
Suddenly, Shep was stiff as sheet rock. His tail curled down between his legs, motionless.
Virgil clenched his fists and stood frigid. Frigid as the vapor of his own breath as it streamed out before him. It hung like death in the lifeless, frosted air of the hallway.
Instinct guided Virgil now as he ran past Esau’s bedroom, ran toward the empty room. Although in a dead run, he seemed to make no headway, as if the floor had become the devil’s treadmill.
Shep stopped short of the doorway, his head cautiously lowered, and his ears back—he moaned and whimpered like a puppy.
The empty room was the lair of the beast. The den of the creature that would revisit Virgil’s dreams and waking thoughts over and over again. Relentless thoughts. Then he saw it.
Blood spilled from beneath the door.
Shep growled and frantically clawed at the door with his paws. Virgil steeled himself with a deep, cold breath and kicked at the door; it wouldn’t budge, as if blocked by some dead weight. The dog whined and barked loudly. Virgil, pushing with all his strength, pried the door open.
The choking odor of cordite hung heavy-blue in the air. Daddy Jack’s 30’ 06’ deer rifle lay next to the fallen fawn—Esau—on the blood-soaked rug.
The little fawn, trapped in the body of a young buck, had fulfilled his own prophecy, had checked out, had escaped his own cage of agony, and the nightmare forest of his world.
Virgil and Shep squeezed through the narrow space he had managed to create between the door and the frame. Gently he stepped over his brother’s body. Esau’s sucking chest wound was oozing torrents of blood with each beat of his heart. This time Virgil did not freeze; he ripped off his sweater, placed it over the wound, and cupped his hands over it, applying steady pressure to stop the hemorrhaging blood flow. He administered CPR. He pounded Esau’s chest. He screamed for help.
But it was too late.
The last person he cared for, the last person who he could love, the last person who could protect him from the still and fearsome loneliness that devoured his soul lay dead in his young arms.
Shep lowered himself on to the floor, and crawled across the crimson-stained rug, Lassie-like, to Esau’s side. His doggie eyes glistened, his eyebrows turned down—the epitome of sadness; he ever so gently licked Esau’s cheek and whimpered. It was as if he knew—no more belly rubs, no more Oreos, no more master.
So absorbed by the senseless tragedy that lay within his arms was Virgil, that he didn’t hear the pounding footfalls on the stairs, didn’t see his mama and Daddy Jack hovering over him in the now open doorway. But somehow sensing their presence, like a lamb in the slaughterhouse senses its own impending doom, he looked up, through a veil of tears into the glowering face of his father.
“Stupid bastard. Damn it all,” Daddy Jack managed to spit out in a slurred drunken stupor. Not a fragment of sorrow, not an ounce of remorse or sadness in his tone, just harsh, cruel words uttered by the truly “Stupid Bastard.”
Mama bent to reach for Esau, but Daddy Jack jerked her back with such force she shrieked in pain. She protested. She begged. He responded with the back of his hand, sending her reeling. Cracking her temple hard against the corner of the wall, she slumped in a heap to the floor.
Shep responded in kind; he lunged forward sinking his teeth into the fleshy part of Daddy Jack’s inner thigh just inches from his balls. Daddy Jack screamed in agony, cursed and tumbled backward, falling with a sharp thud to the floor. He rolled, wrapped a leg around Shep, and pinned the dog to the floor.
“You fucking, mutt. I’ve had enough of your shit, too,” Daddy Jack snarled. His temples throbbing, his face flushed red with anger; he reached for the dog’s throat, and squeezed with all his strength. Shep lay helpless on his back, writhing and twisting, his legs bicycling in midair, fighting for his life. The dog’s eyes blazed with terror, as though pleading for Virgil to save him.
Virgil jumped onto Daddy Jack’s back shouting, “Let go ‘a my dog, you sonofabitch . . . let go ‘a my dog!”
He pounded his fists into Daddy Jack’s back, kidney punched him, and bit him in the neck—so deep—he drew blood. Daddy Jack howled. Then releasing the dog, he spun around, frantically grabbing for Virgil. But Virgil rolled hard and fast to the left just out of his reach.
Multiple images and sensations flooded Virgil’s mind: the coppery taste of blood, his mother’s unconscious body, blood trickling from her ear, Esau’s eyes—blank expressionless eyes—staring up at him, Shep’s convulsing body at his side . . . the coppery taste of blood . . . the 30’ 06’ on the floor at his feet. He reached for the rifle, slowly, mechanically, with a studied precision. He picked it up, threw back the bolt, and jacked another round into the chamber.
Daddy Jack rose to his feet. And as he took in the image of Virgil’s flint-cold eyes, the rifles gaping muzzle pointed dead on him, Virgil’s finger slowly curling around the trigger, he said, “Go ahead, you little bastard! Go ahead and kill me. Just like you killed Jacob that day at the lake, just like you killed Esau tonight, just like you’re killing your poor mother.
“Go ahead and kill me you poor excuse for a boy . . . you spineless little mama’s boy. You useless little shit.”
Daddy Jack edged closer with each word. One step. Two steps. Three steps.
Virgil took two paces backwards. His palms were slick with sweat, his heart hammered, his throat raw and parched. A single tiny bead of perspiration rolled down the center of his forehead and onto his eyebrow. It seemed as though the rifle became heavier each second. Unbearably heavy. His arms began to tremble, and like a wave the fear, the tremors passed through his wrists and into the blue steel of the rifle. Its barrel began to make minute lazy circles in the air.
Four steps closer. Five steps.
Daddy Jack threw his arms to the side, palms open, tilted his head forward and taunted:
“Shoot me, you fucking coward. Didn’t I teach you any better? Shoot me! Or should I stick it up your ass again?”
Mama tried to rise to her feet; she staggered and fell. Shep whimpered softly. Virgil’s arms racked with pain now, he took a deep breath, released it slowly, and squeezed.
The muzzle blast was blinding in the darkened room, the sound shattered the air. Daddy Jack was dead before he hit the floor. His head exploded spraying the yellowed wallpaper with bone fragments and blood.
Virgil moved closer, threw the bolt again, ejecting the spent round and readying the next. He placed the muzzle in what was left of Daddy Jack’s mouth and pulled the trigger.
“Yep, you taught me better, Daddy Jack. Don’t take shit off nobody. And never let ‘em see you cry.” Virgil said.
His eyes were dry now . . . bone dry.
He took his shirttails and wiped the rifle clean. No fingerprints. He placed the weapon in Mama’s hands, and checked her pulse; it was weak and her breathing irregular. He moved to Shep, bent down, and scooped him into his arms. The dog gazed up straining to nuzzle, to move, but he couldn’t.
He just managed a soft whimper, a plaintive cry, in Virgil’s arms.
Virgil went to his room. He placed the dog on the bed. Packing his bag, he slung it over his shoulder, and gingerly picked up the dog again. He moved in a wooden cadence, down the stairs, through the house, and into the night.
His body was silhouetted by the warm glow of flames roiling behind him. Tongues of flame leaped higher and higher with each step he took, higher and higher into the black night; the farmhouse burnt like a tinderbox, aided by an open gas can someone had placed too near the space heater.
He had hoped the flames would engulf the pain, and cauterize the wounds of childhood. But the smoke wafted and lingered; the burning embers glowed and lingered, maybe never to be extinguished, even with the passage of time. Just as the memories, the nightmares, would linger in the blackness of his soul: the lonely, weeping soul of the boy and later the man.
Still cradling poor Shep in his arms, he strode onward. Stumbling over the unsure footing of the plowed furrows beneath his feet, he staggered until finally dropping to the ground from sheer exhaustion. In his dazed condition he wasn’t sure how far he’d gone. He looked around. Rows and rows of brittle corn stalks surrounded him on all sides. Surrounded him like soldiers, protecting him, guarding him through the cold stillness of the night. He sat huddled with Shep shielded in his arms. Alone, trembling and terrified.
Above, a blanket of distant, motionless stars, anaesthetized, not twinkling, not glimmering, not something to wish upon, not leading, nor guiding. Just cold lifeless eyes that stared down from lofty heights, and punctured the sky. The eyes of lost and lonely children of the night who float in the black void of time and space.

CHAPTER 8
 
 I: Head Games
  
COMMANDER PATRICK “Crash” O’Halihan was an Irish copper through and through, from his flaming red hair, light freckled complexion and walrus red mustache, to his jolly beer-belly, which hung like a hot air balloon over his guy-wire-thin legs and tiny feet. Hell, he couldn’t even see his feet much less his third arm.
The glaring inconsistency of his overall persona was his Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses. So thick that from straight on, a pair of giant fish eyes seemed to stare at you from inside an aquarium. Rumor had it that he moonlighted as SUPER ORKIN MAN, “Able to incinerate ant hills with his X-ray vision.”
Crash O’Halihan, as the boys nicknamed him, was the laughing stock of the Area Three Detective Division if not the whole department.
O’Halihan had earned his handle the hard way. One day while on patrol at O’Hare International Airport, he had driven his blue-and-white cruiser directly into the side of a DC-9 cargo plane that had attempted to navigate the jet way—apparently without Crash’s sanction. O’Halihan had never even seen the plane coming. Crash’s squad car had knocked the plane clear off the runway. O’Halihan’s own police car had accordioned. But despite all the turmoil—courageous Crash O’Halihan—had managed to kick out the squad car’s windshield, crawl over the hood, and run to the plane.
He had dragged the injured pilot and copilot to safety, or a least that had been the version he had relayed to the Chicago Tribune, ensuring his promotion to Commander “Crash” O’Halihan—and an award ceremony hosted by the Mayor herself. Little issues like who had the right-of-way that day, and who had caused the accident in the first place had been lost in the media-stew and brouhaha.
There had been two not-so-good reasons for the promotion. It had been an election year, and his bother was a famous Two-Star General who John Wayne had immortalized on film. If the timing and his brother’s fame hadn’t helped much, they sure as hell hadn’t hurt much, either.
Commander O’Halihan stumbled blindly into the desk and tossed a file marked “John Doe, a.k.a. The Elf” onto Sam Goldstein’s desktop, knocking over a large cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. The coffee, together with a handful of aspirins, served as Goldstein’s breakfast.
“I think you and Ryan know this guy. I had the little guy’s footprints sent to the Bureau in D.C. for a positive ID. You know the little shit had no hands ya see . . . so the VA takes footprints and sends them on to the FIBEE’s. Bet you hot shots didn’t know that, did you?” barked Commander Crash .
Sam shot Ryan a quick wink and turned to O’Halihan with the most deadpan, awe struck face he could muster.
“Damn Crash, it just makes a poor, ignorant, flatfoot, Jewish boy humble to be in your mere presence.” Turning to Ryan now, his brow furrowed with intense concentration, he cocked his head a bit to one side and continued. “Well, doesn’t it give you pause, Michael? I . . . know it does me. Oh, most certainly.”
“Ahhh, fuck your smart-ass mouth, Goldstein, and don’t call me Crash,” O’Halihan fired back.
“Okay, Crash. Whatever you say, Crash.”
Sam raised his hands palms-up in a “you got me” surrender mode. He picked up the file and began to read it as Ryan spoke.
“Yeah, Commander, we’ve seen him around. Hell, just last night come to think of it. Some druggie toss him too hard or what?”
“Damn, you two . . . candy-asses. I mean it this time—.
Don’t waste the city’s valuable tax dollars making this into a federal case. Tie up the loose ends. That’s it. GOT IT!” O’Halihan bellowed, as his Coke-bottle lenses began to fog.
“What kind of loose ends, sir?” chided Goldstein.
Turning radish-red and pressing his Hubble-Telescope glasses to within inches of Goldstein’s face, the Commander stammered, “Oh shit. Get your collective butts down to the morgue and find out for yourselves. Or is that too much to ask?”
Leaning on tiptoes, the Commander twisted his neck as if to relieve tension and gave a snort.
“That’s if you’re not too busy planning your ‘Big’ career with the Feds, Sgt. Ryan?”
“How did you know about that, Skipper?” Ryan asked.
“They called for a reference this morning—that’s how. Better watch your P’s and Q’s my boy. I heard it on the jungle drums this morning . . . the Feds have an interest in this Holy Name homicide. Better stay clear of it if you know what’s good for you, Ryan.” O’Halihan punctuated the sentence with a finger poked in Ryan’s direction.
“Yeah, sure, sir . . . whatever you say,” replied Ryan in a fuzzy, distant voice.
By some strange miracle, Commander O’Halihan caught sight of the office’s Dolly Parton look-alike, Ms. O’Connor, crossing her lithe, long gams as she arched her back, thrusting her bazzooms into O’Halihan’s magnified field of vision. Through those lenses they must have looked like the peaks of K-2. He sucked in his protruding donut-gut and stormed off in her direction.
Ryan still looked puzzled. He stood there, staring out into space, as if he was witnessing the Second Coming. Sam threw a paper towel, still wet with the spilled coffee from his desk, hitting Ryan. Then Sam whispered, as Dr. Watson to Sherlock Holmes, knowing it would zap his partner back to reality.
“Yes indeed, I know what you’re thinking, old boy. He mentioned the Holy Name affair in the same context as your career . . . not too subtle a hint was it, old boy? Well, there’s only one thing to do. We have to do the prudent thing here now, Holmes, hadn’t we? I mean with you being engaged and all . . . I shan’t dare say . . .”
“You mean complete the Elf affair post haste and grab a handsome cab across town to that . . . what was it? Why yes, the adolescent home inDes Plaines where the archbishop was residing, before InspectorLestrade intervenes?” Ryan responded with his eyebrow cocked miming a puff on an imaginary calabash pipe.
“Well, yes, that would be it then. Yes, exactly what a prudent fellow like yourself would suggest. Capital idea, Holmes old boy, simply capital.” Sam answered in his thickest British imitation of Watson to Sherlock.
That’s all it took. The game was afoot.
 
* * *
 
The stainless-steel doors of the morgue’s examining room flew open. Bathed in the white-hot astral light of the high- intensity surgical lights, stood a figure wearing a stained and crumpled white lab coat that clung to his skeletal frame. His nose was too long; his face pale and gaunt. His hair was a gray and tangled mass, which stood on end, as if he had just licked the defibrillator paddles. He was the chief pathologist and resident ghoul—Dr. Pretoreus.
Sam entered with Ryan in tow (Ryan hated the morgue, hated it with a passion). Sam noticed that Ryan seemed to have a phobia for churches and morgues. Of course, some would say they’re very similar. And Sam thought that anyone who didn’t see the similarity had obviously never attended one of his Tata’s services at the synagogue.
Dr. Pretoreus’s demeanor wasn’t helping much. He stood with a dripping jelly donut in one upturned, surgical-gloved hand, while he busily explored the inner cavity of what used to be the Elf with his free hand. Sam thought, why are they always eating? Do dead people make them hungry? Ghoul is correct, sir. 
The good Dr.Demento never looked up, but between probes of his spider-like fingers and bites of the oozing jellyroll he spoke:
“My lord, if life wasn’t cruel enough . . . that in death our little friend should have to suffer such an insult. The heads are gone, gentlemen. Completely gone! See for yourselves.”
Dr. Pretoreus ripped back the plastic sheet uncovering Elf’s headless torso.
Sam took a step forward. Ryan took a step back. Then Sam reached up and dabbed a tiny smear of jelly from the good Doctor’s cheek at which the sweet-toothed ghoul recoiled in bewilderment.
“Please, Sergeant, have a little respect. I am a professional after all,” Pretoreus intoned with all seriousness.
“Ah, you just had a little um . . . smudge there, Doc.” Gesturing to his cheek and grinning like a Cheshire cat, Sam continued, “Oh, say Doc, did you say . . . excuse me if I misunderstood, but yes, did you say heads? Haven’t been drinking the formaldehyde again have we now, Doc?”
“No, Sgt. I most certainly have not. I refer to the victim’s cranium and the head of his penis, of course!”
“Jesus, Doc,” Sam gulped and moved an involuntary hand toward his own private parts. Ryan took another step backwards.
“I don’t think we are dealing with your average God-fearing Christian here, Sgt. Goldstein. Wait. Hello . . . what do we have here?” Dr. Pretoreus asked.
Reaching into the cadaver’s neck cavity, instrument in hand, the doctor slowly withdrew a forceps, which held something tightly grasped in its claws. Holding the forceps up to the light, twisting it back and forth, the doctor abruptly placed the clamped object between his lips. He lit it with a butane lighter. Drawing deeply and exhaling, he said. “Yes, why, yes indeed.” He took another puff of the cigarette. “It’s Turkish I believe, custom blend—quite delightful.”
Now drifting back to an awareness of the astonished faces of Goldstein and Ryan who stood staring with mouths gaping, the Dr. continued. “Umm . . . (coughing) it appears that this perpetrator, as a final coup de grace  , used the victim as an—ashtray.”
Sam and Ryan, still in a state of shock (more from the Doctor’s strange manner than the facts) signaled their confusion with a looming pair of squinting eyes.
“Oh, really gentlemen, it’s obvious isn’t it? The perp severed the throat completely from the rear at a slightly elevated angle, left to right, ergo a right-handed perp. A scalpel-sharp cut, very clean, quite professional. But first, he severed the head of our little friend’s penis. Strange, I also found bits of matter in the victim’s mouth and neck aside from the cigarette. Have to analyze it of course, but for now I believe it to be bits of apple.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Would you like to see the heads?” With that, the doctor turned, and opened the door of the adjacent refrigerator.
There in the harsh light of the refrigerator’s bare bulb sat Elf’s severed head. The eyes were vacant, staring like glass marbles. The jaw was broken and the mouth stuffed with apples. Two large apples. In the center of the fruit, peeking out like a worm— was the head of the Elf’s penis.
“Ouch!” Sam and Ryan winced in unison.
 
* * *
 
 II: O’Hare Airport,Chicago,IL .
  
AS THE PLANEtaxied to a halt, Josey changed into a pair of faded jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and an army-surplus field jacket.Pulling on a pair of thick socks and Doc Martin boots, her persona was complete. Just another college coed. With one important exception—a Beretta semi-auto was concealed in the fanny-pack holster cinched tightly around her waist.
The plane’s door opened as she finished dressing and the EL AL station manager boarded, greeting her with a warm smile. Actually, he was the local Al agent  , Benjamin Levine, whose cover was station manager. He was tall and lean with wavy black hair and deep-set, dark brown eyes. They exchanged brief formalities as he handed Josey an envelope containing a clean passport and the key to her hotel room. “Shalom, Ms. Schulman. Or perhaps I should address you by your new name, Anna Spelman?”
Josey smiled and accepted the envelope. “Good to see you again, Benjamin. How’s the family?”
“Just fine. The girls are adjusting well and my wife has become a regular suburban soccer mom.”
“Good,” Josey said. “Any news from Abraham?”
“Yes, he sends his condolences regarding Monsignor Scarlotti and wishes you God’s speed.” Josey bowed her head a moment, looked down at her hands. Benjamin allowed her the moment of reflection and continued. “Down to business, shall we? Your car is waiting on the tarmac. It’s a nondescript black Buick with secret plates. The driver’s name is Uri. He will be your associate for this assignment. If you need to reach me use the secure line and the letter drops.” Josey nodded her acknowledgment. “Your father is aware of your arrival and will be awaiting you.”
A glint of joy shone in Josey’s eyes. “Thank you for . . . your kindness and professionalism—” Before she could finish the officials entered. Customs, INS, and Agriculture were accustomed to inspecting private aircraft. The perfunctory inspection was complete. The INS inspector, pasty-skinned and tooth-pick thin with staples hemming his pants, stamped her passport and I-94. It read: F-1 student visa.
 
* * *
  
  III:Des Plaines,IL .
  
TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE tenA.M. , Sam steered their unmarked squad down the narrow streets of the residential neighborhood. Overhead, silver glistening tubes hung suspended, dotting the sky. Aircraft queued up and on final approach to O’Hare airport.
Below, snow flurries dusted the asphalt. They were headed for The Old Orchardville Adolescent Home which lay just on the outskirts of Des Plaines, and a few miles from the first-ever McDonald’s restaurant, with huge, old-fashioned golden arches, and the count of hamburgers sold still listed at the bottom. The area was peaceful and had become rather upscale in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s. But with the expansion of O’Hare came the inevitable increase in air traffic, creating noise that scared the family dog, knocked grandma’s china right off theself, and made the baby cry. Bingo, the families sold out and headed further west to bigger mortgages, leaving the suburb to be taken over by the next influx of immigrants seeking the American dream.
Sam and Ryan were en route to conduct an investigation they had been told to forget. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it could very well be the last.
The car turned down a two-lane blacktop and into the orphanage’s grounds. They pulled to a stop next to a Des Plaines PD cruiser. Ryan recognized the investigator, Tom Stokes, immediately. He was a giant of a black man who had played linebacker at Northwestern, blew out his knee, and had settled for running down bad guys instead. Ryan had played ball with him on the interdepartmental softball league, and had struck up an immediate friendship with the man. They both loved Big Band music and Tom had invited Ryan to his home to admire his record collection. As Ryan rolled down his car window, Stokes strode up to their car. With his collar turned up against the wind, and his hands jammed into his coat pockets, he leaned into the window. “Oh, no. Here comes trouble.” Tom glanced across at Sam. “Check that, double trouble.”
Motioning to climb in, Ryan said, “Good to see you, too, Tom. Just a friendly visit, old buddy.” Tom opened the rear door, slid in across the seat. “Friendly visit my ass. CPD is off this thing, man. I got word from the Chief not to talk to you guys.”
Sam swiveled to face Tom. “I love the country. So invigorating. Don’t you think?”
Ignoring Sam, Tom turned to Ryan and pulled out his notepad. “Okay, I know it stinks. So here’s the skinny. Just remember, we never talked.”
“Couldn’t ‘a talked. We were never here, see?” Sam said.
Tom snorted and shook his head. “Anyway, archbishop and nun abducted by person or persons unknown. Also twelve-year-old boy, one Matthew Mendecka, disappeared from residence home same evening. No signs of forced entry. Just a blood-soaked kitchen floor. Ground’s too hard for tire tracks. Lab found a fragment of black denim. Aside from that, we’ve got nothing.”
“Blood belong to the nun or the archbishop?” Sam asked.
“The nun.”
“You say a kid?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah, a kid. But strange thing, he showed up the next night. Claims he doesn’t remember a thing,” Tom said.
“Kids are always running away from this place aren’t they? Sheila used to be out here all the time. I guess DCFS (Children and Family Services) has a regular group of state wards out here all the time, right Tom?”
Ryan’s fiancée, Sheila, had been a social worker for DCFS and was now a contract therapist.
Tom cupped his large hands and blew into them. “God, I hate this cold weather. Gonna take me a job down inMiami . Already got me one of those timeshare deals cookin’. But yeah, we get calls all the time from here. Runaways up the kazoo. Hey, Sheila should have told you ‘bout this kid, he was on her caseload. Hell, maybe the kid doesn’t know anything. Just a coincidence.”
“Bet ya two Benny Goodman’s, he does,” Ryan answered.
Tom sighed, studied his hands, rubbing his palms together. “Yeah, I bet he does, too.”
Sam nodded and said, “Don’t think you’d care forMiami . Too damn humid in August. But they’ve got some pretty little Jewish Cubano girls down there, lapping up the sunshine. Thongs, bronze beauties with no tan lines . . .”
For a moment, Sam’s words distracted them. Ryan punched Sam in the shoulder, and shook his head. “See what I’m stuck with for a partner?”
Tom smiled wide. “Yeah, but he’s got a point.” Tom braced himself and opened the car door. “Come on. Sheila’s inside with the boy. Let’s go. Just hope you guys write a good letter of recommendation for me when I get shit-canned from this outfit!”
But just as Sam and Ryan exited and moved toward the building, a black Chevy Suburban tore past, spraying them with frosted gravel from the drive. Sam cursed and brushed his tattered overcoat with the backs of his hands. The Suburban ground to a halt, the doors flew open, and out poured a cluster of men wearing dark suits and topcoats. They formed a phalanx, blocking the entrance to the home.
Ryan turned to Tom. “What the hell? Who are all the empty suits?”
“Looks like the Feds to me. Let’s find out.”
Although they had worked with various federal agencies in the past, none of them recognized these faces. They approached, flashed their shields, and attempted to enter. A stern looking young agent blocked their path. Sam stepped up to the plate and said, “Official business, gentlemen.” He took another step. Now he was nose-to-nose with the agent. Sam turned to Ryan, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped back. A small lump of a man about five-feet-seven with tiny feet and a pasta gut hanging over his belt came out of the home. Ignoring the detectives and addressing only the agent, he said, “Mr. Kyle, do we have a problem here?” He stood on tiptoes as he said it, chomping down on a Snicker Bar.
The agent kept looking straight ahead, glaring at Sam. “No, Sir. No problem.”
Taking their cue, the detectives moved forward. “Oh, I beg to differ, Sir.” Displaying his badge, Sam continued, “You see, what we have here is a failure to communicate. You know who we are, but we are at a total loss as to . . . who the fuck you are!”
The lump chortled, ran his tongue over his teeth, and smacked his lips. Pausing for a moment, he reached into his inner vest pocket with his sausage-like fingers, and produced his credentials. A thin, haughty smile rose to his face, as he licked the chocolate from his fingers. “Special Agent in Charge, Peter Manwich,U.S. DSS. That’s Diplomatic Security Service if you didn’t know, boys.” He licked another finger.
Ryan saw his life, and his new potential career with the feds, flash before his eyes. He thought, maybe if I just back away real slow like . . . 
But then Sam barked, “Oh, we know what it is. But unless you get the hell out of my way, Candyman, I’ll shove that cred’ case right up your—” Tom grabbed Sam’s arm.
Though Tom also saw his dream, the white sands of Miami Beach, dissolve into a vision of him standing behind the counter of Mickey D’s saying “Do you want fries with that?” he knew this was, by right, his turf. He put on his Sunday smile and all six foot four of his chiseled frame now towered over Agent Manwich. “Excuse Mr. Goldstein here, (he hoped that was the only name they’d remember) but this is an official homicide investigation and they’d like to interview the boy.”
“Oh, they would like to interview the boy? Well, why didn’t you just say so? Sure you can talk with the child,” said Manwich as he attempted to pick nougat from between his teeth with his tongue.
Tom blew a sigh of relief and turned to Sam and Ryan. “See, a little diplomacy, guys. That’s all it takes.”
Manwich rubbed his chin with his tiny, pasty hand. “Sure, just as soon as you come back with a court order from a U.S. Magistrate. I’m afraid this is a matter of National Security. You see your State Department frowns on having foreign dignitaries from theVaticanState butchered while visiting your fair city.” Manwich waived a court order in Tom’s face and continued, “So as they say inHollywood, don’t call us, we’ll call you!” He smiled and wheeled about making for the door. But then he paused, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Agent Kyle, why don’t you escort these gentlemen to their car.”
Agent Kyle smiled thinly, but just as he started to move, Sam threw up his hands in capitulation and turned. As Sam turned he whispered, “Don’t forget to write, now.” And blew a little kiss.
As they walked off, Tom bit his lower lip and slowly rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, sniffling slightly. “Feel a cold comin’ on. Think I’ll take a little time off. Maybe take the family down south.” Sam and Ryan shot him a glance. “And if you two know what’s good for ya, so will you.” Tom squeezed his towering frame into his car and sped off.
Ryan sighed as he watched Tom’s cruiser disappear down the ribbon of blacktop. “Hey, no biggie, partner. But somebody is sure as hell keeping the wraps on this thing.”
Sam stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and cocked his head toward Ryan. “But you’ll talk to Sheila and get the nitty-gritty, right?”
“What? Pump my own fiancée for info? Bet your sweet ass, I will.”
They climbed into the squad. Ryan phoned in dinner reservations for Sheila’s favorite restaurant—The Rosebud.
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
SEATED IN THE car, Josey stared out the window as they wound their way through the city, down I-90 east, and ontoLake Shore Drive South . Mounds of dirty slush were piled high along the highway, cloaked in a shawl of freshly fallen snow. Five inches already and the sheeting snow continued to pelt the city. Uri briefed her as they drove. He was young, all of about twenty-six years old, with a jovial disposition. His features were handsome, but sharp. His brown eyes, alert and cautious. As the car curved past theMuseumofScience and Industry, Josey again peered out the car window. Her breath fogged the cold glass, trembling against it. Thinking of her father, she sighed and paused for a moment, then drew a heart-shaped figure on the frost-edged glass with her finger.
Their car pulled to the curb and Josey walked east from58thstreet , and into the quads. TheUniversityofChicago ’s campus was huge, several square blocks. Her father’s office was housed in theDivinitySchool , Swift Hall. A handsome, Gothic, limestone building with massive archways and porticoes, even castle-like turrets. The winter-dried vines of ivy crawled like skeletal fingers across the old brick and colonnaded limestone.
A blanket of snow swaddled the barren shrubbery and dusted the rooftops. Angels could have folded their wings, coming to rest on such rooftops. But the snowfall was heavier now, relentless. It almost concealed the city’s grimy face and soiled undergarments in a virgin white wedding gown.
Josey followed a flagstone path across the quad, past freeze-dried flowerbeds, where bare earth lay like a fresh grave.
In Swift Hall now, outside the door of her father’s office, Josey’s hand reached for the doorknob. She hesitated.
The sound of muffled music and grainy, slightly quivering voices filled her ears. Although she hadn’t heard her father’s voice for years, nor the song, she recognized both immediately. The song was BeiMirBistdu Schoen (means that you’re grand) by the Andrews Sisters: her father’s favorite. She entered. Her father stood behind his desk, singing and directing with a ruler as his baton. Outside, the wind, with its invisible baton, conducted a chorus of haunting voices. She swallowed audibly as she took in the sight of him. Max Schulman was a typical professor with a dark bristle of eyebrows, and a dark moustache thinning to a gray-speckled beard. Curly, white hair laurelled his balding head. And marble-black piercing eyes peeked out from his dark- framed eyeglasses. His face radiated with the inner glow of the peace that dwelt within. Max paused as if sensing her presence. His smile warmed the room and her heart. She ran to him. They held one another for a minute, which seemed at the same time, far too long and far too fleeting.
Max held Josey at arm’s length, studying her. “ Gott , how you’ve grown, Josephine!” She blushed and shrugged, soaking in a father’s love, a father’s attention. Max shook his head. His eyes glistening, he continued, “If only Muta could see you, daughter. She would be so proud.” Then a look of confusion washed over his face. “But these clothes . . . don’t they pay you a decent wage, girl?”
Josey laughed and explained. “Low profile, Tateh. My cover is a foreign student. Didn’t they tell you?”
Max Schulman turned, removed the needle from the record, and motioned for Josey to take a seat. Every inch of each wall was covered in overflowing bookcases. His desk was littered with papers. And on his desk, seated as if on her throne, sat a large, overfed, black Angora cat—Lilith. Purring softly. Somnolent. Indifferent.
“Ah, yes, the clandestine machinations of your profession. It’s no matter; you look none the less for ware on the outside. But tell me, Josephine. Are you happy?” As he said it, Josey’s eyes slid away. “Just as I thought. I can see into your heart, mayan tokhter .” He moved around the desk; pulled up a chair at her side. He took her hand in his and held it tight. Tears welled up in her eyes and she broke down in deep sobs, finally throwing her arms around him. He held her close and stroked her hair. Pressed his cheek to hers.
Her pain, her fear and loneliness, bled into his arms. Regaining her composure, she slowly began to speak, “I’m sorry, Tateh . . . so sorry. I’m too old for this!” She stiffened the hatred returning. “Those bastards . . . they killed Zio Lotti! Not with their own hands but just as surely. I just needed you, needed you so badly that—”
Max interrupted her, and reaching out to grasp her chin, he held her eyes. “Never apologize for being a human being, foolish girl. I know that you think ice water runs in your veins. And maybe, by now, it does. But sometimes you need to let it melt a little, no?”
The cat jumped from the desktop onto the floor. At first milling about her, then rubbing against her legs and curling its tail languidly around her calf.
The blood returned to Josey’s cheeks. And just as a sunlit filigreed cloud signals hope, a faint smile broke through her storm-clouded face. “Of course, you’re right. Can we have dinner tonight?” Max’s eyebrows rose like question marks, he chuffed. “Well, yes, if you can fit me into your schedule that is?”
A tumbler clicked in Josey’s brain. Back to business. She rose and paced about the office and halted. Turning to her father, she asked, “Did you receive the book from Benjamin?”
Outside, a gust of wind soughed through the eaves of the building. A singular note played through an ice-carved flute.
“Why, yes. A singularly remarkable book it is. As remarkably vile as it is complex and mysterious.”
“How, so?” Josey asked.
Speaking as Professor Schulman now, he continued, “I’ve made the study of man’s religions and beliefs my life’s work. As the man once said, ‘I do not know as much as God, but I know as much as God did at my age.’ Some books demonstrate man’s finest hour, man’s noblest achievement. But others . . . demonstrate his darkest hour, his basest instincts.”
“And this book?”
“You already have seen the results of its evil.”
“Only the evil of men,” Josey said. “Men driven by greed and ambition. There’s nothing particularly supernatural about that.”
Max frowned, his face creasing with anger. “Don’t be so quick to discount evil as a true force in this universe, as a separate entity. There are those, even theologians, who deny its existence; call it a metaphor. There are those who devote their lives to battling it. Some run from it. Others, by their nature, align themselves with it unwittingly. There are those who, knowing of its true existence and its black heart—still seek it out.”
Josey took a seat, listening intently. “It’s those seekers who are most dangerous, Josey. Seekers who understand its power and know how to use it. Evil reversed is Live; and Live is their motto. Dr. Carl Sagan referred to our reptilian nature, imbedded deep in our genetic makeup. These seekers are hybrid throw- backs, scaled over with a vicarious appetite for ever more intense stimuli. Their tolerance level increases with each injection of perversity. They become addicts, addicts of raw sensation and experience: an aberrant Gnois . If you intend to confront such men, it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn whether you truly believe or not.” Josey looked puzzled, tilted her head.
For a moment the mere thought strangled their voices into separate silences.
Max broke the silence. “You don’t have to believe or understand thermonuclear energy to be vaporized by a ten-megaton warhead do you? And there are those who believe that the symbols in this book can act on a quantum level, as does the brain itself, unleashing forces we don’t fathom, can’t truly fathom.”
“But you can’t believe—?”
Her father stepped on her words, his eyes glaring at her, and then, looking inward, he spoke: “Believe? Most certainly. Just as I believe in the ancient studies of our faith, Tokhter ! The Kabbalah !” He bowed his head; his fingers ran across a volume of the Zohar lying on his desk.
The word flooded her mind with memories. Josey recalled now with crystal clarity occasions in her childhood when she had been awakened in the middle of the night by cries from her parent’s bedroom. Mother would come to reassure her that it was nothing; her father had had another one of his night terrors. Josey would toss and turn and eventually fall off to sleep. But even now she could hear her father’s voice, as it had risen in a keening wail of terror, the babbling of a man trapped and tortured by things he could not name. Dybbuks  . Ghost-Demons of the night.
“Yes, Tateh.” Josey saw this was getting nowhere. Her father had perhaps spent too many hours alone with his thoughts, alone with arcane knowledge. “Do you have the book in a safe place, then?”
He patted his jacket pocket and said, “Right here, I never have let it out of my sight.”
“So how do I fight them, Tateh?”
“Their weakness is their pride, their vanity. If you insist upon flushing them out, I suggest that I place notice in the academic journal announcing a talk on the book as part of our lecture series. You sit back and wait.”
“Said the spider to the fly?”
“Yes, but make sure you don’t become the fly!”
“Do you have any thoughts as to who is the leader—?”
Then the door opened. A tall man dressed in the traditional garb of the Lubavitcher movement of Hasidic Jews—black clothing, white shirt, dread locks, and a full beard—entered. His face was all hard planes—a prominent jaw line, a large angular nose, and glass-sharp cheekbones. But his eyes were warm, even kind, and his mouth full and generous. Powerful were his shoulders and arms as well as his large hands. But when he moved it was with a timid grace, as though he feared he would frighten strangers. His voice had a serious, but mellifluous tone. “O-hh, excuse me, professor, but someone is here to see you.”
Lilith hissed and shot back behind the desk.
The professor looked bewildered. “To see me?” he asked, checking his appointment calendar. “Yes, there it is. I’d forgotten.” Josey nodded toward the tall man. “Oh, yes. Allow me to present Rabbi Jacob Yomach Goldstein, my associate. Rabbe, my daughter, Josephine.” Josey stood and proffered her hand. But she noticed that even though the Rabbi smiled with his lips, his eyes were far away.
Max stood and moved toward the door. “Excuse me, won’t you? I shouldn’t be long. You could wait in Rabbi Goldstein’s office, downstairs.”
As she left, a diminutive man brushed past her, wearing a thin smile and carrying a walking stick. He was stooped over, had long disheveled white hair, and dragged his left leg as he moved. He appeared ancient, fragile as tissue paper. In a thick German accent he said, “Excuse me, Fraulein.”
 
* * *
 
Seated in the Rabbi’s office on the first floor, Josey pulled out a pack of cigarettes. The Rabbi, somewhat befuddled, rummaged through his desk drawers and found an ashtray. Josey lit her cigarette and blew a plume into the air as she spoke. “Have you been with my father long?”
The Rabbi stammered slightly. “Yes, about four years now. He’s a brilliant man. His mind’s still razor sharp.”
“Yes, I know. Are you fromChicago ?”
“My family moved fromBrooklyn when I was a child.”
“Big, traditional family I bet?” Josey noticed the family pictures on the wall.
“Traditional, yes. My father was a Rabbi, too. But not big.” He studied the floor a moment, and then looked up. “Just my brother and me.”
Josey took a drag and winked. “Has he got a name?”
“Of course,” he swallowed hard, “it’s Samuel. He’s a policeman. Rather a detective with the Chicago Police Department.” Josey sensed the strained family relations in the forced tone of his voice. “A copper and a rabbi? Right some wrongs, save some souls,” she said as she bore into his eyes, toying with him. The Rabbi wrung his hands, looked about nervously. Josey was having a little fun with him; she was bored.
Suddenly, he moved for the door. “I just remembered. I have a meeting.” He paused and bowed saying, “I hope your visit is fruitful and pleasant. Shalom.” He was out the door.
Josey sat chain-smoking. She crossed one leg over the other, counting away the minutes with each flex of her ankle.
After awhile, a feeling of dread leached into her. Fragmented thoughts ran across her mind like fire ants. She bolted from her chair and into the outer hallway. Empty . . . Nobody . . . Zip.
At first, walking hurriedly, searching, listening and then, she heard it, the ding of the elevator. A muffled cry.
She broke into a dead run, screeching to a halt at the elevator door just as it closed.
“Damn it!”
Somehow she knew it, knew it in her gut, her father was in danger and in that elevator. Glancing up at the floor indicator, watching the numbers change as it rose steadily upward, she pounded the call button.
First floor.
Second.
She ran for the stairwell, crashed through the door and bounded up the stairs. Her Doc Martins slapping the concrete steps, layered echoes, intertwined in a chorus that followed her up the stairwell, barking at her heels.
She climbed two floors and realized this was hopeless (ten more floors to her father’s office). She rammed the emergency bar of the exit door and tumbled sideways as she rounded the corridor back to the elevator door.
She heard it. Ding.
Standing at the door, lungs burning, she saw the doors begin to slide open. She took a step, hesitated and willed herself to move. Claustrophobia was her Achilles heel. She steeled herself and entered the elevator. Eyes searching everywhere, she strode to the rear, and turned sharply.
The elevator became sweltering; the air so thick Josey could hardly breathe. Beads of perspiration dappled her forehead.
Her blouse, equally damp with sweat, matted against the small of her back.
The devil was in the details and in an instant her world became obsessed with details: the sibilant hiss of the closing elevator door, the blinding-harsh overhead lighting, the jolt of the compartment and the creak of cables as it rose.
Third floor. Fourth floor . . . Sixth floor… The soft hum of the ventilation fan.
She wasn’t alone after all. There in the corner, next to the control panel, stood a dignified little man. She took him inwith a glance. His black overcoat was tailored; his complexion was pasty with a trace of pink like a baby’s cheeks—no, more like an elf, with gray wisps of fine hair. His hands rested uponan ebony walking stick with an ornate silver handle. As herocked on the balls of his tiny feet, he whistled the Disney song Heigh-Ho  .
“Floor please?” he said, turning with an innocuous but naughty smile.
“Twelfth floor, please?” she replied calmly, returning hisgrin. Two can play this game. 
The surrounding walls seemed to crush in toward her like the plates of a hydraulic press.
Ninth floor.
Tenth.
Shrugging his diminutive shoulders, he lisped, “These old buildings and old elevators require patience.” His watery little eyes stared, studying her, drinking her in.
 Are you a patient person, young lady? You appear somewhat distraught. Can you relish this moment, the ecstasy of doubt? The intensity of the unknown? Can you? You little Hmeshe Kurve(hometown whore) ! 
She heard the words, but couldn’t believe her eyes. Hislips never moved. No—just that impish little smile. It must be my nerves  ,she thought .Then her eyes zoomed in on thewalkingstick. Yes, it was the same. Just like the one the old man had carried when he brushed past her in the doorway to Tateh’s office. Same man, same stick?
Just as she was about to answer the elevator shuddered to a stop. The doors opened and in walked a bosomy dowager with her consort tucked beneath her arm: a miniature French poodle, followed by a gaggle of students. The room shrunk around Josey now. The thought of sharing this tiny compartment with this press of bodies terrified her.
She peered over the top of the old dame’s wide-brim hat, stealing a glimpse of the little man. He no longer looked old and fragile but her instincts told her it was defiantly somehow the same man. Had to be. Her hand moved to the fanny pack around her waist; she slid her hand into the Velcro pouch that held her weapon. The cold gunmetal bolstered her courage and bridled her phobia.
Eleventh floor.
She felt something on her wrist, something wet.
Plop . . .
She glanced down. There, against her skin, a tiny blotch of red, and then another. Josey shook as the honed point of a blade ran between her shoulder blades. She looked up. A dark stain was flowering on the ceiling tile of the elevator cab.
Plop . . .
A droplet landed on a young, female student’s nose. She raised her hand to wipe it away. The girl looked down and screamed.
Twelfth floor.
Like toppling dominos, the first the students, then the dowager, and finally her poodle, fell into panic. A chorus of screams erupted, the poodle threw back its head howling . . . bodies pushing and shoving each other . . . moving in a wave toward the door. Frenzy.
Ding.
Thirteenth floor.
Josey pushed and scrambled upward. Using the cab’s handrail as a foothold, she reached up, and pulled open the overhead trap-door. There, suspended from the steel cables—a body—her father. His body hung upside down, swaying. His right ankle lashed to his left knee—forming an inverted numeral four. His throat cut ear to ear.
The doors parted and the little imp, with the speed and grace of a whirling dervish, was out the door. He held a rose-colored book high above his head. Pointing it toward the bloodstained ceiling of the elevator, his voice changing from a lisp back into a thick German accent, he said, “My regards to, Tateh, Ms. Josey. Oh, and many thanks for retrieving my little book.”
The world skipped a beat . . . changing to slow motion.
Josey jumped down. As the semi-auto filled her hand, Josey fired a deafening round into the ceiling to get the mob down.
Everyone half ducked, half tumbled forward; everyone except the dowager, who like a true aristocrat, turned toward the gunshot as if to render her complaint. Her mouth caught the second slug, deflecting the shot so that the little man was bathed in a shower of old blood rather than steel-jacketed hollow-points.
Josey cursed the darkness. And as the elevator doors closed, the little imp bowed as if to make a final curtain call.
Somehow the little man had vanished into thin air. Uri, her partner, also pulled his own variety of magic. He appeared, flashing an FBI badge at campus police, and whisked Josey out of the building and into the car. The witnesses from the elevator were too panicked to protest or notice.
 
* * *
 
As he ran down the alley adjacent to Swift Hall, the little imp, Dr. Ordinaire, withdrew a long white wig from his pocket and pitched it into a trashcan. Miraculously, he no longer limped, but sprinted away and into the swirling snow, his coattails flapping like a black, starched witch’s skirt.
 
* * *
  
  V
  
SEATED IN THE Rosebud, staring into Ryan’s eyes by the dim glow of candlelight, Sheila was complete perfection. To Ryan’s notion, in the flickering light, Sheila’s face appeared more radiant than the flame itself.
She was tall, slender, looked like a Vassar girl, spoke like a sailor. But only when angered. The rose-colored halogen spotlights that beamed down from the ceiling haloed her strawberry-blond hair.
Her eyes were clear opals, innocent. She wore a size nine coordinated outfit by Donna Karen with matching ViaSpiga gray pumps. A cinnamon like dusting of freckles dotted her face. She was twenty eight years old and in love. She and Ryan were holding hands across the table. A bottle of Chianti and two glasses of wine. A loaf of fresh bread and a saucer filled with olive oil and ground black pepper ornamented the table. A crystal vase with two red roses intertwined like lovers. The perfect setting, the perfect place. They were celebrating the anniversary of their engagement: one week.
The main course arrived. Linguine with clam sauce, her favorite. He poured more wine never releasing his gaze. As they finished dessert, Ryan got down to business.
“Hey, Monkey Face.” He had stolen the endearment from CaryGrant who used it in Hitchcock’s Suspicion . She smiled long and warm, her dimples showing. “Have I told you that I loved you today?”
“Maybe, but tell me again,” she said.
“I love you.”
“Again, please?”
He smiled and tenderly rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. A storm cloud washed over his face.
“What’s wrong, honey? Am I too infatuated?”
She winked.
“No,” he said, reaching for a cigarette. He lit it and sighed. “Bad day. You know, the Feds ran us off this afternoon.
I thought Sam was going to have a bird, full meltdown.”
“You can handle him. That’s not what’s eating you is it, Michael? Is it the boy?”
“Sometimes I think you’ve got some Gypsy bloodline mixed in along with all that Irish blarney. Your dad ever spend time inRomania ?”
She flicked her hair and laughed.
“Vat do youvant to know?”
“Okay, Portia. Enough with the jokes. Tell me about the kid. Please?”
Now dark clouds also blotted out the radiance of her smile.
She bit her lower lip. Her hand trembled slightly in his. The waiter came, she waived him off.
“Okay, here goes . . . Matt was raised in a cult. You ever heard of satanic ritual abuse?”
“Yeah sure on Geraldo or Oprah .”
“Those are the dabblers, thefreakos . You’ll never see a die-hard Satanist on those shows pitching their slogan to bored housewives betweenWalmart ads. No, they attend church, act as pillars of the community. Seldom, if ever, are caught.”
“They caught Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker,” Ryan chided.
“A lone sociopath. Not an organized ring of pedophiles. Now on the other hand David Berkowitz, Son of Sam, was a member of theProcessChurch , so was the Manson family.”
“Point taken. I just never ran up against them.”
“Well, now you have.”
“Honey, don’t tell me you buy that crap. Organized cults, butchering people in the moonlight, burning dead babies in incinerators, hooked up with undertakers and doctors.”
“Yup, I do.”
“And I suppose you believe in Alien Abductions, Big Foot, and Crop Circles, too?”
“No, of course not. Well, not Big Foot, anyway. Listen to me, Michael. You asked me. Now do you want to hear it or not?”
Her Irish temper was beginning to flare. Blood rushed to her cheeks. On the inside Michael thought crap but on the outside he said, “Sorry? Please, go ahead?”
“I’ve seen one too many of these cases. It’s real. I’ve talked to the survivors. That’s what they’re called. Many of the baby-boomers are coming of age. They go to therapy. They remember.”
“I thought they debunked that with FMS—false memory syndrome?”
“Yeah right . . . did you know many of the heads of those FMS organizations are accused perpetrators themselves? They’d love to have everyone buy into that line of reasoning.”
“Disinformation?”
“Exactly!” she smiled now. “You’re a pretty bright investigator, Mr. Ryan.”
“Well, not lately . . . but, please? What about the kid?”
“I’m getting there. His aunt Susan St. Clair spilled the beans on the family. She became his guardian after he was taken away from his parents. His Daddy was a polysubstance abuser. I’ll leave out the graphic details of what they did to the kid.”
“Thanks. The father was a doper?”
“Right. You name it, he did it. Mama, too. She vanished. But the grandmother and a whole slew of relatives crawled out from under rocks all over the country to claim this kid. It’s called a Gothic, traditional, transgenerational cult. Planned marriages and the whole nine yards. Susan dropped a dime on them, and her mother corroborated the whole thing.”
“Planned marriages?”
“Why not? The Mormons do it,” she said. “As a matter of fact Susan’s father was in on it, too, up to his eyeballs. But she and her mom bolted. Went into hiding, still are.”
“Some kind of underground shelter system like for abused women?” he asked.
“Pretty much. But these people like to play for keeps. They brainwash the kids, abuse beyond description. Drug them, hypnotize them. Classic techniques of mind control. Make them commit unspeakable acts, and then blackmail them over it. I think they groomed Matt. And now he’s almost thirteen. Time for adulthood within the cult. We’ve learned a lot from studying the various cults. It wasn’t that long ago that Patty Hearst was locked in a closet, raped, and brainwashed, now was it?”
“She was convicted for robbing a bank, as I remember.”
Sheila shot him a pensive look. “People, even most professionals, didn’t know that much about it back then. It was long beforeJonesTown ,Waco , and even September 11thwasn’t it?”
“You’re right, sometimes we just can’t think the unthinkable or don’t want to.” Ryan lit another cigarette. “But how does it tie in with the murder of the archbishop and the nun?”
“You’ve seen the headlines. Do you think it’s an accident that all these kids are being molested by priests?”
“You mean the archbishop and the nun were… pedophiles?”
Even as the words left his mouth, Ryan felt a row of ice-craved dominos topple down his spine. Stubbing out his cigarette, he said, “That’s quite a leap, isn’t it?” He sat back, braced himself.
“It’s an avenue to pursue, right? The church has a long history of being involved in Satanism. Ever hear of Father Malachi Martin?” she asked.
“Yeah, heard him on late night radio. Had a fictional novel about a Black Mass being held right in theVatican . Part of an overall plan to overthrow the Catholic Church. He sure as hell stirred up a hornet’s nest of enemies within theVatican .” Pausing for a moment, searching his encyclopedic memory, he said, “But wait, he’s dead!”
Sheila nodded her head slowly, deliberately.
Now Ryan began to show concern, fear knitted its pattern across his face. Fear for Sheila. Christ —fear for himself. The sense memory of his own childhood molestation that haunted him that day in the alley tore at his stomach lining. A cold sweat beaded his forehead. He’d never told anyone. Maybe it was time he did. Maybe now . . . No! 
Sheila asked the waiter for some ice water. He brought it quickly and Ryan downed the glass.
“Like I said, it’s an ugly business, Michael. Susan told me of her own story in therapy. She told of how they drugged her, and dragged her to an abandoned church. How her own father bolted the door. How he offered her as a consecrated bride to Satan, and they all took turns raping her. Drinking and eating things you wouldn’t care to hear about. I saw the look in her eyes, Michael. She wasn’t making it up—”
A couple at the adjacent table was staring now. Sheila wrinkled up her nose. Ryan made the “crazy” sign with his finger and pointed to Sheila. They scowled and studied their plates, as if they’d never seen parsley before.
“So you think the kid had something to do with the murders?” Ryan asked. But before she could answer, Ryan’s cell phone rang.
He answered it.
“Ryan.”
“It’s me, Stokes. Got a minute?”
“Sure, what gives?”
“Remember, you didn’t hear it from me, but we found the murder weapon.”
“Where?”
“Behind the stove in the kitchen.”
“Any prints?”
“Yeah, that’s why I called. The lab found a clear thumb-print.”
“Got a match yet?”
“Yousittin ’ down?” Tom asked.
“Just lay it out for me, will ya?” Ryan said.
“It was a long shot, but the staff had prints on file with our department and the state.”
“Come on Tom, the suspense iskillin ’ me here. So, it was the butler or what?” Ryan shot a bewildered look toward Sheila.
“We had all the kid’s prints, too—”
Ryan cut him off. “Don’t say it, Tom. Just don’t.”
“Yeah,” Tom gave a long sigh, “it was the kid’s, Matt Mendecka.”
“Jesus, do the Feds know?”
“Yeah, but they didn’t seem surprised. They tore the place apart looking for the archbishop’s laptop computer.”
“Laptop? Doesn’t make sense, does it?” Ryan asked.
“We found a frayed telephone modem line on the archbishop’s desktop, and a few chips of plastic. Like it had been ripped from the socket. I guess that’s how they zeroed in on a computer.”
“A double homicide and all they care about is a missing computer. Doesn’t add up. Are you going to take the kid into custody?”
“Not me, not this department. Chief told me we’re out of it. I called the State’s Attorney’s Office and got the runaround.”
“Don’t, tell me, national security, right?” Ryan was fuming.
“That’s the tune they’re playing, Ryan.”
“Thanks for the info, Tom. This thing gets weirder by the minute.”
“Tell me about it. Gotta go, now. And Ryan . . . be careful where you poke your nose, okay?”
“I’ll try my best.”
Just as Ryan hung up, Sheila’s phone rang. She took the call. After finishing, the blood drained from her face as she said, “They just took Matt to Methodist General; he had another seizure.” She blinked back tears.
Grabbing his coat and helping Sheila into hers, Ryan said, “I’ll pick up Sam and meet you at the hospital, okay?”
She nodded. “I’ll be all right. Just hurry.” And as she turned for the door she stopped. “Michael, I—”
“I love you, too, Monkey Face. Don’t worry, we’ll help that kid. No matter what it takes.” He lifted one of her delicate hands and kissed her knuckles. Her lip quivered but she managed a smile. “That’s my girl,” he said.
A cold gust of wind poured into the restaurant as someone left. The two entwined roses in the vase on the table drooped, limp and lifeless.
 VI
  
NUMBED BY LOSS, enraged with anger, Josey sat next to Uri on the sofa. They had flown to a prearranged safe house. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the cigarette-scarred table. And next to it laid an uneaten sandwich and an ashtray filled to the brim. The minutes and hours since her father’s death ticked away with the ceaseless length of centuries. She had cried until no more tears could flow, as if the burning rage that coursed through her veins had consumed them in their conflagration.
Uri looked deep into her eyes and reached for the whisky-filled glass as she raised it to her mouth. “Josey, that’s enough! You’ve had too much already.”
Batting his hand away, she took another long swallow and said, “Enough? NO. Maybe it’ll never be enough. Not until I get that little bastard. Not until he pays with his life!”
Uri gulped hard sensing her pain. “We’ll get him, Josey. But you need some rest. The whisky won’t dull the pain, it never does. Please, Tateh wouldn’t want to see you like this would he?”
Josey spun around and slapped him hard, leaving a welt on his cheek. Their eyes met and she fell into his arms, sobbing softly again. Her head rolled to the side and she was out cold. Uri had laced her last drink with a sedative, knowing it was the only way to get it into this stubborn, brave woman.
Violin music . . . the fragrant scent of wild flowers . . . the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. A voice. She looks to see Tateh at her side; leaf-filtered sunlight dapples his face in dancing shadows. Muta at his side, her long silken hair swept by the breath of a summer breeze. A young man approaches. The young man is standing and longing fills his eyes. It’s little Daniel, her childhood sweetheart. He’s singing Tumbalayka:
 Maiden, maiden tell me true 
 What can grow, grow without the dew? 
 What can burn for years and years? 
 What can cry without shedding tears? 
 And in a little girl’s voice she answers: 
 Silly boy, I’ll tell you true! 
 . . . Love can burn for years and years; a heart can cry without shedding tears . . .
A tug on her arm and a gentle voice pulled Josey back from dreamland. She woke bleary-eyed with a pounding hangover. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of an ashtray. Another tug at her arm. It was Levine, the local case officer.
“Josey, it’s time to move.” Levine threw her a bathrobe. “Get showered and dressed quickly now. You’re too hot. We need to get you the hell out ofChicago and now.”
Josey swung her feet over the edge of the bed and sat up. Her brain seemed to wiggle within her skull like Jell-O in an oversized bowl. Reaching for a cigarette on the bedside table, she thought better and pulled back her hand.
She glared at Levine. “Out ofChicago ? No way in hell! Not until I find that little bastard who killed my father!”
Levine reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cipher cable, and tossed it onto her lap. She looked unbelievingly at the cable, reading it twice. Then a different look washed over her face. Anger.
“I knew you wouldn’t listen to a word I said. Can’t say I’d feel any different if it had been my father. But you fucked up. Killed an innocent and not just anyone. No, you had to take out some filthy rich old dame with tons of political connections.”
“The crazy old woman just got in the way—”
Pouncing on her now, Levine said, “Does the name Daily ring any bells?”
“No can’t say that I’ve . . . Don’t tell me—”
“Yes, you killed the Mayor of Chicago’s great-aunt!”
“But—”
“His rich, deep-pockets-to-the-democratic-machine’s-war-chest aunt no less. Abraham wanted you back in Tel Aviv, but I persuaded him to let you cool your heels shuffling paper at the embassy inToronto for awhile.”
“I guess I should’ve capped a Republican instead.”
Uri appeared at the bedroom doorway, shopping bags in hand, shaking his head.
Nodding toward the bags, Levine said, “You’ll find some clothing, and a wig inside.” He tossed her an envelope. “A ticket toToronto , a clean Canadian passport, credit cards, and drivers license.”
Standing at the Air Canada ticket counter, the tall statuesque blonde said, “Excuse me but I’ve had a last minute change in plans.” The prim, sour-faced ticket agent strained to smile as she glanced at the woman’s passport lying on the counter. “Yes, Mrs. King. How can I help you?”
Josey’s topaz eyes peeked over the top of her sunglasses as she said, “When is your next flight toWashington,D.C. ?”
The ticket agent tapped her keyboard. “We have a flight that departs in one hour.”
“That’ll be just fine.”
“One way or round trip?”
“Round trip,” Josey blurted. “Definitely round trip.”

PART II
 
TYPHON’S STORM

 
“So farewell hope, farewell fear, farewell
remorse . . . evil be thou my good.”
Milton:ParadiseLost

CHAPTER 9
 
 I: Lost Boys
  
SHEILA RILEY STOOD anxiously waiting with Dr. Greenbaum as the winter wind drummed against the glass panes of the hospital lobby’s windows. Snowflakes swirled and danced like butterflies against the subdued yellow glow of the parking lot’s sodium-vapor lights. This jaundice spectrum of light bathed everything in an eerie hue, transformed everything into an off-gray mottled color.
Susan St. Clair’s old, rusted-out station wagon struggled to climb the slippery upgrade of the hospital entrance. As its bald tires spun, the one working headlight peeked through the darkness and the blinding snow.
Susan’s hands clenched the steering wheel in a death grip and she shivered, but not from the fact that the car’s heater had given up the ghost last week; she trembled with sheer fright.
She exited the car, the snow crunching beneath her with each footfall, leaving a trail of black footprints in the white powder that dusted the asphalt parking lot. The driving needles of snow particles stung her cheeks. She buried her chin deep in the red scarf wrapped around the upturned collar of her overcoat. She felt the warm exhalation of her breath blow back against the dampness of the scarf.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
A DARK SILHOUETTE, like a charcoal cut out against a coal black background, lurked in the mantle of the night. Its nostrils flared. Inhaling her very presence. Her every move.
Watching. Waiting.
 
* * *
 
 III
  
SUSAN ENTERED THE lobby. A cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other. Her cheeks were burning red, her blond hair sprinkled powdery-white and wet. She raised a quivering hand to her scarf, and lowered it. Then pressed the cigarette to her lips and took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke high into the air. Tears welled up in her wind-ravaged eyes.
Susan was strung-out. Her incessant chain-smoking and daily twenty cups of coffee were the visual clues to her battered and misshapen psyche: the remnant of years of cruelty and abuse she’d suffered.
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
OUTSIDE, GUSTS OF howling wind formed miniature twisters, becoming denser as they floated across snow banks, gathering in mass with each ensuing moan of the storm.
And the dark, amorphous shape also took on more definition. Jets of steam from its nostrils cut the sub-zero air. The sinuous humanlike form stirred from its hiding place and moved toward the hospital’s side entrance. Unseen.
The shrill scraping bite of a snowplow’s blade against the roadway pierced the quiet bedlam of the storm.
The black apparition’s pebbled tongue flickered as it retreated; slithered into the cloak of darkness. It paused.
The snowplow passed. A guttural snarl of exasperation passed from between the stalker’s curled lips.
The red beacon of Ryan’s rooftop fireball sprayed across the hospital’s brick facade and bounced off the glass entrance door, dying the falling snow with the stain of blood.
The night visitor, The Other , ducked between two parked cars, pressing its back hard against a car door.
Again. It watched. It waited.
 
* * *
 
 V
  
SHEILA RILEY APPROACHED Susan and placed the therapist’s “arm of reassurance”—the arm of comfort—around Susan’s shuddering shoulders. As Ryan and Goldstein entered the hospital, they stomped the slush from their snow boots onto the mat. Sheila made the necessary introductions.
“Susan, listen darling. Everything is going to be all right. You have to trust me on this.”
“I trust you,” Susan said. “But I want to see Matty!”
Sheila looked deeply into Susan’s eyes. “Matt’s in the best of hands. He’s safe now. And Dr. Greenbaum will help him, he’ll help you, too, if you just let him . . . okay?”
Susan sighed, her lower lip trembling slightly.
Susan broke into tears and staggered slightly. Sheila, her therapist, her friend, grabbed her arm to steady her. Comforting her now, Sheila nodded toward Ryan, signaling that they needed to talk.
After handing Susan off to Dr. Greenbaum, Sheila moved to Ryan, gave him a quick hug, and a peck on the cheek. He bent close and said, “Honey, is she gonna be okay?”
“She’s been through a lot. And this setback with Matt doesn’t help,” Sheila answered.
Ryan dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, and then remembering where he was, shoved them back. He rubbed his brow, choosing his next words. “Listen, honey, did the doctor say if we could interview the boy?”
Sheila shook her head. “Not yet, he’s still almost fully catatonic. When he first came in they tried to IV him, but he went so rigid that the needle popped out and literally flew across the room.”
Ryan’s eyebrows furrowed. “I can’t help the kid if I can’t speak to him. You know that. Maybe Sam and I should come back tomorrow.”
Sheila cut him off in midsentence with a punch to the arm and whispered, “Don’t you dare leave here, Michael Ryan. You know damn well why you’re here. You stubborn Irishman. You’ll have to see this all with your own eyes to believe. And when you do, you’ll feel just as compelled to help these people as I am. And you know that kid’s in trouble. Damn it all, Michael Ryan!”
Without giving him the chance to respond, Sheila took his hand and led him toward Susan.
Sheila said, “Susan, don’t worry. Michael . . . I mean Sgt. Ryan is here to help you.” Susan and Ryan exchanged glances as Sheila continued. “He and his partner,” nodding toward Sam, “will do everything within their power to help and protect Matt.” Sheila jabbed Ryan in the ribs with her elbow.
“Um-m, yes, Ms. St. Clair. We want to hear your story.” He motioned for Sam to approach. Sam gave a quick wink and a smile and nodded toward Susan.
A slight smile came to Susan’s face. “Thank you, officers. Sometimes I feel like giving up, but I can’t for Matty’s sake. Sometimes I feel like I’m going insane, the way people look at me when I tell them what happened to Matty and me.”
Sam shook his head. “And sometimes, Ms. St. Clair, people don’t ask for help. They think nobody could believe them. Nobody really cares. But you’ve asked for help and we’re here. And Ms. St. Clair, we do care.” Sam reached out, took Susan’s hand in his, and looked long and dolefully into her eyes.
Susan sniffed back a tear and turning to Sheila, she said, “Can I see Matty now, please?”
Ryan looked toward Sam with upturned palms to which Sam responded in his usual highly articulate manner: he shrugged.
As they rode the elevator to the pediatric psychiatric ward, no one spoke a word—utter silence—broken only by the ping of the elevator doors opening onto the thirteenth floor. When they exited, Sam turned to Ryan whispering, “I thought buildings didn’t have a thirteenth floor?”
“This one does,” Ryan said.
“Bad JUJU partner. Really bad JUJU.”
Ryan shot a scornful look at Sam—his cue to, “Shut the fuck up!”
Sheila’s high heels clicked in staccato rhythm on the hard, polished hospital floor as she led them to an observation room and Matt Mendecka.
Through the glass appeared a vision so sad; the young boy lay looking so helpless, so frail. A youthful nurse sat in the corner reading an old worn Reader’s Digest. Vital signs displayed on overhead monitors glowed green, imbuing the room with an eerie emerald hue. A gaggle of tubes and wires—octopus-like tentacles—were attached to the little boy, the little soldier, as he slept peacefully. A Chicago Cubs baseball cap hung above him on the headboard.
Sam rubbed his nose and complained about the odor of ether, or whatever that antiseptic-like smell was, found in all hospitals. Sam and Ryan both knew it wasn’t the odor that was upsetting him. Sam Goldstein, the big tough cop, didn’t want to shed a tear in public: that’s all, nothing very original, nothing very complex, just good old stubborn pride.
Susan St. Clair had no such compunctions. She broke down in heaving sobs of anguish. Dr. Greenbaum grabbed one arm and Sheila the other, as Susan’s legs turned to pudding.
“What have they done to him now? Oh, sweet Jesus. What have those bastards done to him now?” Susan cried hysterically.
“Come on, Susan. Sheila and I will explain everything.” Dr. Greenbaum comforted her in soft fatherly tones. “Let’s go to the office and sit down, Susan. Okay?”
As they departed Dr. Greenbaum turned to a nurse at his side and said, “Prepare the injection. NOW! ”
 
* * *
 
 VI
  
SAM AND RYAN did what all good cops do at time like this: they looked for coffee. They found a machine in the doctors’ lounge on the next floor.
“What do you think, Sam?”
“Think about what?”
“The boy? His aunt, Susan? What I told you on the way here about the kid’s seizures? What Sheila told me about this cult thing?”
“Oh, that,” Sam grunted as he dug in his pockets searching for change.
“Yes, that. That, for God’s sake. What did you think I meant? The price of gas, you idiot?”
Sam pulled four quarters out of his pocket and danced a little jig. “Oh yeah, all that spooky business you mean?”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Sam, helloMcFly .” Ryan rapped Sam’s head with his knuckles as though he were Biff the bully in Back to the Future . “What do you think?”
“You want black or cream?”
“Damn it! Since when do I take it black? Oh, what am I saying? Are you listening to me, Sam?”
“Hey, it’s one in the morning. My balls and feet are still frozen. I am not your damn girlfriend! Okay?” Sam shouted, his hand pounding the coffee machine.
Ryan pushed him to one side, deposited more quarters, hit the button, and . . . plop . . . down came one cup on top of another and then the coffee. “See Sammy, you need a slow hand that’s all.”
“Yeah, well your slow hand will be nothing but calluses from self-abuse real soon once you marry that ice princess, Sheila.”
Rage and hatred overcame Ryan in a flash.
With that, Ryan grabbed Sam by the lapels and threw him hard against the machine, drenching both of them in scalding coffee. Ryan shouted, “What the hell was that supposed to mean? What’s eating you anyway?”
“I don’t know . . . I just don’t know. But I do know I feel like puking.” As he ripped free of Ryan’s grip, he said, “And don’t crush the material, Blondie.”
Ryan was equally dismayed and confused by the anger. The most unreasonable, impulsive anger that had overtaken his reason.
Sam ran down the tomb-like corridor. Crashing through the restroom door, the sound echoing off the sterile, white walls like a demolition charge, he ran for the toilet tossing his lunch and dinner. He felt clammy. Cold. His head pulsated, throbbed with pain—a tormenting buzzing sound ringing in his ears—louder and louder, shriller and shriller, until it crawled over him like fire ants. He crawled like the ants now, to the sink where he opened the taps wide, and plunged his head under the cool water. He held it there for a long time.
Looking up from the basin, he took in the surrounding room. The walls and ceiling began to close in around him, rippling as they drew closer . . . closer . . . crushingly close. The world turned inside out, then upside down.
The buzzing became deafening. Excruciating pain—ear-bleeding pain—shot through his ear canal and into his skull, turning his brain to Jell-O. Anger and violent thoughts welled up within him. The buzzing seized his soul . . .
Then suddenly it stopped. Silence.
Some remaining precognition of fear overpowered him. Sam shook it off. He slapped his face hard.
He began laughing to himself.
 If Papa could see me now , he thought as he looked down at his vomit-soaked boot. “Please, God, no more trips to BizzaroLand tonight.
Something beckoned to him from the distant borders of his memory. A fleeting image, blurred and fuzzy around the edges. Sorcery: a magic carpet ride whisked Sam to childhood. In his mind’s eye, Sam stood in the fourth grade auditorium ofSkokieElementary School . Ms. Honeycup was leading the whole class in a chorus of “The Ants Go Marching.”
“The ants go marching one by one. The little one stops to get his gun. The ants go marching two by two. The little one stops to go to the zoo . . . and they all go marching down, around . . .”
He washed off his boot and sock in the sink, put them on and sloshed down the hall looking for Ryan, placing the memory of what just happened in a hidden compartment marked—DO NOT OPEN. DO NOT GO TO THE ZOO. GET YOUR GUN!
 
 VII
  
THE DARK FIGURE’S movements were choreographed—fluid and silken. It glided shadow-like, entering a secluded rear maintenance door, up the stairwell, and exiting onto the thirteenth floor of the hospital. Furtively it crept, hugging the walls and clinging to the shadows.
Suddenly it stopped.
Around the corner came a tall and winsome, raven-haired nurse. Her nametag read, “Connie.” She held a metal tray, humming to herself as she walked. The figure’s steel-gray eyes slowly changed color and hue transforming into a blue iridescent flame. Wolf’s eyes. Eyes that burned with a cold, animal hunger. However, beneath this rabid hunger smoldered an intense desire and anguish of the heart.
As she passed through the intersecting corridor, the stalker drank in the nurse’s undulating hips; her long legs and firm breasts, which protested against the starched fabric of her white uniform.
It darted closer.
 
* * *
 
 VIII
  
IT WAS THE nursery rhyme that terrified her, more than the hollow darkness, more than that disembodied voice.
Connie instinctively stopped short. She heard something. Someone or something was humming in perfect sync with her own voice, layered over her own voice. But uncanny as if an absent-minded ghost lurked in the shadows, humming with no coherent melody. A non-melody that spiraled lower, growing more sinister and repetitive with each discordant note. She stopped humming and it stopped. She started humming and it started. Started and stopped. Stopped and started. It was maddening.
Her skin crawled with the static charge of fear.
She wheeled about. But there was nothing—only the eerie glow of the red emergency exit sign bathing the floor and walls. And now silence. A watching silence. She knew that, at this late hour, only she and one other nurse were on duty.
In a thin and quivering voice she called out, “Casey . . . is that you?” No answer. Brooding silence. An utter silence that filled her, leaching into muscle and bone and blood.
Someone, something was there. But where?
She commanded herself to move, to walk, to run. But she didn’t move, didn’t run. Instead she stood frozen and she thought.
She’d been a god-damned fool, of course: She never should have agreed to work the graveyard shift, never should have scolded Alex, her eight-year-old son, to pick up his room that afternoon. But what was done was done. It was too late to change the past. Much too late.
Then she heard it. A low, throaty growl that floated in the darkness like a panther announcing its presence.
Sharp claws seemed to rake her spine. She still wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. Her throat twisted into a knot. Then a new sound. It was clear and soft. And totally out of place.
Totally WRONG !
A gentle whisper, a not-quite-human whisper, drifted toward her. It cooed a child’s nursery rhyme, “Alphabet Fun.”
 
“ . . .D was once a little doll,
Dolly, Molly, Polly, Nolly  ,
NURSYdolly,
Little doll!”
 
The rhythm and cadence of the words seemed to beat in syncopation with her thundering heart. She snatched at the tears flowing from her eyes. She stared into the inky-darkness, searching for a face, any recognizable feature. Even the most grotesque visage, the most gnarled and distorted features would have provided more certainty and less horror than simply not knowing who or what lay cloaked in shadow. But there were none. She choked down her gorge and broke out in an icy sweat.
She had to escape. She began to move. From behind she heard two distinct footfalls echoing down the hallway toward her. She paused. The footsteps stopped. Silence again. Then walking faster, swallowing back her fear, the sounds of footsteps reappearing from behind her, growing louder and faster now, echoing their menacing cadence—she ran.
 
* * *
 
 IX
  
THE STALKER PAUSED; his nostrils, his pores, filling with the scent of her fear, overwhelming him.
It caused the SHIFT .
His body was throbbing, convulsing, transforming inside of his clothing. Then, as if his clothes had never been actual garments but only a layer of skin, the fabric enfolded, melting into his flesh. Like in some cinematic special effects dissolve—frame by frame—his skin was gradually covered with thick fur. His epidermis and muscle and bone became elastic. They stretched and assumed new form: a huge elongated head began composing atop a corded neck, arched and massive shoulders, liquid-red eyes, fissured teeth and nine-inch nails, claws.
It was a make-over from the Jerry Springer Show with Lon Chaney Jr. as the beauty consultant.
 
* * *
 
 X
  
IN THE DIM distance Connie saw the nurses’ station. The phone. Safety. She also paused, and then bolted for the nurses’ station.
You can make it . . . run. Only twenty feet to safety . . .runnnn !
As she closed on the station, the pounding footsteps behind her were drowned out by the sounds of her own hammering heartbeat. She threw the tray over her shoulder.
 Don’t look back. Get to the door. 
 Fifteen feet. 
Five feet.
I’m there!
Despite her tortured breathing, she managed to whimper, “My keys! Jesus, help me!”
Fumbling for her keys, Connie dropped them twice. She held her trembling wrist with her other hand to steady the rattling keys. Dying to look over her shoulder, but willing herself to focus on the keyhole, she unlocked the heavy wooden door.
Connie entered, slamming the door behind her. Her back sandwiched to the door, she frantically surveyed the station. Panting, almost hyperventilating, her chest heaving, she took in the thick wire-reinforced windows that surrounded her—and the phone that sat serenely on the desk before her.
She tested the lock by inching her hand down the surface of the door without turning around. Her fingers explored the latch mechanism gingerly and locked the door.
She slowly peered over her right shoulder, not really wanting to, but drawn by some irresistible impulse. Mistake.
Two Hell-Lit eyes met hers through the door’s window glass. And the mouth. Oh God, the Mouth. It was sensual and eager. Freezing for a moment, shock overtaking her, a scream exploded from her lungs. She dove for the phone but missed, hitting her head on the corner of the countertop, and cutting her lip as she fell.
 The Other watched as Connie’s young athletic body slumped to the floor. It opened the door with ease—ever so slowly. In her confusion, Connie had left the KEYS dangling in the lock.
 The Other totally transformed into a beast by now, issued a guttural, wheezing sound, as it crawled across the icy-cold floor toward its prey. Nurse Connie’s dress was hiked up, exposing the curve of her thigh. The Other’s molten eyes followed her body’s contours, moving slowly up her torso to her face. Her luxuriously long raven-black hair lay perfectly on her shoulder; pouting lips with a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth beckoned.
Its strong, leathery hands delicately clasped the zipper on the front of her uniform and pulled downward, revealing her milky-white breasts caressed by the cups of a black lace brassiere. Her skin had the look of cool, polished ivory.
She was oriental—stunning.
 The Other’s resolution and manhood grew hard. It wanted to touch, to taste. Hovering over her, it timidly reached out with a long fur-covered finger and followed the natural curve of her flat belly, groaning, half in anguish, half in pleasure, as it stroked her pearly, glistening bosom.
Pressing its long snout into the curtain of sable hair that framed her aquiline face, sniffing gently, it paused to savor her fragrance. The man-beast moaned ever louder with desire, with torment over the thought of what it was about to do, what it was compelled to do. Then, studying her as if she were a captured butterfly waiting to be mounted, it traced the outline of her face ever so softly, caressing it, with razor-like fingertips.
In that instant she came to, jerked away with revulsion, and emitted a long, involuntary scream of terror. It was her second mistake. Her last.
Startled out of its semi-romantic stupor, The Other snarled and skinned back its lips to expose shark-like teeth. Teeth bathed in a frenzied, frothing rage. It craned its neck and howled, nipping at the air. Thread-like tendrils of saliva hung from its incisors.
Connie screamed again. The Other  tried in desperation to silence her scream with a massive paw-like hand. She thrashed and bit his paw, viciously drawing blood. The beast within took charge. Instinct triumphed over soul. It snapped, and then lunged at her throat.
It suckled.
Only brutality and need existed at this moment. A basic need. Hunger. An unquenchable hunger. Its thoroughly depraved nature relished savagely in the smell, the taste, the feel of her blood—and then, her sex.
It rose, having finished its feast, its hulking frame caught a glimpse of its own reflection in the window glass. The creature was now satiated. Calm. This sense of fullness quieted the bestial drive and enabled the man within to surface. The man, who slumbered deep within, peered out, frozen at the aspect of its own visage.
In an instant, revulsion and abject remorse flooded the mind and heart. Remorse for its vicious actions, its bloodlust, its violation. Remorse is the stirred echo of long lost virtue, and the human heart within still held a fleeting memory of past virtues once known, once aspired to.
The image quivered like a reflection on the surface of a rippling pond. Its features were slowly transforming, returning to that of a man. A man not totally devoid of empathy, not totally immersed in evil, not beyond the recollection of a time when he still held sway over his own emotions, his own will; a time when life still held moments, fleeting though they may be, but simple moments of happiness. Simple innocence.
There on the floor next to her once-beautiful body, lay a photograph. The bloodstained picture of a young boy. Connie’s boy.
Spasms of nausea tore at his insides. He staggered, dropped to his knees, and crawled across the cold tile. As he cowered in the corner like a frightened man-child, clinging to the photograph, a burning droplet of shame rolled down his cheek; he wept. His throat parched and raspy, a man again, he sat sobbing. And between sobs he recited Blake’s lullaby:
 
“Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep . . .”
 
 The Other himself had been a survivor. A lost boy. Now, forever doomed to haunt the night. To dwell in childhood’s end. In childhood’s nightmares.

CHAPTER 10
 
 I: Burn
  
THE FUROR OF the blizzard’s frantic winds buffeted the dark, lifeless facade of the hospital’s towering structure. Its lamenting, discordant outcry seemed to enfold itself about the hospital’s very walls. A stampede of fiery-white driven snow blurred the night sky.
The thunder of the approaching helicopter’s blades was muffled by the din of the storm’s unwavering winds. The pilot tilted the control column, forcing the rotor to tip up on the opposite side, causing the chopper to bank sharply. He was mesmerized by the swirling squall that challenged his every instinct, his every skill, and the rescue mission itself.
On board were two paramedics, struggling valiantly to save the lives of a mother and her four-year-old son—both casualties of a gas explosion. Each minute, each second, tipped the scales toward life or death for the two burn victims.
The pilot pushed the left rudder pedal veering the chopper toward the hospital’s rooftop helipad.
The sterile, aseptic, and starchy countenance of the hospital’s edifice began to metamorphose, as if by sorcery. It pulsated. It quaked and blurred, as if seen by peering through the hot air rising from the pavement of Hell itself.
He shook his head in disbelief as the craft shuddered from the torque of the main rotor spin. It pummeled the body of the chopper. He quickly counteracted by releasing the rudder pedal, which drove the craft straight forward.
Fail to overcome the torque. You crash and burn.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
MEANWHILE, ACROSS THE city, across dimensions of time and space, a ritual unfolded; a diabolical experiment conducted by a Black Curia—led by Dr. Felix Ordinaire. An experiment directed against the unsuspecting, the innocent, who occupied the place of refuge, the place of healing: the hospital.
Through the glass darkly, a tainted, malevolent light expectorated from their lair’s antique stained glass windows, and passed bent and twisted into the night wind, eschewing the hallowed-white snow of the storm. The snowflakes did not reflect the light as they should have, but were soot-blackened as they floated through the beam’s spurious glow. Seated at a round ebony table sat thirteen shrouded figures. Along the legs and rim of the table’s molding were intricately carved shapes and figures, a Bacchanalian Festival of sheer madness; a tableaux of debauchery, brutality, and bestiality—madness and lust—carved into the face of eternity.
Ordinaire’s pasty-white hand slithered from beneath the folds of a midnight-black robe. His fingers caressed and stroked the cover of Le Cahier de la Rose Noire—The Book— bound in ablood-rose velvet. His fingers explored each crevice of the cover, his palms moist with anticipation. He rubbed the surface nuzzling every curve, every indentation, like a kitten nuzzles its mother. And with each stroke, with each loving embrace, the book began to undulate . . . transforming first into decayed vellum, and then, into a living organism . . . animated flesh. It twitched and pulsated. It palpitated as though it possessed a beating heart.
Thub Dump Thub Dump . . .
Its pages were filled with Latin and French incantations and stylized drawings ofGoeticDemons: spidery figures with human faces, and crowned heads . . . flying serpents and cloven-footed satyrs dancing in an obscene rhythm as they moved across its pages.
Ordinaire’s sausage-like finger rested upon a Kabbalistic seal, a sigil, of strange and ancient design. The symbol rose from the page and hovered like a 3-D hologram, rotating in midair above the table; its reflection mirrored on the surface of the ebony-black table, mirrored on the marble-black pupils and the lacquered-black hearts and in the foul-black minds of the thirteen cowed celebrants: the diabolic curia.
Low guttural sounds, chanting, diffused into the ether:
“PROCUL ESTE PROFANE . . . OPUS SATANUS SPLENDIDE MENDAX PATER LUX!LUX! LUCIFER ASTAROTH . . . SOLARIS! INUTEROMALISLUPES . . . SPHINX IN HOC SIGNO IN HOC SANGRE . . . VENITE’ VENITE…
(Keep your distance you who are profane. Not initiated.
Satan’s work. Father of the noble truth.
Light. Light. Son of Dawn.
In the womb of evil.
Wolf. Sphinx.
By the sign. By the blood. Come! Come!)”
A phantasm, a hyperphysical, glowing mist formed within the sigil, mushrooming outward and spiraling upwards. Transformed from an ink-black cloud into a Lovecraftian denizen of Hell; the ANCIENT ONE :
The Hawk-headed Sphinx.
 
* * *
 
 III
  
THE PILOT SHOUTED, “Hold on, sweetheart.” His death grip on the collective sent waves of cramps shooting up his arm to his shoulder.
“Jesus, did you see that?” screamed the paramedic into her headset.
“I can’t see shit. You sniffing glue again, baby doll?” he lied with insults to conceal what he saw, what he couldn’t have seen.
The fury of the storm grew stronger—overpowering—as an evil repugnance pulled at the helicopter’s rivets and the very fabric of reality.
Yes, he lied, but before his eyes the hospital had changed shape. Still changing, it now became a Jell-O like ectoplasm, quivering, melting against the backdrop of the white tempest’s canvas; it was as though an oil painting was dissolving, vanishing before his very eyes—then, reappearing but different. A completely new painting entirely. The painting of a god.
The building’s spandrels, the space between its arches and cornices, grew and stretched; grew into the massive shoulders of a lion. The front steps buckled and shimmered and shrunk, then arose reborn into a beast’s talons. The upper windows burst, exploding outward, then as if by magic . . . imploded inward; the splinters of glass emulsifying into the face of a—HAWK.
Once a building, lifeless and cold, but now a giant Sphinx whose disdainful, lordly eyes stared out into the storm whipped night. Its gaze permeated the air with scorn and contempt.
Enigmatic and all-knowing, but silent. Posing riddles to the magus of the night.
Vile sputum frothed forth from the gaping crater of the Sphinx’s mouth. The spittle stretched, transforming into an ash-gray storm cloud. The Cloud of Unknowing . As lightning bolts arced fiery-white in the cloud’s crevices, it grew darker and darker. White-hot blades tore at the fabric of the preternatural Black Death formation that hung like a lost apparition in the surrounding snowstorm. Like a rope, the cloud coiled round and round the towering Egyptian totem of concrete and steel.
The helicopter pitched at a steep angle ever downwards, yawing to and fro. Onboard, the mother sensing the odor of death, struggled in agony, grasping her son’s tiny burnt hand in her own.
His name was Timmy, Timmy Lockheart. A little freckle faced boy, just seven-years-old with laughing green eyes and angry flaming red hair to match his hot Irish temper.
Timmy remembered the smell of Mama’s fresh baked cookies, the smell of the oven’s gas leak, the searing hot air blasting into his face like dragon’s breath . . . Mama’s charred body lying by his side on the kitchen floor. Still. Not moving.
Now his little head lolled to one side facing Mama. Her gauze-covered face, a faint smile peeking out from the bandages, the feel of her burning hot hand in his. And just now, at this moment, this would be his last memory of her. Of life.
“I love you, Timmy. Mama’s here,” she whispered.
The phantom rope clouds reached out like a hand and closed its ethereal fingers, squeezing and mangling the helicopter caught in its grasp. The chopper’s torque, out of control now, forced it to spin in circles like a dog chasing its own tail. It plummeted downward and crashed into the massive upright transformers of an adjacent power substation; it became a gigantic roman candle, spurting a white-hot shower of sparks high into the bleak night sky.
The flash of an oily, black ball of flame roared upward. As the flames of the Ancient One’s—The Sphinx’s—funeral pyre licked the twisted wreckage, melting it, a ferric, coppery-red, molten river of glass and metal flowed into mercurial reflective pools, which vaporized the virgin snow on contact, transmuting the powder into a diaphanous mist.
“I love you, Mommy,” cried a boyish voice.
Two specters floated above the inferno, one shot upward into the heavens resembling film footage of falling (a) star run backwards: rewound.
Then, the second specter . . . the soul of the child . . . rocketed skyward with Timmy’s tiny voice crying:
“Mommy. Wait for me! I’m coming.”

CHAPTER 11
 
 I: Dreamland
  
A DOUBLE SET of red-leather, soundproof doors led to Dr. Greenbaum’s office. Susan St. Clair lay supine on a long overstuffed psychiatrist’s couch in the center of the room. Tiny droplets of Sodium Amytal flowed down the clear IV tube and into her ghost-white arm. A circle of chairs with Dr. Greenbaum at her feet, facing her, Sheila at her head, and Ryan and Sam flanking either side, formed the four cardinal points of the compass, providing protection against the forces of evil—they hoped.
Sam studied Sheila. The palms of her hands gently and methodically smoothed the fabric of her tight skirt. Then as if not sure what to do with them, she clasped her hands tightly together in the center of her lap. Her chin pressed against her chest, her head quivering, she began to pray in hushed tones, “Hail Mary, Mother of the word incarnate. Never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help or sought thy divine intercession was left unaided . . .”
As he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, Sam’s eyes locked on Dr. Greenbaum. The doctor was a man of about fifty years, Jewish, with a dark unkempt beard slightly concealing his pockmarked cheeks. He wore a rumpled wool sports jacket with the typical tattered suede elbow patches, and the half-lensed reading glasses of an academic. His eyes, though watery, projected the intensity of intellectual aloofness.
In profile, his long broken nose hinted at being a souvenir, a battle scar, an outward symbol of the doctor’s tenacity. Sam’s intuition told him this man’s past led to the mean streets of some major city. The streets of an old ethnic neighborhood, similar to the one of Sam’s childhood. A battleground. Sam formed a silent bond with Dr. Greenbaum.
In fact, Sam was correct; Dr. Lucian Greenbaum was born inBrooklyn,New York , and had shattered his nose in a street fight protecting his little bother from a gang of street punks. In this, he and Sam shared a common background and similar personality traits: stubborn as bulls and loyal. Yes, similar except for a single glaring exception—their faith.
Greenbaum was firm, rock solid at his inner core—a man of unwavering spiritual conviction. Sam was, in contrast, hollow at the center. Empty and godless.
Dr. Greenbaum seemed to emerge from a tunnel of deep thought. “Gentlemen and ladies, perhaps while we are waiting for the effects of the Amytal to take hold, I shall take the opportunity to bring you up to speed.”
Peering over the top of his eyeglasses as if to seek permission, he continued.
“As you know, Ms. Riley and I have been working with the boy, Matt Mendecka, and his aunt Susan St. Clair, for some time now, about two years to be exact. I understand that you officers examined the rudimentary investigation by your department of the sex abuse allegations leveled against young Matt’s parents. Is that correct?”
Sam and Ryan nodded in agreement.
“Good, now as I was saying. Recent developments have forced me to bend the rules of patient confidentiality by allowing the two of you to attend this session; Ms. St. Clair has given her consent. I felt it was imperative for you to see the situation with your own eyes.”
The detectives stole sideways glances at one another.
“So, you have witnessed Matt’s present condition, Ms. Sheila, has briefed you on the circumstances, and now I will explain the causes and diagnosis. It was necessary to introduce a more direct, more confrontational approach to his therapy, supported by the hypnotic, Sodium Amytal, followed as here in Susan’s case with a mild dose of another barbiturate to . . . well put simply, to reach the inner boy and Susan.
“Years of more passive methods: talk, sand tray, and art therapy, as well as group and family counseling have all failed miserably. You see, Matt’s repressed memories are buried deep in the recesses of his psyche. I have recently sliced through these subcutaneous layers to reach the cavity, the lair, of the most traumatic images of control and abuse. And it was the horror of that image, rising from the abyss, which placed poor Matt in his present catatonic state. Not epilepsy, gentlemen—utter terror!”
The doctor paused; he seemed to be searching Sam’s eyes, his heart. Maybe searching for a glimmer, an indication of understanding and acceptance. But flint-cold eyes, unreadable eyes, stared back. The eyes of a cop. Then the doctor’s eyes ticked to Ryan whose only response was a nervous cough.
Sam’s impatience showed. He kept tapping his foot.
Greenbaum took a gulp of water and feverishly continued.
“Tonight we shall reproduce the same results with Susan, right here before your very eyes. Oh, and let me assure you officers, you doubting Thomas’, I have utilized the strictest of scientific protocols to eliminate any possibility of so called—False Memory Syndrome, and contamination by the therapist.
“Sheila has treated Susan and I, Matt. We have exchanged no specific details or results. Susan was not told of Matt’s condition prior to her arrival here tonight. What you saw gentlemen was, I believe, a genuine reaction
“As you see, Susan has been given a controlled amount of Sodium Amytal.” He pointed to the IV bottle suspended on the drip rack at Susan’s side. “It was referred to as Truth Serum, Sodium Pentothal, its sister drug, in popular fiction. It is of the barbiturate family, used as a hypnotic, which allows us to reach down into the bowels of the human mind.”
Ryan who had been stone silent and expressionless, now leapt to his feet shouting, “Are you mad? You turned that poor kid into a zombie, broadsided his aunt, Susan, with his condition—dropped it on her like a grand piano falling from the twelfth story . . . Jesus! And you sit there, cool as granite, and say it’s for their own good?”
Sam gripped Ryan’s forearm in a vice and pushed him down into his chair. Not saying a word. Giving no outward indication of his thoughts.
Ryan’s eyes meet Sam’s. Still shouting, he said, “Sam, you don’t buy this satanic abuse shit do you? This guy has seen Linda Blair’s green pea soup scene too many times. He’s fuckin’ crazy. Crazy, Sam. We gotta stop this!”
Now, turning to Sheila, Ryan ranted on, “You and your co-workers are nothing but a bunch of freaking do-gooders. Liberal assholes without a clue, aren’t you? Answer me, damn it!”
Sheila stared in disbelief, and then turned her gaze to the floor.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you! You just going to sit there like a stump?” Ryan shouted.
Sam knew this was not his partner talking. No way in hell. But he had to get Ryan calmed down and quick. Something very strange was happening here. He couldn’t get a grip on it, didn’t like it one damn bit. Because he sensed danger—real danger.
Sam shot an involuntary look and a wink toward Sheila, as if to say, “it’s okay, I’ll calm him down.” Speaking in a deep and steady voice, a voice of firm control, Sam said, “Detective, Ryan. Let’s hear them out. You trust Sheila’s judgment don’t you?”
He repeated for emphasis. “You trust Sheila, don’t you?”
At first Ryan stared into space, gnawing at his lower lip. Then an inner calmness seemed to wash over him. “Yes, of course. Excuse me, Doctor.” Turning his gaze to Sheila, he said, “Honey, I don’t understand . . . I mean I can’t explain my actions. Something just came over me.”
The warm glow of inner kindness beamed from Dr. Greenbaum’s eyes as he said, “You’re forgiven. This is very difficult for a pragmatic, twentieth-century-trained mind like yours to get a handle on. I understand. You are now . . . Yes, right now under a vicious psyche attack by forces which most of us never, thank God, are forced to experience. We are all under attack.”
Sam was, up to now, in a state of grim detachment. Not wanting to trust his gut feeling. But the data, the truth that had glimmered faintly in the distance, now stood like a tank’s gun turret pressed to his face. The weird episode in the hospital men’s room, Ryan’s explosive outbursts, all formed into alarm sirens, tracer rounds, which ricocheted off the inner walls of his skull.
He watched as Sheila made the Sign of the Cross. Healmost wished he was Catholic.
Dr. Greenbaum capsulated the entire sad story: Gothic Satanic Ritual Abuse, intergenerational—on both sides of the family—involving grandparents, great grandparents, aunts and uncles . . . a history of sadistic abuse with multiple perpetrators and a dark trail of: penetrations, sex abuse, torture, brainwashing, blood sacrifices, multiple personality disorder, psychological trigger mechanisms, switching (changing from one alter personality to another), and of Matt’s profound importance to the family—the Brotherhood.
Matt was now a growing, thirteen-year-old boy, passing into manhood.Normal in every respect to the untrained eye. But he was anything but normal . . . he was a victim of horrendous abuse, probably crippled for life, and certainly a time bomb waiting to explode.
He also had been a mind-controlled robotic creation.
Matt’s psyche was splintered into a thousand pieces by the cult. An alter personality capable of killing in cold blood one minute and then, switching . . . shifting back into a healthy, junk-food-munching, day-dreaming, pre-adolescent the next minute. All this without recollection, without guilt, without fear. Splintered.
But Dr. Greenbaum had peeled back the protective layers of the onion that was Matt’s psyche in the hope, the prayer, that Matt’s inner childlike soul would wrap the darkness in light, the light of innocence.
The Brotherhood would not surrender his soul without a fight. Matt Mendecka was their creation. Cult members had appeared at Sheila’s office from all over the country. Long lost relatives slithered out from under rocks, attempting to gain custody of Matt, to lay claim to their “Golden Child,” their goldmine. For they had invested years tunneling into his little brain, shaping it, mining it, for their own bitter harvest.
 
* * *
 
 Across the corridors of time, and into the present they came, shrill screams of spellbinding anguish, haunting cries like shrieking winged Harpies, swooping and soaring through the vast labyrinth of Hell itself, climbing ever upward and into this world they came, flooding the air with their vengeance. 
 The gates of Hell opened. 

 

CHAPTER 12
 
 I: Bedlam
  
THE CLOUD OF Wonder, like low hanging fog, trailed into the hospital’s exterior air intake. Entering the heating system, it snaked its way through a maze of air ducts that buckled and expanded sending shock waves of metallic explosions throughout the hospital’s corridors, reverberating off the hard tile floors and pale green walls.
Patients in the geriatric ward rose from their slumber and padded down the halls like a parade of ghoulish sleepwalkers. Single file and into the open elevator they marched. Cadavers in the morgue bolted upright, their lifeless eyelids popped open. Their milky cataract-covered eyes stared outward, glowing and pulsating in the darkness.
The black mist billowed out of air vents, crept down the walls, and rolled in heavy waves across the floor. The demon’s breath.
As the demonic cloud vapor coiled and entwined itself about the legs of the emergency room staff, a tall, buxom, blond surgical nurse shrieked in terror; a shower of blood drenched her face and gown. The shrill whine of a spinning Negli surgical saw droned on. An ER intern had placed the whirling blade to his own throat almost severing his head. Pandemonium broke free all around her. A doctor at her side grabbed his hair in fistfuls and ran shouting about the room like Renfield, when the ORKIN-MAN, pest exterminator, showed up at Castle Dracula.
She clawed at her own blood-soaked hair as her ears rang with pain. It seemed as if her head had been placed in a vice. A vice that slowly tightened, squeezing her temples to the point of bursting, like a walnut in a nutcracker.
A young orderly, seemingly unaffected by the chaos, approached her. He wore a reassuring and pleasant smile that dissolved into a maniacal grin as he struck out with his fist knocking her to the floor. He was on her in an instant, ripping and tearing at her clothing, pawing and groping her with his free hand.
“Wanna play hard to get, do yeah?” he asked.
She kicked and struggled with all her strength, but he was just too strong for her. He pinned her to the cold floor, but as she looked up in a teary haze the countenance of a baby-faced police officer hovered over her head. She saw the large maglite in his hand, saw it swing down in a black blur of motion, striking her attacker. She pushed the orderly’s limp body off of her and took hold of the officer’s proffered hand.
The policeman helped her to her feet.
“Oh, thank God, you’re here. He would have—” she broke down in tears.
The officer’s eyes suddenly rolled back into their sockets, his face contorted as he grabbed her by the throat, and in a wild rage he screamed, “You’re mine, bitch!”
He raised her into the air with super human strength. Her feet dangling in midair, she pleaded for mercy. He threw her like a rag doll onto a gurney and mounted her.
Licentiousness and death were dance partners at this macabre masquerade ball.
Patients, staff, visitors all seized with bloodlust, lashed out at one another in a naked, savage, feeding frenzy that rose higher and higher, from floor to floor . . .
 
* * *
 
 II
  
ACROSS SPACE AND time, the black curia. Their voices were now united in an infernal funeral dirge, their bodies swaying in unison, the air about them charged with electricity. Each took their turn, drinking abominations from a falcon-crested silver cupel.
The three large Helmholtz coils, placed in a triangular pattern under the floor beneath them and mirrored by three more matching coils mounted in the ceiling high above them, hummed and surged in phase, creating a constant field of energy. Their emotions, their thoughts, conjoined and fed the Tesla pickup coils and receivers. The data stream was digitized and then, fed into a gargantuan Cray 900 computer where it was decoded. A thought amplification and transmission system.
Or in more technical terms, a PSYCHOTRONIC interface of thought waves and computer.
These thoughts, these alternate realities created by the curia, the psychic Dr. Felix Ordinaire, were then amplified, encoded, and laced into an ELF (extreme low frequency) band. A signal carried thousands of miles into space via an uplink with the EROS-1 satellite and beamed back to earth at a specific target location. In this instance—the hospital.
Dr. Dagon Drexler had invented a process whereby thoughts could be grafted onto microwaves and then beamed over great distances. It all worked in much the same way that audio and video could be transmitted in a television signal. But in this case, the receiver at the other end wasn’t a large-screen Sony.
It was the human brain itself.
Deep, resonating tones filled the air as they chanted:
“ LEX TALIONIS (LAW OF RETALIATION)… IN HOC SIGNO VINCES (BY THIS SIGN SHALL YOU CONQUER)… PARABELLUM ” (PREPARE FOR WAR!)”
 
* * *
 
 III
    
 THE OTHER COCKED his head, listened intently and roared in defiance. His form rippled, shape-shifted into more pleasing form this time—the form of the once beautiful—a female form.
His body rose, uncoiled, and straightened. White, heavy- soled, nurses’ shoes attached to long, shapely legs, and a supple body, strode down the corridor to the observation room, and stood hovering over the lost boy—Matt Mendecka.
Suddenly, the bathroom door of Matt’s room opened. The young attending nurse emerged. Startled by the back-turned visage of the form standing at the bedside before her, she swallowed audibly.
Placing her hands on her hips, regaining her composure and authority, she said, “Who the hell are you?”
The once-beautiful, oriental, raven-haired, nurse-thing turned slowly and smiled. Then bared long, yellowish, pointed incisors; from between dripping tendrils of saliva, she snarled:
“I’m your relief!”
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
IN HIS OFFICE, Dr. Lucian Greenbaum stood, and for the first time, Sam noticed the deformity. The doctor favored his left arm as though it was in an invisible sling. The fingers of his left hand were curled like some stroke victim’s.
Solemnly, Dr. Greenbaum motioned to Sheila and spoke: “Let’s begin.”
Sheila leaned forward toward Susan and began speaking in a quivering voice.
“Susan, you’re floating in a warm pool of water. Drifting gently and slowly. Drifting deeper and deeper into relaxation. Peaceful now. Deeper and deeper . . . backward . . . ten, nine . . . deeper. Eight, seven, six . . . deeper, five, four, three, and now total bliss. Backward in time.”
Susan’s breathing became shallower. Her eyes fluttered. She was in the REM stage. Susan St. Clair lay restful, at peace. Her chest was rising and falling rhythmically, her muscles rippling in a silken effortless movement as she paused to swallow. The expression on her face was cherub-like, but filled with an astute awareness.
Sheila continued: “Backward in time. Susan, if you hear me raise your right arm.” She did. “Good, Susan. I want you to go back . . . back to your twelfth birthday party.”
Susan’s last session had enabled Dr. Greenbaum and Sheila to pinpoint a specific time period, Susan’s twelfth birthday. And tonight the Sodium Amytal would seep its way through the stone wall’s mortar. Thick walls created by her damaged psyche as a self-defense mechanism. A means of survival. The hypnotic drug would first release a trickle, then a roaring torrent of repressed memories. The balancing act required by her therapists would be difficult: teach the patient to swim—not drown.
Sheila spoke again in soft, controlled tones. “Susan, you are traveling back. You’re fifteen-years-old. Now fourteen . . . thirteen . . . twelve. Where are you, Susan?”
Susan stirred slightly, cleared her throat, and with a childlike voice she spoke: “I’m at my Nana’s house. Goodie. It’s my birthday party today.”
“Tell us who’s there, Susan. What’s happening?” Sheila asked.
“Mommy and Daddy are here. My doggie, Scout. Oh, there’s Mary Ellen, Christie, Billy—Echhh! He’s gross. I hope I get my Barbie and my Hula Hoop!” Suddenly Susan paused, squirmed uncomfortably. Her face pinched into a frown. Fear bristled in her eyes.
Sheila noticed it. “Susan, who’s there. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t see him. NO! I don’t wanna look”
“Can’t see who, Susan? Focus. The face is getting clearer and clearer. Who do you see?”
“No,na -ah. No way José. I wanna stay happy. It’s my party. He’s bad.” Little-Susan’s eyes glistened as tears began to flow down her cheeks. Her pouting lower lip trembled.
Still questioning, now determined to learn the truth, Sheila almost shouted, “Who’s bad, Susan? Tell me, who’s bad?”
Susan bolted upright, shivering as if she had been drenched in a bucket of ice water, she screamed:
“Grandpa . . . The Clown Man. No, Grandpa. No! Don’t touch me. Please, don’t touch me.”
“Listen to my voice, Susan. Listen to my voice. You can see, hear, remember, but it’s only a movie. It’s not real. No one can hurt you.” As she said the words, Sheila seemed to only half believe them herself.
Dr. Greenbaum sensed it first. A frigid chill filled the air, laced with a thick, putrid odor. It recalled the oily smoke of a Nazi crematorium, so nauseating that it caused his stomach to lurch and his eyes to water. Wisps of vapor spewed from their nostrils with each exhalation as if they’d been plunged into a meat locker.
Dr. Greenbaum could taste it in the air. Fear. Sheila’s eyes reeled with terror, radiated it like a fawn caught in the headlights of an onrushing truck.
Then before their eyes Susan’s countenance changed. Her face contorted into an obscene sneer. Her body arched—ridged and taut off the couch, as though an unseen hand had thrown a switch sending thousands of volts of current through her quaking body: electroshock therapy from Hell.
A voice cut the air. A gurgling, raspy voice with a fiendish French accent.
“ Au contraire, de l’auttre coté , she has much to fear. Leave her alone!” the voice intoned.
The words came from Susan’s lips. But they were not her words, not her voice. Dr. Greenbaum and Sheila exchanged glances and then, riveted their attention back to Susan.
 
* * *
 
Dr. Greenbaum composed himself. “Sheila, it’s only a dissociative reaction. An alter personality. In an effort to survive psycho trauma, the psyche splits in two. We used to refer to it as multiple personality disorder. The wounded mind creates an alter ego, personality, usually much stronger than the true traumatized personality. To deal with the pain.”
Sam and Ryan looked on in silence.
“So the stronger alter personality . . . protects the weaker?” Sheila asked.
“Indeed, but occasionally we find that a ‘guardian’ has been created, or programmed into the psyche to conceal secrets. A block. When threatened the personality transforms into an alter. We call it switching. Unfortunately Sheila, this is probably the case with Susan.”
“Programmed? By whom? Susan?” Goldstein asked.
“No, the cult. To hinder therapy and conceal their identity.”
Susan’s persona switched again. Her head shook violently. Thrashed from side to side. Then an older, more distant voice, with a completely different timbre began to speak.
“ Cogito ergo sum .”
Sheila mouthed the translation silently, “I think therefore I am.”
The ancient voice boomed from Susan’s lips. “Bravo Ms. Sheila. Bravo. I prefer to converse in the Latin of the Vulgate. The vulgar Vulgate.Hsssssss .”
Sheila’s chest was raked with pain as if a ball bearing had congealed in her left ventricle. Turning her head toward the doctor, Susan’s alter spoke again. Her lips skinned back to reveal a sneering smile. “Tell me little Lucian, isn’t that what Mommy always called you, her little Lucian?
The doctor stared in silence.
The demon voice said, “Tell us. Do you still masturbate in your mother’s closet? Are you still fond of her silk stockings and undergarments? Well, do you, Lucian?”
“Damn you to Hell!” screamed Dr. Greenbaum. His face was flush with anger, eyes glistening with rage. He wanted to stand but it was as if the blood in his veins had turned to molten lead.
“Ah, alas you’re too late. Centuries too late,” the voice mocked in a low chuckling laugh. “But where are your manners, Doctors? After all, you invited me to this little, ‘birthday party.’“
Dr. Greenbaum’s senses and reason tumbled over the edge of the precipice. His mind grasped for purchase: a hand hold on reality. Shell-shocked. In a thin voice he struggled to regain control, the upper hand, as if by enunciating each word more clearly and without emotion he could do so. “Sheila, turn Susan over to me.”
But Sheila sat zombie-like with her eyes transfixed in space.
“Damn it!” Shouting now, he said. “Sheila . . . DO IT NOW!”
Startled out of her stupor, Sheila said, “Susan, I want to speak with Susan.” An undercurrent of fear floated through her tremulous voice. “Susan, do you hear me? You will now speak only with Dr. Greenbaum. Do you understand?”
Nothing. Cold stillness. And then: “Yes, I will allow it, dear Sheila. My enfant cheiri ,” the voice cooed through ghostly mists of breath, changing into a female persona.
“Tell me, dear Sheila, my child. To err is only human, little one. I am of man. Nothing of mankind or womankind is alien to me. Do you still dream of the priest, Father Patrick? Dream of his arms caressing your young flesh as you toss and turn in the night, touching yourself in that secret place? I know all your innermost thoughts, your desires. I was with you when you cursed your father’s name at his deathbed. Do you still hate the drunken bastard; still feel his clammy fingers touching you as he crawls into your little bed at night; still smell his booze-saturated breath on your face? Well, can you? Look child, look.”
Before Sheila, floating in midair, a shimmering mirage formed. Then slowly mutated into a recognizable image. Her mother’s face. At first a beautiful face, wrinkle free, smooth and soft. Then it hemorrhaged into a grotesque mass of contusions and lacerations. Bruises everywhere, swollen eyes, split lips. A battered woman.
The female-demon voice spoke again, but with an even more vicious bent.
“Dear little, Sheila. Not how you care to remember Mommy?
“You would like to forget the Saturday night fights at the Riley’s. Yes, my little one, wouldn’t that be nice. Look closely, dear. See Mommy’s anguish. Feel her pain.”
Sheila broke down and wept. She whimpered like a frightened pup; a puppy weaned too early from its mother’s breast.
How many alters did Susan possess? No, perhaps the proper question was, how many alters possessed Susan? Dr. Greenbaum paused to do the math. Three alters: two males and two females. He cupped the elbow of his crippled arm with his good hand. Then leaning attentively forward he spoke:
“I now address, Susan. Only Susan!”
Silence. Only silence. Then a rippling tremor swam up and down Susan’s body. Her eyes, previously closed, popped wide open. The ancient voice, cloaked in green luminous vapor, returned to her lips. Bloodless lips. Bloodless voice.
“You dare presume to control us? Such arrogance. We are the power behind the throne, le eminence grisse .”
The walls and ceiling buckled and snapped back with a deafening thunder. Dr. Greenbaum’s and Sheila’s ears ran with a trickle of blood. Sam and Ryan began to stand, but the doctor shouted, “No, remain seated. Don’t move!”
The demon said, “Go back to your closet little Lucian Greenbaum. From clay it created talking baboons. Oh, dies in fasustus. SATANUS, meser eatu (Oh, unlucky day. Satan, have mercy).
“And you and your twentieth century science, your psychology. What was his name? Ah yes, Jung, Carl Gustav. He was all ours you realize? His interest in the occult, metaphysics, his cousin, the spirit medium and her mentor Dr. Bleuler, the man who coined the term schizophrenia. All ours. We saw his early fascination with the preternatural. We seized the opportunity to feed his lust, his thirst for knowledge, to feed the fires of his prideful search for secret knowledge.
“You pseudo-intellectuals. So easily ensnared in our trap. And then— Peu a Peu —we deal out little glimmers of raw power and insight. Until you’re hooked. If dear Sigmund and Carl had really only understood a fraction of the magical force of the libidinal energy, the limitless energy, they had sought to unleash.
“Yes, your cherished psychiatric terms: egomania, megalomania, pedophilia, necrophilia, Sociopathic Tendencies, Border Line Personality Disorder—all scientific sanction for the denunciation of responsibility for ones actions. How delightful. I’m not responsible. I lie and cheat and steal because the little child in me is misunderstood, neglected. Abused. There is no such thing as evil. We will cut it out with a scalpel; numb it into oblivion with psychotropic drugs. That’s the ticket.
“I believe your poet laureate of buggery, Oscar Wilde, said it best, ‘Disobedience was man’s first original virtue.’
“You little monkeys, squealing idolaters of the rational cold light of science. You struggle to fill the sucking vacuum of abandoned spirituality with psychology and pop mysticism. I’ve self-helped more than one of you straight to Hell!”
“You arrogant prick!” Sam shouted.
Dr. Greenbaum raised his hand in admonishment.
“Oh yes, how rude of me, Lucian,” the demon voice said. “Would you like to talk to your Tata and Mama? They have a room right down here with us. It’s right next to the one I’m saving for you. Nice ocean view. I think you’ll love it.”
Dr. Greenbaum leaped to his feet and shouted: “Who are you? By the Holy name of the Lord Creator—YHVH—Yod He Vau He. He commands you. Pronounce your name!”
Susan’s arm slowly rose, her finger extended, pointing toward the wall. Then it began tracing gesticulations, writing invisible words in the thin air. The paint on the wall blistered with each stroke of her finger. It seemed as though the flame of a blowtorch was etching each letter, each word, across the wall’s surface forming:
DER GEIST DER STETS VEINENT
And below it Hebrew script.
Ryan whispered, “What’s it say, Doc?” Dr. Greenbaum hesitated, concentrated and reached deep into his memory. He translated.
“It’s a quote from Goethe’s Doctor Faust. ‘The spirit that never dies, Mephistopheles, prince of demons.’“ He continued: “Now the Hebrew. Let’s see. Abandon . . . yes, that’s it. Hades. Hell. Now the second word.
“It’s, The Adversary—The Devil.”
 
* * *
 
 V
  
MEANWHILE,OUTSIDE IN the corridor, the elevator doors parted. An army of grotesques tumbled out, spewing into the stillness of the hallway. One foot after the other, dragged in a shuffling gate. The living dead. But they moved with purpose toward the outer door of Dr. Greenbaum’s office.
 
 VI
  
THEN AS QUICKLY as it began, it was over. The writing disappeared from the wall, the cold gone. Susan gradually grew quiet. Her face slackened. Her eyes which had been rolled back into her head, returned to normal. She closed them. Her breathing was regular and even.
“What the Hell happened?” Sam asked, badly shaken by now.
The doctor said, “Time is of the essence, gentlemen. Make no mistake; we are dealing with a powerful force. I apologize for having lost control. But what we saw, heard, and smelled was no illusion as such. Our thoughts, our imagination, our symbols are real as a stump. For example, the word water is a combination of letters, a symbol which flies directly to the brain. And there evokes images of peaceful tide-swept beaches or the terror of drowning, depending upon the . . . let’s call it metaprogramming of life’s experiences. Water, a mere word, yet real.
“We are dealing with the primordial powers of the lower brain. An archetype of power, a demon, if you like, planted to block access to Susan’s pure identity. Jung said that our collective unconscious minds possess a demonic specter lurking in the shadows or the dark side of our nature. It doesn’t matter a bit whether you believe in it our not, because it’s there, ingrained in our genes, our race memory.”
Ryan’s eyes glinted with awareness. “I seem to remember that Jung believed that we must recognize the ugliness of the demons that dwell within our soul, not deny their existence. And then integrate and meld the light with the shadow. The good with the bad.”
The doctor’s face beamed. “Excellent, Mr. Ryan. Well put. Man or woman must reconcile these opposites and seek psychic awareness. Sun and moon. Right brain and left brain. Higher and lower function.”
Sam said, “Well, that’s all well and good, but what’s it got to do with the price of fairy dust? And how does a race memory or archetype make it cold as a witch’s popsicle in here? Excuse this poor, ignorant meshuggene but—”
Susan stirred on the coach. The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck began to prickle with a static charge. “Shit, here we go again. He’s—back,” Sam said, the words smoking from his lips in the once again frosted air.
A heavy presence beat down against them.
Even as Dr. Greenbaum began to speak, Sheila reached down to grab an oversized tote bag at her feet and bring it to her lap. Sam could see that the carotid artery in her neck began to pulse. Her eyes widened slightly. She clutched the bag, knees pressed together, trembling.
The doctor spoke: “So, these archetypes punched all our buttons—” He was interrupted by a dense and powerful static charge that jolted his body. “It has begun again. Sheila, quickly now, assist me with the ceremony.”
Susan began to chant—not in a robotic or demon voice but her own. “Patty cake, patty cake, nine days old . . .” A voice that gradually changed into a little girl’s high inflection.
Sheila said, “Susan, listen to my voice.
Susan’s body became taut. Her hands were fisted on her stomach.
A guttural rasp rose seemingly from nowhere. And then a thud, as if Jung was rolling over in his grave.
“Gentlemen, we shall now fight in the arena of the symbolic!” Greenbaum said.
The doctor began placing candles and incense burners at the four cardinal points with Sheila following behind, lighting them. By the time she’d finished, Dr. Greenbaum had donned his yarmulke and prayer cloth. He held a heavy, leather-bound book in the palms of his hands. A Star of David hung from his neck.
Sheila, being Catholic, handed out bottles of Holy Water and rosaries. Sam held the bottle and rosary, examined them, and placed them in his coat pocket. Ryan placed the rosary around his neck and applied the Holy Water to his forehead, lips, and heart. At times like this, Sam had almost wished he was a Catholic like Ryan, and strong in religious conviction. Faith.
Sam placed more faith in a different sort of amulet. He nodded to Ryan and reached for his semi-auto. Ryan followed suit and each simultaneously preformed another ritual as they drew their weapon, pushed the magazine thumb release, checked the ammo level, and cranked a round into the chamber. All in a seamless motion.
They resembled gunfighters from a different time. The Magnificent Seven whose motto was: “We Deal in Lead!”
From the corner of his eye, Sam saw it, a barely detectable movement, a rippling, beneath the leather upholstery of the psychiatrist’s couch where Susan lay. Sam dismissed it.
“Everyone,” Dr. Greenbaum began, “please, clear your minds of fear and clutter. Concentrate. And do not, under any circumstances, abandon your positions or leave the protection of the circle! Is that clear?”
They all nodded in turn.
All about them, smoke from the censers curled upward, mixing with dancing shadows cast by flickering candle flames. The soft, milky-white candlelight created a dreamscape in which the doctor seemed to float clockwise around the circle. He poured a thin trickle of pure salt as he moved, reciting prayers in Hebrew, Chaldee, and Latin.
Returning to his position, he extended his arms, palms- upward, in supplication and spoke:
“Raphael before me,
 Michael to my right,
 Uriel behind me,
 Gabriel to my left,
 Our Lord above me,
 Our Mother below me . . .”
Having completed the invocation of protection of the Archangels, he stood silent. With his arms outstretched forming a cross, and silhouetted against the backlight of the fluttering taper’s glow, he resembled Christ crucified. His cross-like figure seemed to emit vestal beams of light from his head and extremities that fanned outward. Intense. Electric. Sapphire-blue. The light pulsed rhythmically, in the manner of the plucked string of an angel’s harp.
Dr. Greenbaum’s words rolled like thunder:
“ IN HOC SIGNO VINCES DEUS 
  INCANTATIO DE OPES DEI 
  IN SAECULA SECULORUM 
  INTRA VIRES DEI 
  DEI GRATIA 
  VADE RETRO ME, SANTANA (Get behind me, Satan!)”
A raw gale-force wind materialized from nowhere, pummeling the doctor, almost knocking him off his feet, but he stood fast. His hair flamed backwards, his face contorted, as miniature jagged lightning bolts exploded around the circumference of the circle.
He chanted:
“ EL-O-HEM, EYAL-U-UTH, TAN-RAW. ”
The air turned cold and crypt-still.
Then came the sound; a faux flute, dissonant and unnerving.
A green vapor flowed from Susan’s lips; the air above her shimmered. Her body writhed in spasms of apparent agony. As her lips stretched forming a hellish grimace, the Ancient Voice bellowed—“Silence, spawn ofJudea. Animal Bipes Implume! (You two-legged wingless being). . .
“ IGNI! (FIRE!)”
A searing wall of fetid breath poured from Susan’s mouth, knocking the doctor to the floor. In an instant, the room temperature transformed from sub-zero to sweltering heat.
Sam and Ryan began to rise to his aid.
“NO! Hold your positions,” the doctor screamed as he pulled himself erect, steadying himself on the overturned chair, which lay on the floor at his side.
“Bastard!” Sam said, his eyes boring into Susan the She-Demon. His brain swam in confusion, and his stomach wrenched, filling his throat and mouth with hot acid.
A sardonic grin rose to the She-Demon’s lips. “A bastard? How very perceptive of you, Samuel. One could label me as such, my mother being a Hyena and my father a Goat. I’m the result of over inbreeding, like the royals of old.” The She-Demon cackled with uncontrollable laughter.
But then the smile vanished. The sibilant hiss of a serpent filled the air.
“Don’t engage the entity in conversation,” shouted Dr. Greenbaum.
The She-Demon turned its malignant gaze upon Ryan now.
“Oh, little Michael, my lad,” it said in a thick Irish brogue. “Care to play spin the bottle with Father Connelly again?”
Ryan tried to rise to his feet, but it was as if his legs were weighted with irons.
Suddenly the She-Demon’s face transmuted into a childlike innocence. “How about a song, everybody?” It broke out into its own rendition of If I Only Had a Brain. In a beguiling voice, it sang, “If I only had a soul, lade da diddy de dum . . .” With lips forming an exaggerated pout, it sighed.
Then as if they had all fallen into the epicenter of an earthquake or a tear in the space-time continuum, reality dissolved from a tight close-up, zooming outward, faster and faster, until nothing remained. Only darkness. Silence.
Like a Vulcan mind meld, their streams of consciousness flowed into one raging tributary. Whitecaps of images crashed against the outcropping of rock, which formed a shared mind’s eye. Each instantly experiencing the other’s thoughts, visions, and memories. The yoking of their neurons, synapses, and central nervous system, amplified all sensory experience: sensation and perception burst into flames within their skulls, like amatch-head ignited by the concentrated rays of the sun through a magnifying glass.
The She-Demon said, “There is your beloved collective consciousness. How do you like it? Samuel, do you feel Ryan’s anger, Greenbaum’s aching, misshapen body?” It bellowed in laughter. “You know, Dr. Jung was one of us from his earliest studies. He did his dissertation on the occult inBasil,Switzerlandwith the aid of his pretty little cousin, a medium. Yes, his prideful search for secret knowledge. We give them a little glimmer of knowledge and . . . they are ours for the taking. But . . . alas, I digress.”
Sam tried to dam up the tide of thoughts that cascaded through his mind, but it was hopeless.
“Do you deny,” the She-Demon continued, “that We have been winning the great battle? Your God, your absentee landlord sits by, watching your world bathed in blood and suffering.”
Susan—the She-Demon—began to rise. Levitating in midair, she turned to Sheila.
In a wicked-witch-of-the-west chortle it whispered, “But I dig that rock-’n’-roll, baby. Ozzy Osbourne, White Snake, KISS, Metalica. And oh, man—Rob Zombie.”
Instantly, a blast of heavy-metal rhythms assaulted their ears.
“Crawl in me, living dead girl . . .”
Sheila’s hand involuntarily tore open her ivory-colored, satin blouse. With her hips undulating like a stripper, her hands grasping an invisible pole, she pumped and writhed. She flicked her long mane of hair in a seductive, taunting fashion. Around and around an imaginary Maypole. Up and down the invisible rod. Her skirt hiked up, exposing her thighs more and more with each down stroke as she straddled her fathom lover.
The She-Demon taunted in a Mick Jagger scream-a-thon. “Feel the beat. Feel the Heat. Rock on. Sex, drugs . . .” The voice suddenly lowered to a deep baritone. “Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, but Elvis has left the building.”
Silence reigned.
Then in the dark void of their minds an image formed. High above them like the polished hull of a boat floating in undulating waves on the water’s surface, a light shone. Pure and undiluted. Calm, comforting emotions enveloped them in the manner of a mother’s loving arms. The image ofIsis shimmered above. She had a gentle smile on her lips that in a blur transformed into a vision of The Virgin Mary.
Now the image of the Star of David appeared in a crisp focus. Tongues of blue-white flames shot from the star’s six-pointed apexes, absorbing the surrounding darkness.
A loud clap of ethereal thunder.
The air pulsed with a static charge and the mind meld dissolved.
Sweat poured off Sheila’s body and forehead, like melting fat from a greasy double-bacon-cheeseburger. Her hair was wringing wet, hanging matted against her cheek. Her face was flushed. Embarrassed, she knelt, cupping her hands to her face. Then she collapsed to the floor. Ryan leaped from his seat and ran to her side. He cradled her in his arms. Stroking her hair, he said, “It’s all right now, Monkey Face. It’s over.” He buttoned her blouse, pulled down her skirt, and eased her into a chair. She sobbed between deep gulping breaths.
Startled, but in control of his mind once again, Sam wheeled round toward Susan’s now supine body. A Star of David was draped across her chest. Sam turned to Dr. Greenbaum who was visibly exhausted, swaying as he stood as if about to collapse.
Scooping the doctor into his arms, Sam placed him on the floor, and checked his pulse. It was weak, but steady.
“I placed the amulet on her chest—” the doctor said in a weak, shaky voice.
Sam brought his finger to his lips and whispered, “Don’t try to talk, rest.”
It was over. Or was it?
 
 VII
  
LIKE THE CRACK of a ghost rider’s whip, thunder whipped across the moonless sky. And preternatural lightning scarred the underbelly of the heavens. Inside the Black Curia’s lair, a pasty-white hand gesticulated in a whirling, circular movement. A chorus of atonal voices chanted ancient words of power. The diminutive, shrouded figure began to rise, higher and higher into the air.
An ozone-like scent filled the room; the air crackled. As he hovered in midair, he spoke:
“ TIAMAT ,SYMBOL OF CHAOS,BAH-AL-ZEB-OOB, LORD OF THE FLIES, LORD OF EKRON,YOU AREUNFETTERED ,UNCHAINED . . .”
Like the age-old hermetic adage—as above, so below—the giant Helmholtz coils embedded in the ceiling and in the floor sang out, plucking the etheric mental signals from the curia’s minds. The main frame of the colossal Cray 900 computer crunched. Display panels sparked to life.
A technician’s hands pounded a keyboard, commanding the satellite through radiotelemetry codes, to fire its retros just enough to rotate into the proper attitude. The device, code- named Proteus, was now carrying thoughts and transmitting them through the uplink to an EROS-I modified weapons and communications satellite parked in geosynchronous orbit high above the earth. An alternate reality, a temporal stasis, was then transmitted back to the target zone, the hospital.
 
* * *
 
 VIII
  
AS SAM HELD the doctor in his arms, a look of terror washed over the doctor’s face. He screamed. Then, as if something was caught in his throat, Greenbaum began to choke and gag. Sam stared in horror as a rippling movement rose beneath the flesh of the doctor’s throat. He clawed at his throat. Then with his free hand he pointed over Sam’s shoulder.
Sam turned and saw Susan scuttling across the floor on all fours, insect-like, breaking the circle of protection; she frantically pawed at the salt that dripped from her hands like molten white lava.
“Oh, God! She broke the circle,” Sheila screamed.
Not knowing why, just by instinct, Sam and Ryan drew their weapons. They waited.
 CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK .
A metallic clatter, a scratching sound, came from Dr. Greenbaum’s mouth. Sam gaped in disbelief as a huge, black Goliath Beetle squirmed out from between Dr. Greenbaum’s lips.
Even as the beetle emerged, wiggling free and falling to the floor, it was followed by another and another and another. The insects were about five inches in length—as big as a hand. Looking down, Sam saw the demon beetles scurrying in all directions. In disgust and revulsion, he brought his foot down hard, crushing beetle after beetle. Then just as he raised his eyes, another insect crawled from the doctor’s lips and leaped onto Sam’s face. He swatted it to the floor where it landed at Ryan’s feet. Raising his foot, Ryan brought it down fast, grinding the bug beneath his heel. Sulphurous steam poured off the insect’s body and off the sole of Ryan’ shoe.
Sheila shouted in a quaking voice, “Sweet Jesus, look!”
Sam turned, breath caught in his throat, heart hanging in mid-beat.
Down the wall, no, each wall, from beneath the surface and moving toward the floor—insectile movement.
They looked up. Veins of blistering paint washed across the ceiling. And sounds. Buzzing. Gnawing. Louder and louder. Like babbling denizens from Hell or a swarm of locust feeding, devouring hope. The clamor rose to a din.
Ryan, Sheila, and Sam, with their eyes ticking left then right, up then down, inched backward toward the center of the circle.
The floor tiles began to bubble up. Fast-moving waves beneath the floor’s surface surged toward them like rats scurrying under a throw rug. The waves came from all directions, forming attacking vectors, converging like torpedoes toward a circle of battle ships. Rippling death.
The floor and ceiling tiles burst open, spewing a black swarm of flies. Buzzing, winged emissaries of the damned. Still, more flies. The mass of green and black grew in density as it circled them. A dust devil, a whirlwind, spiraled ever upward. A frenzied, malignant wall of flies. The black cyclone rose higher and higher, faster and faster, until finally reaching the ceiling, where it washed across the surface like a black plague. Then it began to spin like a gigantic pinwheel of iron filings on white paper, pulled by an invisible magnet. Round and round. Dizzying madness.
Fear swimming in their eyes, backs pressed to one another, they stood unable to comprehend, unable to move.
The shimmering mass slowly doubled, then tripled in density, a churning, seething, ravenous organism that began to press ever downward; a black tube of evil surrounded them, while a living horde crushed down from above like a plunger . Lower and lower.
Sheila began to scream.
Suddenly, head after head of Goliath beetles poked through the teeming mantle of flies from all sides. Dozens of twitching antennae dotted the pulsating blanket of flies. Like parallel hacksaw blades, their razor-edged mandibles feasted on the surrounding flies.
A wailing dirge of voices.
Alien but human, filled the air.
First hands, then arms, then bodies spilled through the curtain of flies. It was the army of grotesques: patients and cadavers. As Sam wheeled to face the new onslaught, his heart trip-hammering, an old woman, hobbling with a walker and covered in an infestation of flies, slowly moved toward him.
A static charge shot down his spine. He took two steps back, but she kept coming. Demented and grinning from ear to ear. Closer and closer. The hollow thud of the walker’s aluminum legs, clawing across the floor. The muzzle flash from Ryan’s Beretta as the old woman crumpled to the floor, jolted Sam back to awareness and action. A throng of shuffling, creeping grotesques moved through the black mantle, eyes vacant, dripping with flies. Sam and Ryan threw down a blazing field of fire as body after body toppled over one another.
Susan, still possessed by the She-Demon, lunged at Sheila. The She-Demon clawed and raked at her eyes, but Sheila drew back her arm and backhanded her hard, sending her reeling to the floor.
The buzzing, swarming ceiling pressed to within a few feet of their heads. The walls moved steadily closer like a vice.
Sheila knelt on the floor, her hands frantically searching for the bottle of Holy Water she’d dropped during the scuffle.
Then finding it, she rose and screamed through the deafening beating of tiny wings. “The Holy Water . . . Sam, Michael! . . . The Holy Water!”
They understood. Mimicking her actions, they tore the caps from their bottles, sprayed the iridescent walls, and finally hurled the Holy Water upward into the swarm.
Instantly, a black deluge poured down around them. A two-foot blanket of flies covered the floor, and a carnage of dead bodies littered the room. Bodies draped in a black, twitching funeral shawl.
Ryan moved toward Sheila, took her trembling hand, and pointed toward the doorway with his gun hand. Sam reloaded his semi-auto and stepped in front of them taking point.
“Let’s check the hall, first,” Sam said. Then he nodded toward Susan and Dr. Greenbaum who now lay across the couch where Sam had placed them. “I’ll come back for them once I’ve gotten the two of you the hell out of here.”
No one protested.
As they waded through the black drifts, flies crunching beneath each footstep, an eel squirmed in Sam’s stomach.
 
* * *
 
 IX
  
THE ROAR OF twin, black Bell JetRanger helicopters descending onto the hospital’s rooftop beat against The Other’s  eardrums. The churning backwash of the rotors whipped up a blinding curtain of snow particles swirling in an ivory lather. Men in black Nomex  Special Ops or HRT (Hostage Rescue Team) jump suits, devoid of rank or insignia, swarmed out of the helos and onto the rooftop. Gray visored helmets shielded their faces. With H&K M-70 submachine guns in hand, they scrambled across the roof and toward a stairwell door.
 The Other held Matt Mendecka, still bathed in a semi-catatonic stupor, cradled in his arms. Crouched low behind a huge cooling unit, he and the boy were out of the helo pilots’ line of sight. And the squad of men hurtled directly past them.
 The Other glided like moonlight through clotted shadows, climbing unseen into the second chopper. The Alpha Unit from the helo took the elevator to the lobby and worked their way up, floor by floor, searching for survivors. As they searched in the blackened hallways, lit only by the faint jaundice glow of emergency lighting, their muzzle-mounted maglites cut helter-skelter swaths of brilliance through the curtain of darkness. The thundering soles of their heavy combat boots and an occasional burst of automatic weapons fire echoed in the stillness. Punctuated by screams.
 
* * *
 
 X
  
ON THE THIRTEENTH floor Sam heard the ping of the elevator door just as it opened. The three survivors stood dumfounded as the door parted to reveal Beta Unit. Four paramilitary types silhouetted in the lambent glow of the elevator cab’s emergency lighting. They stood silent. Phantoms.
Sam swallowed hard and breathed a sigh of relief. “Judas Priest, are we glad to see you guys. Goldstein and Ryan, CPD.”
The mirrored visors of the uniformed apparitions communicated nothing—nothing but a cold and reflective callousness.
Ryan moved forward supporting Sheila on his hip. She gave a weak smile, stumbled. Sam followed in sync, but froze in his tracks. The nearest rescuer slowly raised a laser-sighted handgun, which painted a red dot of lethal luminescence, center of mass, on Sam’s chest. His finger began to curl around the trigger. He fired.

 
 
CHAPTER 13
 
 I: Lightbears of the Darkness
  
IN THE OPS center, located within the confines of an allegedly abandoned military installation, Dr. Drexler stood watching and waiting. The center itself was buried within the cliff side, and surrounded by a three-foot-thick steel outer shell. Its walls were lined with computer housings, consoles, and gigantic situation monitor boards. Twinkling systems-check bulbs and blue-green LCD and L.E.D. displays bathed the room in an eerie unearthly hue, dying the faces of the technicians in an alien pallor.
Dr. Drexler stood in the center of the room on an elevated control platform. He was flanked by men with dour faces who wore color-coded, large, plastic security badges suspended from their necks by a thin chain. A mogul from a large world-wide communications corporation, high-ranking officers from various military branches, including a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the blank, expressionless, nondescript faces of the Director’s of various intelligence services, studied the high-resolution, Plasma monitor screens on the far wall as they sat at a U-shaped console behind Dr. Drexler.
The screens displayed the real-time image transmissions from various communications satellites:
Screen 1—The Citadel,Cairo,Egypt .
Screen 2—The Château, Maisons, nearParis,France .
Screen 3—TheEileanDononCastle ,Scotland .
Screen 4—The UnitedNations Building,New York ,
   New York.
Gentleman of privilege and authority sat facing the camera at each of these exotic locations, waiting in silence and anticipation.
“Three point five minutes until the satellite’s pass over,” stated a no-nonsense technician.
A scarecrow-thin, lead technician at Drexler’s side nodded to another tech seated before a state-of-the-art communications console. The tech spoke into his headset:
“FireHawk Alpha and Omega, acknowledge.”
“FireHawk Alpha group leader, by.”
“FireHawk Omega group leader, by.”
The metallic voices of the group leaders boomed from the overhead speakers of theOpsCenter .
The communications tech shifted in his seat and replied, “FireHawk group leaders, this is Overlord, copy your last, five-by-five. How copy?”
Alpha and Omega responded in turn, “Copy you five-by-five, Overlord.”
“Groups leaders, from Overlord. CODE WORD—ADAMAS—REPEAT CODE WORD—ADAMAS. ACKNOWLEDGE, LAST!”
“FireHawk Alpha group leader, copy CODE WORD—ADAMAS!”
“FireHawk Omega group leader, copy CODE WORD—ADAMAS!”
A brief crackle of static and then silence.
Dr. Drexler reached across the console and lifted a red-colored folder with a foil holographic label that read: “Operation Proteus Cosmic-Top-Secret.” As he studied the folder’s contents he slowly reached out his gnarled hand and flipped a rocker switch on the desktop of the console. The holographic image of Dr. Ordinaire, black-robed and floating in midair, materialized in 3-D before the distinguished guests.
A sudden intake of breath from the guests masked the words of the Director of NSA/CSS (National Security Agency/Central Security Service), Lt. General Philip Houseman, as he turned and whispered to his aide seated next to him. “My Intel Reports say that this Dr. Ordinaire is a loose cannon. The eccentric little bastard could blow this entire operation. He’s a sicko. And furthermore, if we didn’t need Drexler I would find him to be expendable, too.”
The aide leaned in closer. “Yes, sir. I’ve got men monitoring the situation worldwide and field operatives, namely agent Manwich of the Ops Directorate, on the ground here inChicago posing as a DSSagent . We’re containing the situation so far, but as you said, if things become too high profile we—”
The Director cut him off. “Plausible deniability, son. Compartmentalization. I’ll trust your judgment on this one.”
The aide gulped hard, as if swallowing a Grand Jury subpoena. “Just don’t let me down, understood?” the Director said in a tone laced with dire consequences.
Staring intently at the image of the hovering black angel then abruptly turning and meeting the eyes of Director Houseman, Dr. Drexler spoke, “I needn’t remind you that we need a vessel, a medium through which to channel these powerful forces which, when coupled with the charm particle accelerator and the uplink, have brought us to this grand moment in man’s history.”
Now it was Director Houseman’s turn to swallow hard. His pendulous jowls quivered, his face flushed radish-red as he nodded.
Dr. Drexler continued. “I realize that Dr. Ordinaire’s methods may seem strange to you all, even a bit volatile, shall we say, but we need him until the replacement has been fully groomed.”
“Mark—Zero,” the voice of the Sat Ops technician cut in. “Target coming up on display, now.” His hand reached forward and he punched a switch.
An aerial view ofMethodist GeneralHospital appeared in a flicker on the main screen.
“Enhancing image—now,” the tech said as a toggle bar in his hand caused crosshairs to form a rectangular box on the upper portion of the main Plasma screen. He clicked once, then again, doubling, and then quadrupling the magnification of the image.
The screen was now filled with the image of twoBell
JetRanger helos lifting their tails, bowing their noses, and flying off the hospital’s rooftop in succession.
The overhead speakers crackled to life.
“Overlord, from Alpha group leader.”
“Overlord, by.”
“Overlord, we have the packages, multiple targets on the ground neutralized. Condition now stable. The PHONE IS OFF THE HOOK—REPEAT, OFF THE HOOK!”
“Copy last, condition stable. Phone off the hook. Run tape now and move to predesignated positions. Overlord out.”
“Copy last, Overlord. Moving to safe positions now. Tape rolling. FireHawk group leaders Alpha-Omega, out.”
Dr. Drexler steepled his hands at his chin. Then, turning to the lead tech, he said, “Put me on holographic uplink with our distinguished colleagues, if you’d be so kind.”
“Holo-uplink completed, sir,” the tech said as Drexler’s luminescent Doppelgänger image formed in midair and began to speak: “Gentlemen, today is the dawning of a newΑeon, the Golden Dawn of the age ofHorus . The end of the old gods. We have wed the forces of arcane knowledge,” he gestured toward the holographic image of Dr. Ordinaire’s demonic coven, “with the twenty-first century forces of subatomic physics.”
Drexler bent and threw another switch. The image of a large nuclear fusion accelerator now shared a split screen with the floating vision of the Channeler-—Dr. Ordinaire. A grid-work of catwalks circled and crossed a deep blue lagoon of light. White-hot coagulated bursts of light dotted the space below. Branch-like tendrils of white-pink light, charges of current, shot out from columns, entwining the azure pool in their grip. And for an instant, it had the capability of generating ten times the power of all the world’s electrical generating stations combined.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
THE 757 WAS rocketing along at five hundred knots, at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet, in desolation over theAtlantic Ocean . Its distinguished passenger list included: five governors, including Big Bill Curtis of Illinois; two U.S. Senators, together with their wannabe, tabloid-sexy mistresses; numerous heads of the IMF (International Monetary Fund), together with their mistresses—a list of secret Swiss bank account codes; and finally, the Secretary General of the UN, together with his mistress, a statuesque, blond, Swedish—male secretary. And seated in coach, first class and business class being overrun with “potentates” and their harems, sat Pierre Charon, the attaché from the French embassy inWashington,D.C.
The group and its straphanger entourage were en route to the World Economic Summit inRome,Italy , whose agenda included a report on a banking scandal involving the Vatican Bank and aMiddle East funded banking cartel with a headlines-grabbing main office inAtlanta,Georgia : BCCI (Bank of Credit and Commerce International).
Passing the tight ring of security at Dulles was child’s play since Mr. Charon enjoyed diplomatic immunity. Even if the crack—want fries with that—recently federalized airport boarding screeners had given Charon a second look, they would have discovered no plastic explosives secreted in the soles of his three-hundred-dollar Bally shoes, no box cutters secreted in the folds of his Italian red-silk boxer shorts, and no “Flying for Dummies” manuals in his trim-line Zero briefcase. No weapons of any kind would be necessary.
Pierre Charon—a man with a purpose. Pierre Charon—a man empowered by a secret. As he glanced furtively at his wristwatch, his mouth cottony, droplets of perspiration beaded his forehead. He gulped down the last swig of cognac, his fingers squeezing the snifter in a death grip. He hit the overhead call button, and when the flight attendant appeared, he hastily ordered another drink.
Pierre Charon sat in the frenzied stupor of the zealot. He thought to himself. I am CHARON, the mythical boatman who will ferry these soon damned souls across the riverStyxto Hades! 
After receiving his second drink, Charon set about his work.
He pulled down his tray table, placed his laptopon it, andconnected the phone modem.He connectedto a SATCON cut-out channel, routed through several intermediary networks, and activated the web camera. In a matter of moments, his real-time encrypted imagewasbeamed over thousands of miles, through satellite uplinks, and back down to theOpsCenter.
 
* * *
 
 III
  
DREXLER STOOD PENSIVELY, studying the time displays of the digital clock readouts mounted on the wall. “Bring up the image from the aircraft,” Drexler ordered.
“Bringing up image now, sir,” answered the technician.
Suddenly, a phantasmic, 3-D image ofCharon’s wide-eyed, slightly pulsing face appeared, floating in midair before the onlookers in theOpsCenter as well as on the monitors of the conspirators huddled in their clandestine locations around the globe.
They all knew what was about to happen. What was supposed to happen. Nevertheless, they sat in awe; the deafening roar of apprehension hung heavy in each room.
Their eyes ticked back and forth between the high-resolution monitors and the holographic images: the hospital, Dr. Ordinaire’s floating specter, the pulsing fusion accelerator, and the quivering image ofCharon’s face in extreme close-up.
The technician punched the radiotelemetry codes into his keyboard, instructing the EROS II weapons satellite in orbit to fix on the coordinates of the targets and ready its modified particle beam. He turned his head and nodded to Drexler.
Drexler acknowledged and then stood solemnly, his eyes fixated upon the 3-D images. Slowly raising his arm, he said, “On my mark.”
He began to countdown in a steady, commanding rhythm.
“Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . .”
His arm fell like a guillotine blade, cutting the thick silence.
The facsimile-like images of the hospital and Charon began to shiver in a vibrato of resonations: a hyperphysical blurring, which erupted into a hemorrhage of blinding, scintillating white light, followed by a starburst of iron, concrete, and fuselage exploding in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree, fireworks-like pattern.
Evaporated.
The holographic images blinked out, replaced by a burst of snowy static. A hissing white noise droned from the overhead sound system, piercing the air.
Drexler wheeled about, acknowledging the thunderous applause that erupted both in theOpsCenter and over the speakers.
He extended his hands palms upward and said, “A resounding success, gentlemen. A resounding success, indeed!” He cleared his throat, composing himself. “And this gentlemen, is only the half of it. Together with the HEMP protocol of mind control we can dictate the future.” His eyes grew narrow as he panned the faces of the onlookers and then turning, he leered into the camera lens. “You are either completely with us, or against us! The later choice, of course, would spell your doom.”
Drexler pivoted and motioned toward the doorway. A guard nodded and opened the door. A phalanx of guards wheeled a large cast-iron pot into the center of the room. As tendrils of stream rose from the lip of the brazier, Drexler stepped down from his roost and walked with quiet determination toward it. Reaching carefully into the huge kettle, he pulled out a long iron rod. A branding iron fixed with a red-hot glowing symbol welded to its end: three parallel crescent-shaped moons.
He smiled thinly and said, “Now, gentlemen, who will be the first?”
A wet spot began to flower at the crotch of Director Houseman’s trousers.
PART III
 
THE PACT

 
“Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over an abyss.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

 
 
CHAPTER14
 
And now for the good news:
 
 I: Channel 2 WBBM-Chicago News Bulletin
    
 We interrupt this regular broadcast to inform you that confirmed sources report a Trans Union 757 aircraft, Flight 008, that departedDullesAirporten route to the World EconomicSummitinRome,Italyis missing.
 Unconfirmed sources report thatU.S.SenatorsGrisswell and Merchant, numerous Governors, including our own Big Bill Curtis, were on board. CNN is reporting that U.N. Secretary Juan Gomez Cruz was also a passenger on Flight 008. 
 When asked to comment on the cause of the tragic possible air crash, Vice PresidentMathers stated that the FAA and FBI were in the earliest stages of investigation, but would disclose details as they became available. TheU.S.Navy has launched a rescue mission by diverting the 7th fleet to that area of theAtlantic. 
On the local scene tragedy also struck theChicagoland area. In what is being speculated as a freak gas line explosion,Methodist GeneralHospital was the scene of carnage and debris early this morning when the hospital burst into what witnesses report as a white ball of flame. Causalities are being reported in the hundreds with certain fatalities. The blinding blizzard has hampered emergency services from fully accessing the damage at this point. Please stay tuned to WBBM Eyewitness News for further developments. We now return you to your regular scheduled programming.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
DR. DAGON DREXLER’S aged, liver-spotted hand placed the television’s remote control on his polished burled-walnut desktop. His praying-mantis fingers withdrew a custom Turkish-blend cigarette from an ornate mother-of-pearl box, lit the thin cylinder, exhaled deeply, and expelled an effluvium mixture of smoke and arrogance. He sighed in a mischievous, childlike manner.
“Let me be the first to congratulate you on your new appointment to Acting Lt. Governor,” Drexler said. “Aleister Adams, rocketing up the political food chain, aren’t you, son?”
“How soon until the next step?”Adams asked.
“Patience, my boy, is one of the virtues I still condone. When is the funeral?”
“The high profile necessitated waiting until April twenty-eighth. They had to exhaust all efforts in order to declare the victims of the airline and hospital disaster legally dead. The combination of no bodies or remains charred beyond recognition, complicated identification and bureaucratic procedures,”Adams said with a smirk.
“So, the evidence of Ordinaire’s over zealous experiment in unleashing that demonic bloodbath at the hospital has been successfully obliterated, I take it?”
“Not a trace remains, sir. I understand that our friends at the Eschatology Institute were not pleased with Dr. Ordinaire’s little escapades in shape shifting and chaos?”
“Yes, Aleister, I’m afraid they don’t appreciate the complexity and raw power of the forces they have asked us to tap into. Yoking the ancient ones, making them totally subservient, is impossible. At the very core of their personality lies . . . rebellion. The traditions and mythology of past civilizations has retold the story of their misunderstood statement—we will not serve—countless times. Titans, Fallen Angels, Dinjin . . . many names, many stories, used to cloud, conceal and distort the truth. Freedom to know right from wrong. The courage to imbue mankind with freewill. These are only sinful acts to a demagogue slave master.”
“Yes, Doctor, I understand but—”
Cutting him off in midsentence, Dr. Drexler seethed, “You leave the Institute and Dr. Ordinaire to me! Devote your energies to the political end and our plans for the orderly succession of our people into key positions.” Changing into his syrupy grandfatherly inflection, he said, “Future governor Aleister Adams—maybe President Adams—has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“I am not sure . . . I mean . . . I had no dreams that my role could be so huge,”Adams stammered.
“Not the foggiest, eh? I have great plans for your future. Tell me; is it true that they plan to have the Mayor present an award of valor posthumously to the late great Officer Goldstein?”
“Yes, doctor. As a matter of fact, I’m to say a few words, and present it along with his ashes to his brother, Rabbi Goldstein,”Adams nervously replied.
In hysterical, sinister peals of raucous laughter, Dr. Drexler said, “Oh, how interesting. What irony abounds in the universe.” Drying his eyes with a sable silk handkerchief, he continued, “Oh, excuse my exuberance, Aleister. This is too exquisite. Now take this attaché case. It contains two million dollars in bearer bonds . . . buy something nice for you and Abigail.”Adams began to reach for the case then hesitated.
“Go on . . . Take it!”
He did. The pact was complete.

 

CHAPTER 15
 
Requiem:
 
“He opened the sixth seal, and behold, there was a great earth quake; and the sun became black as a sack cloth of hair, and the moon became like blood . . .”
                                                                       Rev 6:12
 
 I
  
MEDINAH,ILLINOIS, an innocuous, weary, little burg; a whistle stop on the Burlington Northern Commuter Train line. In the past it had brought only men, but now an equal number of women in gray flannel suits, trudging homeward fromChicago ’s Union Station, scurrying like rats abandoning a sinking ship. Home to hearth and fire. Home from the polluted, grimy city air. Home from the Prozac Circus of uncaring, deadline driven bosses, back stabbing co-workers, bottomless coffee cups, and thirty minute lunch hours.
Bensinville. . .Medinah . . . Next Stop . . .
Rabbi Jacob Yomach Goldstein sat in a sullen stupor, peering out the passenger car’s window. His own reflection was superimposed over the blur of passing homes, parking lots, traffic, and tree lines—resembling shrinking stage scenery as the train rocketed past. Down the tracks.
Bump ka thud, Bump ka thud, Bump ka thud . . .
His wife, Sophie, seated at his side, placed her soft, delicate, reassuring hand on his as a burning tear cascaded down her cheek. The gentle rhythm of the train, like a cradle, should have soothed and comforted Jacob’s soul. But it didn’t. Jacob and Sophie weren’t going home. They were going to a funeral, his baby brother’s—Samuel’s funeral.
Jacob gazed deeply into his mirrored image. A ghostly, haunting caricature blazed back at him: a waxen, expressionless face with bloodshot eyes, tearful and glistening. Sunken eyes floated in the reflection, peering like goblins over pebbled semicircles of stress. A man of faith. Empty. Gutted like a fish by the grim reaper’s handiwork.
Loss creates a vacuum; man and nature abhor a vacuum. So by natural course, like air into a sucking chest wound, guilt, hatred, and despair poured into that empty cavity, filling the void once inhabited by his brother’s warm memory and essence.
The mortician had cremated Samuel Goldstein’s earthly remains to “spare the loved ones the gruesome heartache” he had said. It was not the norm for those of the Jewish faith, but the family was not consulted beforehand. Now Jacob would be denied even the privilege of one last glimpse upon the face of a brother he hadn’t seen for twelve years. No chance to say he loved him, no chance to ask forgiveness for his stubbornness; no chance to hold even a last fleeting image of him in his memory. Nothing. This was the anguish that congealed in his heart.
As Jacob’s taxi cab climbed slowly over the last hill to the cemetery, he saw a funeral motorcade of dozens of state and city police cars, flanking and encasing a long column of sleek black hearses and a convoy of limousines. Red-and-blue police beacons whirled like fireflies around a black, elongated swarm of giant ants . . . marching . . . extending as far as the eye could see.
The motorized caissons carried empty caskets. The bodies of dignitaries and common passengers aboard Trans Air Flight 008 were never recovered. Governor Big Bill Curtis’s death, like his career and life, was one big media event, a soon to be forgotten sound bite on thesix o’clock news. Various state and city politicians arrived in a feeding frenzy of security and media: Mayor Eddie Norton, Cardinal O’Neil, Acting Governor TimothyHenesy , and the newly appointed Lieutenant Governor, Aleister Adams.
A sublime breeze wafted through the treetops that dotted hundreds of acres of gently rolling hills. They blew over the new spring emerald veldts ofMedinahCemetery . A citadel of the dead, a shrine of death, so named for the Holy of Holies—city of Islamic faith—Medina. Once the refuge of Muhammad, the location of his tomb, now the symbolic burial ground of thirteen recently departed sacrificial victims.
The sepulcher for the “Ancient Arabic Order of Nobles of the Mystic Shrine” whose members are at least 32nddegree Masons in the Scottish Rite or Knights Templar in the York Rite. This wasMedinah cemetery.
Rabbi Goldstein waded through a sea of mourners, women veiled in black lace, broad-rimmed hats, and austere sable dresses. Men sat erect in sober black business suits, like stuffed goblins, filling rows and rows of folding chairs. A botanical garden paid homage to the foreboding colonnade of thirteen obsidian coffins, surrounded by mounds of fresh, moist, grave earth and blankets of artificial green tarps. A solemn, unsettling sight.
Sophie and Jacob Goldstein stood bathed in a molten golden sunlight that poured down from the heavens. A cool virginal breeze caressed their faces and drifted through the huddled crowd in intermittent gusts.
Jacob was led to the front by a member of the mayor’s staff. The weasel-like young man spoke with exaggerated hand gestures as he fired a barrage of questions with the sensitivity of a jack-hammer.
“The Mayor is going to give a short eulogy, okay? Then you say theKaddish , right? Detective Goldstein was Jewish, correct?”
“Just tell me when, young man,” Jacob said, repulsed by the man’s cold obnoxious manner. “And my brother’s ashes?”
“Oh, didn’t they tell you, Lt. Governor Adams will present them? How exciting, don’t you think?” replied the weasel.
“Just get on with it,” Jacob whispered in desperation.
A hand grasped the Rabbi’s shoulder. Jacob turned to see the gloom-filled face of Michael Ryan with Sheila at his side, clutching his arm. Jacob had not seen Ryan since he and Sam were young classmates; however, Jacob recognized Ryan’s boyish good looks immediately.
“Rabbe, I’m Michael Ryan, Sam’s partner. I was the one who helped Sam drive you crazy on Sunday afternoons when you were trying to study. Oh . . . and this is my fiancée, Sheila Riley.”
“I remember, Michael,” Jacob said, embracing him in his powerful arms. “You two were the best of friends. He was blessed to have your friendship.”
“We never met Rabbe, but Sam was like a brother to me. He was a very special man. My sympathy to you and your wife,” Sheila said with kindness flowing from her eyes.
GovernorHenesy began his eulogy. His words floated over the mournful lamentations of bagpipes. A stoic parade of pallbearers marched in formation; an honor guard of Chicago Police Officers in their dress uniforms took their positions at each coffin, and in unison slowly began to lower the black glassy boxes, sinking like the metropolis of Atlantis into the hungry black sea.
Thirteen ebony-black ash-filled vases, resembling ancient EgyptianCanubic jars, stood arranged in circular fashion on a raised altar-like stand atop the podium; silent centennials unable to divulge their secrets.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
A WHITE PANEL van rolled to a stop at the curb, parking directly across the street from the cemetery’s gates. An official press placard lay in plain sight on the van’s dashboard. Inside, an intense young agent sat before a sophisticated radio console. As spools of audiotape slowly revolved, he strained to hear private conversations through a set of headphones. A large, parabolic microwave dish rose into the air on a telescoping mount, humming as the structure climbed higher. The dish swiveled back and forth until a red luminous bar grew to maximum length on the surveillance console. Another agent, with a press pass dangling from her neck, stood unobtrusively at the side of the van. She casually sipped her coffee and nodded as a police cruiser slowly drove past. A clear coiled plastic tube ran up the inside collar of her shirt and fed into a flesh-colored, custom-molded earpiece. The slight bulge of her windbreaker, caused by a .40 H&K P-7 semi-automatic, which hugged her waistband, was barely discernible. She’d been issued a new sidearm. She watched and waited with quiet resolve.
 
* * *
 
 III
  
SOPHIE GOLDSTEIN BECKONED to Ryan and Sheila.
“Why in the name of God was Samuel at that hospital?” Sophie asked.
Ryan and Sheila’s personas stiffened to a hard plastic shell. They spoke in a low wooden cadence. Their eyes became vacant—cadaver like—as they spoke in measured unison.
“Sam was on official police business, which we are not at liberty to discuss. He will be missed . . . official police business. A good man. Such a pity.”
Then, their eyes blinked and their expressions became animated, normal. They smiled.
Jacob and Sophie exchanged bewildered glances as Jacob asked, “Are you both feeling well?
Ryan’s eyes blinked again, then Sheila’s. “I’m the picture of health,” he said. Then Sheila chimed in. “We’re the picture of health.”
As Jacob’s mind swam in a pool of confusion, the little impish man from the Mayor’s PR Office signaled for him to mount the podium.
A cleansing silver rain poured through the radiant glow of warm yellow sunbeams. Grandmothers would look up into such a sky and tell their grandchildren:
 “The devil was whipping his wife behind the door.” 
 
* * *
 
Two eerie human figures stood with their backs turned to Rabbi Goldstein, facing out toward the surrealistic cemetery. A malevolent presence hovered about them; a statuesque woman stood silently, draped in shimmering black-satin dress. The second figure was a tall, slender, distinguished man. His rounded shoulders and raven blue-black hair accented with flames of gray at the temples, swept into a modest ponytail at the back, and gave him a bird-like appearance: a Peregrine Falcon.
As Aleister Adams passed the ebony vase into Rabbi Goldstein’s trembling hands, the Rabbi’s eyes were drawn by a supernatural magnetic force to the gravesite, and then beyond to the towering dreamscape of the surrounding cemetery. Brilliant beams of white-yellow sunlight dyed the limestone and granite; a panorama of morose spheroids sat perched atop lugubrious mausoleums: seven golden orbs with Mars, Saturn, Jupiter, Venus, Mercury, Sun, and Moon inscribed in Greek in sequence on each planet. Towering pillars, Egyptian obelisks—phallic symbols—pierced the firmaments.
In the center stood theHenge —colossal megaliths—pagan monuments; a circle of menhir (erect stones), surrounded two groups of white-and-red robed women. The wives and daughters of the Lodge—Women of Eastern Star—whose symbol was an inverted Pentagram, and Job’s Daughters, whose symbol was the rose. They stood, arms raised in supplication, singing canticles of abominable adoration to ancient gods, as they danced around a Maypole. 
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
HE WORE THE uniform of a motorcycle police officer. The heels of his long black riding boots crushed and trampled the innocent spring grass beneath his feet as he pressed through the onlookers toward the podium. His helmet and mirrored sunglasses concealed the hateful eyes of a predator that glowed with a sulfuric luminescence from deep within their sockets. He strode, Terminator-like . . . a robotic killing machine.
Inside the van, therobocop’s image appeared on the network feed monitor. The young man hit a control switch which digitally froze the motor cop’s image into a series of thumbnails (still photos on a computer monitor). A printer whirred as photo images spewed out.
 
* * *
 
 V
  
RABBI JACOB GOLDSTEIN turned his gaze away from the cemetery. And in an effort to shake off a queasy vertigo that washed over him, he riveted his eyes on the black funeral urn clutched tightly in his hand. A hush fell over the assembled onlookers as he was introduced as the former Detective Goldstein’s brother. He began to recite theKaddish :
“ Qadosh,Qadosh ,Qadosh ,AdonaiTzeba’oth .” 
Icy tentacles climbed up and down his spine. He felt as though eyes, like industrial lasers, were boring into the back of his skull. He turned briefly and met the salacious, voluptuous, violet eyes of the haunting woman on the podium—Honora Celine Boullan Drexler.
A quake of sensuality titillated him, a sickening sensuality; a devouring cannibalistic sensuality filled his loins. Honora’s perfume floated through the ether; it enveloped him, drawing him like a moth to the flame. The flames of Abandon—Hell Fires.
He choked. His mouth punk dry. He reached down and squeezed Sophie’s hand as if it was an amulet of protection. Their love was chaste and unequaled.
 Jacob, for God’s sake. Think man. You’re a Rabbi. Focus. Think of Sophie. Think of Samuel. 
But just as his brother’s image filled his mind’s eye, his eyes darted back over his shoulder again. Behind Honora Celine Drexler, the hunchbacked dark figure began to slowly turn toward him. Then, the figure’s neck craned—like a JurassicVeloceraptor . His eyes had elliptical pupils. Pools of emptiness. Onyx reptile orbs which penetrated Jacob’s soul to a quintessential, nightmarish depth. Jacob’s ears perked as sibilant whispers seemed to come from Dagon Drexler’s bloodless lips. But the lips didn’t move.
“ Hissss . . . why don’t you join your brother? They could use a few more Rabbis in Hell!”
As Jacob’s heart hammered, his eyes fixed on Dagon’s almond-shaped pupils, which slowly dissolved into a blood-red, distorted, almond-shaped sun. Sable-black clouds rolled over the magenta orb, shrouding it, forming a radiant crimson hue on their vaporous edges: a Masque of the Black Death with a corona of bloodstained fingers of light.
Thunder boomed, thunder roared and bellowed like a warning oracle of tribulation. A disquieting, surrealistic light caused monstrous tree shadows to run like quicksilver over gravestones, faces, and curtains of driving rain. Blazing, blue-white pitch- forks of lightning stabbed and tore at the fabric of the heavens. Pulses of clapping thunder rocked the marble gravestones until spider webs of cracks—as if demons wielding ball-peen hammers assaulted them—ran across their glossy surfaces. Tiny claw-like hands seemed to grip the sides of the cracks; hellish, disfigured, little, mud-like bodies squirmed over the edges, scurrying down the stonework, and into this world.
Elementals of the underworld . . . invaders from a dark dimension.
His temples exploded with waves of pressure. Blood thundered in his eardrums.
Jacob wheeled around to the raised altar as diaphanous, opaque, spectral forms rose from the funeral urns. One phantom visage flew upwards to a lofty height, and then dove to within inches of his face. A haunting, ice-brittle wind washed over him and only him. The translucent face of a mawkish old woman with baleful tortured eyes hovered closer; planting an infernal kiss with bloodless, cracked lips—sandpaper lips.
He recoiled in revulsion, wiping his mouth, surgically scrubbing it with the back of his hand. Jacob looked down at his hand; it was infested—crawling with squirming maggots. He spat and spat again. In a piteous howl the old crone’s spirit called:
“ Come with us, Jacob. Come with us. We love you.” 
A multitude of whirling spirits rose from the other crypts, graves, and limestone mausoleums in demented rapture. As male and female, infant and adult, all races, all creeds—all souls wailed and swooped through the slashing sheets of downpour; the rain turned sanguine-red as if by transubstantiation—water to wine—and wine to blood! A pleading din of bewitching cries beckoned to Jacob:
 “Come with us. Come with us.” 
The crowd, the police, the Mayor, and the Governor stood lifeless, like life-size photo cutouts in a giant display window at the House of Wax .
The ground quivered in epileptic spasms beneath Jacob’s feet. A jagged fissure tore across the earth’s mantle. Jets of sulphurous-yellow, searing steam shot from the cracked earth like geysers, evaporating the globulin-like droplets of crimson rain and melting the flesh off mourners. It poured in rivers; it flowed from their bones as though their bodies were human tapers . . . feeding the ground as it slowly seeped into the earth.
The earth crumbled at the edges of the fissures; the ground splitting like stretched animal hide. The throng, panicking now, jostled and clamored as their feet, then their legs, then their torsos, sank deeper and deeper into the dissolving ground beneath them. The cracked earth widened into great yawning chasms.
Jacob held Sophie’s wrist in a death grip as the podium lurched, then split in two. Sophie’s wrist ripped free of his fingers, her body tumbled backward. She slid down the podium’s flooring like a mountain climber whose foothold broke, skittering, bouncing over the glassy rock slope, and finally hurtling, end-over-end, into a bottomless gorge.
Jacob screamed, “NO! . . . GottimHimmel . . . No . . . Sophie!”
Pandemonium erupted; the crowd ran helter-skelter in a panic-driven wild stampede. An Eyewitness-News television reporter stood between the crushing herd and the exit gates. The dapper newsman’s eyes widened in terror as he screamed to the camera crew, “Run. Get the hell out of here.” The mob trampled and mauled his body in a thunder of human hooves likeMessala beneath the chariots of the CircusMaximus .
Jacob climbed on all fours, down the podium, and peered over the edge of the gaping chasm. He mouthed, “Gehenna.” He drew his hands to the sides of his mouth and shouted, “Sophie, Sophie . . . hold on, I’m coming.” Jacob rubbed his eyes in disbelief at the sight of sheer, stark, jagged walls, and cliff faces across which, danced flickering ghoulish shadows; ghost images of roaring orange-red flames that soared upward in intermittent searing blasts. Around the cavern’s edge was a winding, narrow stairway, precipitously spiraling deeper and deeper. He crawled infantile, over the yawning lip of the colossal crevice and lowered himself, dropping the last few feet onto the stairway of Hell.
 God help me. I must find Sophie. I think I hear her voice. Yes, I hear it. 
“Jacob . . . Jacob. Help me! Please, down here!” Sophie’s voice floated upward from the pit.
Torrents of rotten, malodorous wind gusts slapped his face and curdled his stomach. Bodies from above hurtled past him, arms flailing, shrieking, as they bounced off rock facings. He tried to stare straight ahead, crawling, stumbling on the narrow stairway. His hands blistered from the hot surfaces as he climbed downward.
The charred, smoldering body of Cardinal O’Neil crashed into a tangled heap on the stairs at his feet. Jacob pitched, lost his balance, and clung by his fingertips to the edge of the stairs. Feet dangling in space, streaming sprays of red-hot molten magma burning his legs, he kicked furiously fighting for his life. Then a radiant glimmer shone from above, peeking over the edge of the staircase. A brilliant reflection flickered in Jacob’s eyes. It was Cardinal O’Neil’s Crucifix—silver, shimmering rays of salvation. A blackened, deep-fried, gnarled hand clutched the cross.
 
* * *
 
A tiny voice with dulcimer angelic quality spoke: “Mommy, we must help them. Please, Mommy . . . please? Let me help them. They had family at the hospital. You remember the hospital, Mommy? The helicopter? The Bad Things?”
A celestial, motherly voice replied in empathetic tones, “Go to them, Timmy. Fly to their aid if you must.”
The Mommy angel looked up and said, “ Mich-Ku-el, is it permitted?”
“Yes, in rare instances,” theArchangel replied, “such as this. I will accompany the little one. It is Our Father’s will.” Heaven shook with the booming authority of theArchangel ’s voice.
 
* * *
 
From high above, near the mouth of the pit, ethereal white light radiated from the two translucent winged messengers who floated feather-like, lower and lower. The larger being’s filigreed finger reached out Michelangelo-like gently touching the charcoaled forehead of Cardinal O’Neil. Like an ivory-white butterfly, Timmy, hovered in the air above Jacob’s dangling form. As if a cathedral clerestory had materialized above them, a clarified, cleansing light beamed down. The visible blackness eschewed like wickedness slinking away from purity. A healing light poured from theArchangel ’s fingertips and instantly, Cardinal O’Neil’s baked flesh turned a vibrant pearl hue. His splintered bones fused, twisted limbs straightened and, with vitality, he rose to his knees and extended a strong hand toward Jacob.
“Grab my hand, Rabbe. Quickly now, we’re living on borrowed time. Michael, preserve us,” O’Neil shouted.
TheArchangel ’s voice boomed, “EE-YAL-UUTH” and thrust his arm downward saying, “Thrust through with a sword, go down to the stones of the pit!”
Shock waves roared against the walls of the chasm and shook the foundations of Hades. A fine mist of dust fell from the walls and staircase, blinding Jacob’s eyes, as a mammoth, megalithic pillar grew out of the bowels of the pit. Billowing ashen clouds rolled upward, partially masking the brilliant polychrome marble of the stele.
The massive obelisk, Solomon’s temple’s pillar of Boaz, roared past Jacob and ground to a screeching halt. Carved deep into the glassy face of the colossal tower were Angelic, Enochian symbols.
A familiar face peered over Cardinal O’Neil’s shoulder, barely discernable through the curtain of dust that polluted the air.
 It couldn’t be . . . But, yes. It’s Sophie .
Her glowing smile filled Jacob’s heart, and acted like a bridge abatement, lending support to his very soul. His fear abated as though her love had quenched the flames of Hell itself. But then it happened. The muscles of his arms were racked with pain. Slowly, one by one, the fingers of Cardinal O’Neil’s hand began to unravel until Jacob’s hand ripped free.
“ Gott , NO!” Jacob cried.
“Swing to the tower! Now Jacob! Swing to God’s tower,” Sophie screamed.
Fear untethered a jolt of adrenaline. And Jacob, dangling by one arm now, kicked off the hellish stairway, and swung to the tower.
He secured a toehold in the yawing crevice of an angelic letter carved deep into the obelisk’s surface. He twisted in midair, willing his free hand to claw desperately in the smoke-clotted air. His fingertips found their mark and dug in. Now, straddling the polychrome tower, holding on for dear life, he called to Sophie and Cardinal O’Neil.
“Jump! Do it now! It’s our only chance.”
Maudlin cries pierced the chaos that surrounded them. A crushing throng of damned souls tramped up the infernal staircase. Expressionless, soot-covered faces floated like phantoms in the powdery mist as they marched higher and higher. A visceral, booming roar echoed off the hard walls of the pit. It was as ifAddadon ,Appoldyon —the King of Hell himself—bewailed his separation from the Almighty as he fell from the heavens.
A lupine howl devoid of soul, devoid of remorse, filled the darkness with dissident and discordant tones. The sound of the dissolution of hope reverberated from the fathomless depths.
Then came a clamoring rabble of lost souls whose decomposed limbs lifted and fell as they climbed higher and higher up the staircase.
Closer and closer.
Sophie teetered on the ledge of the stair slip, waves of squirming chills shot up her back as if a bully had poked a stick into a nest of rattlesnakes sleeping in a huddled mass at the base of her spine. The stonework began to crumble beneath her feet, sending trails of rock dust into the mouth of the bottomless abyss below. She rocked on the balls of her feet, intoned a silent prayer, and leaped to the safety of the pillar and Jacob.
The Legion of Dead drew closer.
Their legs lifting and falling like stuttering pistons.
Tremors shook the foundations of Hell. The staircase began to sway violently as giant veins marbled the rock facings; lava oozed through gaping cracks, showering down on the multitude of the living dead who were climbing the rolling staircase. Their bloated, grotesque bodies were bathed in molten death.
Jacob and Sophie climbed . . .
Hand over hand . . .
Higher and higher . . .
Then over the tormented cries of the damned and the tremor’s shuddering roar, an unfamiliar clamor arose from below. A foreign sound. A rattling sound that grew closer, carrying a manifest terror, which seeped into Cardinal O’Neil’s bone marrow. It grew louder and louder . . . deafening.
A mountain of human bones rose before him.
CLACK-CLACK . . . CLACK-CLACK . . . CLACK-CLACK . . .
An invisible hand piled bone upon bone, accumulating in mass and height like sea urchins on the ocean’s reef. Deformed winged demons climbed and clawed they way up the stockpile of bones. The vile denizens hissed gurgling epitaphs as they climbed ever upward.
Jacob’s fingertips, blistered from the hot surface of the tower of salvation, seethed with relentless pain as he grappled at the angelic symbol’s edges.
“ Gevalt ,” he cried, looking down at the cannibalistic stairway from Hell. “Sophie, climb! Don’t look down!”
As fetid, sulphurous fumes thick as coal tar pressed upwards, a clarified, brilliant beam of light shot downward, struggling to hold back the rising pile of insipid evil. Heaven’s floodlight painted the demonic haystack. The wings of the little angel enfolded around Cardinal O’Neil just as a leathery demon’s talon racked the surface of the stone at O’Neil’s feet, leaving jagged, deep tracks in their wake. The little cherubim unfurled his gossamer wings, whose plumes glistened in dazzling splendor. TheA ngeltio  drifted upward, clutching the Cardinal in the safety of his arms, upward into the blazing, pure light.
The same quintessential light that vulcanized Jacob and Sophie’s determination, that saved and rejuvenated Cardinal O’Neil’s charred and twisted body, now proved to be a caustic acid to the infestation of demonic powers and thrones that enveloped the tower of bones. Once hit by the first particle of pure light, their wretched bodies vaporized, bursting into a deluge of vermilion, virtuous tissue. The putrescent vermicelli of carrion paste sprayed upward like a geyser, bathing everything in its path with a vicious slime. As if by spontaneous combustion, the totem of bones exploded into a giant shish kabob of roaring flames.
Backlit against the radiant cobalt-blue sky, the angelic host floated into the zenith of the pit’s yawning aperture. The warm sunlight bathed Jacob’s cheeks as he and Sophie climbed past the crumbling underbelly of the earth’s mantle. Roots protruded from the soil above like leaf barren inverted treetops. These hideous tentacles marked the outer boarder of the apiary of demons.
Jacob grabbed the dew-moist, spring-thawed sod and crawled together with Sophie over the edge like Adam and Eve returning to Paradise Lost . They lay in true love’s embrace, holding tight. As fiery tears of joy tracked down their cheeks, an emerald quilt of new grass enveloped them; a tender April breeze fondled their hair.
“I love you, Sophie . . . I love you,” Jacob sobbed and closed his eyes.
 
* * *
 
 VI
  
THE MOTORCYCLE POLICEMAN now stood frozen, just a few feet from the podium, hands crossed as if he was assuming his post, part of the security detail.
The young warrior in the surveillance van barked an order into the earpiece of the agent in the windbreaker who took off in a dead run. Legs pumping and heart pounding, she tore through the crowd in pursuit.
The Secret Service agent at the speaker’s side saw the agent in the windbreaker bearing down on the podium. He was AIC of the VEEP detail. Instinctively, cheetah-quick, he dove toward the principal. But it was too late. Wrong threat assessment. Wrong assailant. Therobo -motorcycle-cop drew and fired two .44 magnum explosive-tipped rounds, which exploded the principal’s head like two M-80’s dropped into a crate of rotten eggs. Then he placed the smoking muzzle is his own mouth, and squeezed the trigger. As Secret Service agents formed a protective phalanx around the partially decapitated body, Josey Schulman, her lungs still seething with fire from her mad dash toward the podium, took two steps backward and faded into the maddening crowd.
The Vice President of theUnited States was dead.
Josey had persuaded the Kasta at the Israeli embassy in D.C., once he had accepted her rogue trip toWashingtonD.C., to allow her to work surveillance duty. He would probably regret his decision.
A calliope of sirens pierced the air outside ArlingtonCemetery where Vice PresidentMathers lay in a scarlet pool of tragedy. It had been his idea to hold the funeral ceremonies both here inWashingtonD.C.and in suburbanIllinois, simultaneously. Former Governor, Big Bill Curtis, was a good friend and a devoted party member. Besides, his family insisted that Curtis be buried inIllinois. Acting GovernorHenesy had suggested burying the fallen Chicago Police hero, Samuel Goldstein, together with some of the other hospital disaster victims the same day, to capitalize on media coverage.
 
* * *
 
 VII
  
AS JACOB OPENED his tear-filled eyes, a blurred image formed ever so slowly. The haunting gaze of Dagon Drexler’s almond- shaped eyes stared obliquely. Totally bewildered, totally bankrupt of a sense of reality now, Jacob spun around in a futile effort to gain a foothold on his surroundings.
Sophie stood smiling at his side. Samuel’s funeral urn remained clutched in his hands. The crowd sat quietly, solemnly in their seats. A warm yellow sun floated high above against a serene azure backdrop. He wheeled in a panic of disbelief to his right. Cardinal O’Neil’s Irish-green eyes, twinkling like gemstones in the bright sunlight, met his. Jacob’s mouth dropped in awe as O’Neil shot him a quick leprechaun wink.
Jacob’s eyes returned, no, were drawn back to Dagon Drexler’s soulless, liquid eyes. Then pain: first like darning needles rammed deep into his eye sockets—then a piercing, high frequency ringing filled his ears. He staggered under its sheer weight. Then came an oily, honey-suckle-sweet, disembodied voice with a spectral, but deep timbre. It enveloped his soul and washed like glacial ocean waters over his senses. His mind somersaulted.
Drexler’s mind-meld voice spoke:
Rabbe . . . Rabbe Jacob.
Jacob’s head spun, searching for the source of the voice, trying to ascertain if others could hear it, too.
Only silence. Sophie smiled and nodded, apparently completely unaware.
Then the voice reverberated again. Jacob, they can’t hear me, only you can. Only you, Jacob. 
Jacob’s hands fisted to his temples.
Did you enjoy your sojourn to the underworld? You have a round trip ticket, and I your guide, your necromancer, thank you for flying through the glass darkly . . .
Peals of maniacal laughter boomed in Jacob’s skull, and then trailed off into the distance like the shriek of a banshee disappearing across a mist-veiled moor.

 
 
CHAPTER 16
 
Lair of the Beast:
 
“Behold our secret. Remember that the end justifies the means . . . and that the wise ought to take all the means to do good which the wicked take to do evil.”
Adam Weishaupt founder of the Illuminati
 
 I
    
 The private roadway cuts through rolling hills mantled in oak, evergreen, and birch. As we draw nearer, the bordering tree line becomes thicker and denser. The treetops bow inward forming a gothic archway over the roadbed. A haunting night breeze swells through fields of tall spring grass, wild flowers, and grain in undulating waves. A slice of crescent moon glows unusually bright in the night sky as an armada of sable-black, foreboding clouds sail by like drifting ghost galleons. 
The wind is laced with a caustic, unclean scent: the rank odor of death.
 A gargantuan iron gate, its hinges rasping in the chill wind, sprawls across the blacktop roadway—a threshold of doom. 
Flamed magical daggers, athames of lightning stab the heavens, their flash illuminating the giant Greco letters emblazoned on the gate’s archway:
 
LEMURIA
   
 The serpentine wet-black drive begins at the foot of a monstrous rock formation that towers skyward, and entwines itself around the escarpment of stone. Perched high on this plateau stands an illusory structure. Its windows angle outward at forty-five degrees, sheer walls of glass and stone, whose overall form is like an inverted pyramid with its capstone below ground level. Tiers of layered rooflines, Pagoda like, climb above, decreasing in size as they grow higher. Two sides of the escarpment are gentle sloping terraces of stone, with dwarfish and twisted evergreens that mutate from the rock’s surface and genuflect in deference and fear to the voice of the night—the wind. On the third side, a sheer, studded facing plummets sharply to a bleak and rock-hewn shoreline. The frothing waves of Devil’s Lake batter the naked, weather-worn limestone, whose surface is scarred and contorted, as if to bear the expression of the face of a man, a mad man, haunted by the visions of the damned.
 White-hot jagged bolts of lightning, like hungry talons claw at the black-virgin’s veil. 
At this higher elevation wind shears swirl and rattle the sloping glass panes. A plush red velveteen cushion runs the entire length of the window ledge; rockcroppings form interior walls which grow upward, through the floor, and onward to the ceiling, curving sandstone walls, dotted with cave-like nooks and crannies whose interior glows with a subdued emerald light: cubby holes for witches and trolls. And one child eating ghoul in particular.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
THE IMPISH FIGURE of Dr. Felix Ordinaire wormed out from one such rabbit hole.
“Thank you, my dear,” he whispered as he ran a sodden tongue over his upper lip.
He walked to the far corner of the room where Dr. Dagon Drexler sat masked in shadow. Thunder pounded the heavy, stone walls and rooftop, reverberating like the head of a tympani drum. Silver moonbeams flooded through a honeycomb of octagon-shaped, beveled windowpanes behind Drexler’s chair, deflecting and refracting to form a pale yellow corona. Dagon’s eyes blazed a lurid red, floating like globules of blood in a lagoon of black oil.
His wife, Honora Celine Boullan Drexler, lay coquettishly on the cushioned window seat. Her nude, lithe, and supple body caressed by the gloved hands of soft moonlight. The pink bud of her tongue protruded through her pearlescent teeth. Teasing. Taunting. As Honora’s head arched back, her alabaster shoulders rounding, long waves of platinum-blond tresses cascaded like molten gold over her back.
Felix Ordinaire took his seat, crossed his stubby legs, bouncing his ankle effeminately and sighed. He drew a white lace handkerchief from his sleeve, dabbed the perspiration from his brow, and smacked his doughy lips.
“Oh, how the boys do love me so,” Ordinaire lisped as he fanned himself with the kerchief.
A whimper floated out from the orifice of the rock. Ordinaire’s lair of iniquity.
Drexler’s bone-white hand thrust forward from the darkness as he taunted, “Your sexual opiates may some day be your ruin.”
He reached for the console in his armrest and flicked a rocker switch. A huge, paper-thin LCD screen lowered from the ceiling. The rolling image of a green luminescent Ouija-board tumbled end-over-end into view. His hooded eyes closed in deep concentration.
Outside, something or someone glided between moonlight and window, casting an enormous sweeping shadow that soared across the glass panes darkly.
“Now report. What is the condition of our patient,” Drexler snapped. “What is the progress with the HEMP conditioning of the other subjects?”
As he spoke, the planchette of the Ouija-board moved in ever widening and rapid circles on the screen.
Dr. Ordinaire cleared his throat saying, “He is at Level Four Delta. The tranquilizer gun had no long lasting effects. He’s in excellent health. He has some residual flashbacks and delusions from the alkaloid compounds we used, but the overall outcome and prognosis are excellent. Same for the others. All under our control with no tell-tale signs.
The lightning flashes caused hobgoblin shadows to hopscotch across the cold, curved rock walls. They seemed to come to life. Living walls of stone. Shifting. Shuddering. And then: Blurring. Breathing. Animistic organisms. It was as though the porous rock had acted as a sponge, soaking up the evil that thickened the air. An evil so strong it altered subatomic structure itself.
As Honora’s voluptuous lips whispered questions, the planchette on the LCD screen moved in response across the board.
“Continue,” Drexler said.
“I have prepared a video for our foreign associates and the Eschatology Institute’s edification. May I?” Ordinaire asked with an upturned palm.
“Please, do.”
Ordinaire punched the play button on another console at his side and a second larger LCD screen crept downward. The symbol of the Eschatology Institute —the un blinking Eye ofHorus within the Pyramid—tumbled into view on the flat monitor.
Honora Celine sipped her champagne and stared in an erotic stupor at the screen. The planchette moved to “D” . . . then to “A.”
An image of Dr. Ordinaire bedecked in a white lab coat and horn-rimmed glasses appeared. The letters HEMP with the advisory “CLASSIFIED A-2. VOICE CODE RECOGNITION REQUIRED” floated in bold face over the doctor’s image.
“Drexler, Dagon.Lux ,” the doctor replied.
A voice from the monitor intoned “Code Accepted” in a flat, female, computer voice. The image of Ordinaire began to speak.
“We are the handmaidens of a new stage in the evolution of mankind. Through refinement and modification of both ancient and modern techniques of mind control, the most recent studies in the inner workings of the brain and central nervous system, electronic miniaturization and computer technology, coupled with the latest advances in mind-altering drugs, we have achieved our first stage goal; the absolute control of the human mind and the unleashing of psychic powers. Our method is reduced to this acronym: HEMP:Hypno-Electo-Miniaturization-Pharmacology .
“The occult arts and sciences have taught that man’s potential, the brain with its neurotransmitters, the nervous system, the endocrinal glandular system, the limbic system, hold the key—the philosopher’s stone—to enlightenment, Gnois (knowledge and oneness), and godlikePsi powers.
“Through the use of certain techniques: meditation, vibratory ceremonial words of power such as [sic] ABRAHADABRA, written symbols, fasting, psycho trauma, raising the power of the sleeping serpent—kundalini—at the base of the spine, in conjunction with the ingestion of hallucinogenic drugs and flooding the senses through ritual rites or sensory depravation, man can, with years of effort and countless hours, achieve liberation of the libidinal psychic energy which lies dormant.
“However, by use of hypnotic suggestion, mind-altering drugs, and ESB (electrical stimulation of the brain) we become gods . . . masters of the world in an instant . A spoken hypnotic trigger, a thought, a sound and the scientist’s fingers on the control dial or computer terminal become the omnipotent hands of God.”
The camera zoomed past Ordinaire’s image, and then slowly panned a white antiseptic operating theater complete with three surgical tables. On each table lay a human body draped in blue surgical sheets. Covering each head, a skull cap, with wires leading to an EEG (electroencephalogram) monitor displaying a kaleidoscope of brain waves, and next to each supine form stood a technician with a portable X-ray machine and a tray of syringes and multicolored drug ampoules.
Dr. Drexler’s hand slowly rubbed his inner thigh. He licked his lips. His breathing became faster, more excited, panting now as he leaned forward in utter and awed anticipation.
Dr. Ordinaire’s image moved to the first table. “This is General Stapleton, Commander of the NATO forces—our reluctant volunteer.” With a nod toward the technician who was injecting the general’s cranial cavity with a long hypodermic needle, he continued. “We now inject a radiopaque material in the very cerebral cortex itself. A device, with hundreds of hair thin needles, pierces the scalp and produces a detailed 3-D map, a grid, which gives us the precise location of the ridges of the hippocampus ventricle and the pineal gland.”
A telescoping mount with a large metallic housing was lowered by the technician. His hands held a remote control device attached to the mechanism. The camera zoomed in tight. An intense green light glowed, and then cast an emerald-huedgridlike pattern over an exposed portion of the General’s skull. The technician and Ordinaire placed heavy, black, shielded sunglasses over their eyes.
A blinding, needle-thin ray, a ruby-red laser beam, shot out of the apparatus. A tiny puff of smoke—seared flesh and bone—plumed at the General’s skull line.
“Now we insert a micro-filament, self-resonating diode at the exact mapped location. Numerous such diodes will be placed at various reference points in the brain. At the frontal lobes and limbic system to create rage or along the spinal column to control motor activity.”
“And as in my case,” he bowed and parted his hair to reveal a tiny red scar as the camera zoomed into an extreme close-up, “into the pineal gland itself. The . . . Third Eye . . . the center and coupling point of unbridled PSI energy. But, in my case, we have inserted a microchipPsychotronic -Interface, which couples the PSI energy with my consciousness to control psychokinetic powers that when amplified, can function even at great distances.”
Outside, high in the bleak night sky, silhouetted as it passes the silver orb, a gargantuan winged figure soared round and round in ever widening circles, its hawk-like eyes searching the surrounding hillsides for prey.
Ordinaire’s image voice continued. “Let’s have some fun. Shall we?” Roiling flames of fire suddenly glazed over his eyes, glowing embers of Hell, which burned from within. Next to him the tech’s body began to tremble, then convulse violently, as his jittering hand fought some invisible force, fighting not to reach for an eight-inch hypodermic needle on the stainless-steel tray before him. The tray itself shook, then quivered; toppled over with a crash. Ordinaire, still with eyes ablaze, flung his hand across his own heart in an odd gesticulation—a command. In an instant, the technician rammed the long needle deep into his own chest, staggered backwards and collapsed, twitching in violent spasms on the tile floor. Bacon on a hot griddle.
 Ordinaire’s eyes focused on the second tech, condensing, compressing his thoughts, burning radiant deliberations right through the man. The tech moved as though pulled by a magnetic force, one foot sliding in front of the other, like Imhotep, Karloff’s mummy. Ordinaire’s eyes bore down beneath his furrowed brow: Rasputin-like glazed prisms of white-hot light.
Peals of thunder echoed off the face of the cliff, as blue-white lightning flashes bathed Honora Celine’s writhing, undulating hips and thighs. She wallowed in carnality. Her eyes rolled up, seizure-like, as she whispered in a disembodied voice between moans of ecstasy: “Fill me . . . fill me. ”
 
* * *
 
 III
  
A NONDESCRIPT, WHITE van, concealed on an adjacent hillside sat couched in silence. The woman with the headphones, the young warrior, listened in disbelief and revulsion, as spools of audio tape slowly turned round and round. Another type of laser was at work here, beamed at—LEMURIA—Drexler’s lair, transforming vibrations from the expanse of window glass into words and sounds: conversation cleansed and enhanced by a computer program and recorded on tape and compressed onto an MP-3 disc.
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
THE OUIJA-BOARD display glowed with a jade-green, unearthly, luminescence. In the corner of its screen a computer-generated roll of letters whirled like cherries on a slot machine, tabulating the letters highlighted by the planchette, rolling and rolling, then stopping atD , thenA , thenN ,thenG. . .
On the main screen Felix Ordinaire’s image still loomed, with his lurid gaze still on the shuffling technician whose body had now burst into flames as he ran screaming in agony out the door. “Excuse me. I only meant to roast him a little,” he said with a titter as he shifted his leering stare to the next subject. The General rose zombie-like off the table. He stood and regained a normal pose and demeanor.
“I have implanted a post-hypnotic series of trigger commands previously. A mere word, a sound, a gesture, an object . . . that’s all it takes to control him now. General Stapleton, how do you feel?” the doctor asked.
“Fine, just fine. Never felt better.”
“Are you uncomfortable, afraid, or upset in any manner?”
“NO. Why the hell should I be?”
“General, I have a delightful surprise for you. You will listen and obey . . . your will is my will.” The doctor whispered, “ Tiger-paw.” Thetrigger word . The General blinked an eye ever so briefly, but gave no outward indication of duress or abnormal behavior.
“Look who’s here, it’s mother Stapleton,” said Ordinaire, pointing to the technician. “Don’t just stand there, give Mommy a big kiss.” Stapleton ran to the technician, hugging and kissing the poor frozen tech whose eyes reeled in terror. Technicians were expendable and his associates were the evidence.
“What a joyous reunion,” said Ordinaire’s image, winking at the camera. “Excuse me, General Stapleton, but Mother has been rather, well, naughty you see. Could you be so kind as to . . . kill her with your bare hands , please?”
“Why not? Come to sonny now, Mama. You’ve been naughty.”
The General hunched his shoulders and calmly choked the life out of mother-the-technician-Stapleton.
“Excellent . . . Excellent. You look tired, General. Lay down and rest now,” the doctor said with a hollow inflection.
“Yes, I am a bit bushed. I’ll take a nap.” The general shrugged nonchalantly, and lay his nude form down on the operating table, falling into deep unabashed and peaceful sleep. A faint smile curdled his lips.
“This concludes our little demonstration,” the doctor’s image said. The camera pulled back, panned right and revealed the faces of the other two subjects on the adjacent operating tables. The peaceful faces of Michael Ryan and Ms. Sheila Riley lay in quiet repose, eyes closed shut, euphoric bliss projected on their features.
The video concluded. The LCD screen rose back into the ceiling.
Dr. Drexler’s eyes pivoted like a bird of prey, leering at the letters forming on the Ouija-board.
Ordinaire noted Drexler’s concern and glanced up at theOuija-board. He pursed his lips and frowned. “No matter, Dagon. I shall dispatch The Other to welcome our uninvited guests.”
The letters of the Ouija-board whirred and rolled spelling out:
D-A-N-G-E-R . . . F-R-O-M . . .Z-I-O-N
 
* * *
 
 V
  
TIDAL WAVES OF thunder roared and boomed in the distance. Droplets of rain streamed down the beveled face of the window like the tears of children. Pale flickers of lightning played across Dr. Ordinaire’s cherub face as he leaned forward, resting his chin in his cupped, stubby hands. He raised an eyebrow in an expression of childish glee and expectation.
“Well, that’s all folks,” he stuttered like Porky Pig.
Drexler clapped his hands as enthusiasm radiated from his face. “Extraordinary. This is a tribute to my father’s and grandfather’s life work, a culmination of the sublime science ofthe ancients. However, we must still be wary and vigilant. The reality of the existence of the source of power, the ancient ones, must never be revealed to the profane. Our knowledge must be reserved for the elite. Our colleagues in the scientific community will accept the empirical evidence of the HEMP program. “They are satisfied with the ability to replicate a procedure, which produces the same result again and again, and do not need to understand the truth . . . the multi-dimensional aspects ofthe gateway we have opened. You and I have known all along that the astral plane exists and is just as real as this plane. We have understood the ability to travel and influence others, and the outcome of events by exercising our true will. Neither do they deserve knowledge of the vastness of this force nor knowledge of our ultimate goal.”
“And the politicians and the military?” Ordinaire asked.
“No more than simple hand puppets. Whores and taskmasters of the populace. We control them as always—a necessary evil—allowed to remain in power as long as they suit our purpose. Thanks to your brilliant research and abilities, the HEMP program will be instituted immediately throughout the world. We will utilize the Eschatology Institute’s temples as bases of operation, recruiting the best and the brightest: captains of industry, politics, religion and science.
“Not just those that desire to be elitists and intellectuals as in the past, who relished in secret societies, but rather true minions of the New World Order. Servants under our complete control, without wavering allegiances, and devoid of the moral compunction.
“To quote from Herr Weishaupt and our Protocol . . . ‘Do you realize sufficiently what it means to rule—to rule in a secret society? Not only over the lesser or more important of the populace, but over the best men, over men of all ranks, nations, religions, to rule without external force, to unite them indissolubly, to breathe one spirit one soul into them, men distributed over all parts of the world?’”
 An idiot and a madman. Dr. Ordinaire neither cared that Dagon Drexler frequently sounded like a raving paranoid schizophrenic, nor cared for the New World Order that was his obsession. He only cared for the license to experience life in the fullest sense of the word. To him this meant a life that overflowed in an ecstasy of intensity , intensity so rich and overpowering that it knew no limit, no boundary, no law, no God.
Having been absorbed and recruited into the government’s Phoenix Project in early adolescence, his wiring was askew, a tangled jumble of raw sensation, sensation that thirsted and hungered for more and more sensation. He was encouraged to think of himself as a superman, a god, encouraged to use his psychic abilities to maim and cripple his fellow man’s minds and bodies, encouraged to always justify the means by the end.
He was informed of his tainted family lineage, the Abbé Ordinaire, and made to participate in similar acts of debauchery and sexual license. Any trace of even the tiniest particle of empathy for another human being was quickly and ruthlessly crushed. He learned to trust no one, to love no one but himself. True evil could be defined as a total lack of empathy for your fellow man.
His handlers knew they could increase his psychic ability by the application of sadistic trauma, which they did just short of the breaking point. His family wealth and connections insured his education and medical school. After all, he would be of more use to the Brotherhood and the government if educated, and then, turned loose to practice his Dr. Josef-Mengele-like research.
Yes, though he was well aware that he had been cursed with this diminutive, effeminate, and weak little body, he was well aware of the gift, the blessing, that had been bestowed upon him—his POWER. A power of intensity. An intensity of power. Sensation.
Honora Celine’s sensual moans drifted between crashes of thunder, as her pelvis thrust again and again. It was as if a spectral lover held her in rapture’s embrace.
“You will excuse me now . . . my beautiful Salome calls to me,” Drexler said between thin lips of perdition.
“But of course, Dagon.” You demented old fool, he thought . “It’s story time for the children. Uncle Felix bids you a fond adò,” said Ordinaire, curtseying and pivoting sharply like Queen of the Storm Troopers as he marched out of the room.
Before Dagon Drexler sat an antique music box. Encased within its glass frame was a series of giant perforated metallic discs, cogs and chain belts; a low slung coffee table, six feet in length—a musical coffin of sound and glass. He poured himself a glass of Absinthe, the green muse, and lit a Cuban cigar. Blue clouds of smoke whirled in the ambient moonlight. He depressed a lever under the music table. The discs began to turn slowly, and the chain took up slack, as a slightly tinny version of Wagner’s Parsifal floated into the air. Music of the supermen . Music beyond good and evil.

 
 
CHAPTER 17

 I: Death’s Wing
  
A KNIFE-EDGED WIND sliced through the adjacent hillside rocking the white van. The Other  , the Shape Shifter, stalked his unwary prey. Rain lashed at the van’s windshield as one young warrior sat in the driver’s seat peering through a highly magnified night-vision spotting scope. Tree boughs twisted in the gusting wind, moaning in their agony.
A sinewy, bestial form strode across the rain-soaked blanket of pine needles under his taloned feet. An opaque form skittered across the green, phosphorescent field of the night-vision scope. A bewailing howl laminated itself over percussion caps of exploding thunder. The two warriors secreted in the van, exchanged glances, as they instinctively reached for their weapons. Josey wondered if she should have talked Uri into mounting this surveillance mission, wondered if she should have returned to theChicago area without sanction. It seemed that no matter where she turned—death was soon to follow. The driver, Uri, with a glass-smooth motion, threw back the top bolt as he raised the 9 mm. Uzi submachine gun from his lap, his hand chopping downward to extend the folded metal shoulder stock. Josey, seated at the listening console, ripped the headphones from her ears and grabbed the Micro-Uzi machine pistol off the gun rack to her right.
PERIMETER ALERT . . . INTRUDER . . . sprayed across the console mounted monitor screen in bold red letters. Fear leached through to the marrow of their bones. The rear and side van windows imploded simultaneously, cutting a deep gash into Josey’s temple.
A metallic clawing, scraping sound began at the rear and traveled across the van’s rooftop, stopping inches above the drivers head. The sound conjured a vision of Freddy Krueger’s razor fingers raking the van’s sheet metal. Their eyes slowly turned upward, marking the spot with their gaze.
Time stood still.
Uri’s hands were slippery with perspiration. He struggled to hold the Uzi in a white-knuckled grip. Sheets of rain tore through the broken window stinging his face and eyes. Then, the barrels of each Uzi rose in unison, like gunmetal loadstones drawn to a magnetic pole: an unknown force.
Silence.
Her breathing labored and shallow, Josey’s eardrums prickled with the tick . . . tick . . . tick of her Rolex Chronometer.
Time stood still.
Horror sank into their bodies, washing over their faces, infesting their hearts, throbbing, bursting, and then squeezing life’s blood in torrents . . . higher and higher . . . to their pulsating temples.
Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick.
Josey’s throat constricted like dried rawhide. Do the math. Two Uzis, 30 round magazines with backup mags duck-taped totheir sides. Reverse the mags, reinsert and fire. She had practiced the drill a thousand times. It took about one second. A total of 120 rounds . . . fire in controlled bursts. 
But somehow they both knew down deep at their core, knew in their gut, that this boogey man, this “thing going bump in the night,” was no mortal enemy. A biblical Leviathan had entered their ordered world, bending and distorting reality with its arrival, lying in wait inches from their faces—ready to pounce.
A deafening silence engulfed them. Almost as though a black hole had absorbed the wind, the thunder, their own heartbeats, sucking the sound waves from midair.
Cold—Silence.
Still—Blackness.
CAWWWWWW——-a bellowing, high-pitched, tormented shriek cut the silence. A cry. A cry like that of a wounded prehistoric pterodactyl, followed by a horrendous, flapping sound. It was the sound heard from the crow’s nest of a tall ship, fluttering mainsails below, cracking against the sea’s hammering winds. First came the flapping of wings, now pitching and yawing, as if the van itself were awash in the high seas. Josey and Uri fired bursts of hot lead into the van’s rooftop.
Their ears rang blood from the roar of the muzzle blast; their eyes blinded by the Uzi’s flash, tearing from the cordite laced air, choking now in the blue gray mist of gun smoke; the driver screamed. “ Gevalt ! Josey, help me!”
Gigantic claws clenched the inner edge of the van’s side windows. A talon sliced through Uri’s jugular vein; crimson fluid showered the interior windshield as razor-sharp, ebony talons curled upward, piercing through the rooftop like hot needles through candle wax.
Josey fired again spraying the roofline. The van rocked and swayed. Pounding, thrashing from above, leathery wings—beat and thrashed—cutting the air. The van nosed downward. Josey, caught in its momentum, slid forward, and slammed hard into the front seat.
Beat and Thrashed . . . Beat and Thrashed.
The van rose higher and higher. She could see the treetops receding before her as she struggled to clear her mind. Reversing the Uzi’s magazines, she clawed the roof again— Fuck! Controlledbursts! She emptied the magazine.
Silhouetted against the silver moon, was the figure of a demonic Harpy. Its leathery, sinewy shoulders undulated with each flap of its bat-like wings, as it floated on high and into the night sky. The Other —The Shape Shifter—relaxed its claws, sending the van hurtling and plummeting and then, plunging headlong into the silken moon’s shimmering reflection, rippling across the surface of the water below.
Glub. . .Glub . A stream of bubbles.
It sank into the inky-cold bowels of Devil’sLake .
A tortured screech roared over the surface of the murky water, roared over the shoreline, and roared off the jagged walls of the escarpment. The primordial roar of the victor.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
HIS EYES FLUTTERED and he woke in a knot of sweat-drenched sheets. His head throbbed, pounded. Weak and woozy he struggled to sit up. He couldn’t. His stomach was racked with hunger pangs and queasy ripples of nausea. His throat was sawdust-dry; his vision blurred. For a moment he lay motionless and totally disoriented.
“But damn, I’m alive! I’m alive!” he rasped.
Sam Goldstein was indeed—alive.
Then he heard it. His ears filled with a distant electrical hum, a rhythmic and hypnotic tone. A low frequency pulse. It seemed to surge right through him, vibrating the hair follicles of his scalp, the roots of his teeth.
Umm—Dap. Umm—Dap.
Sam ran his tongue over his sandpaper-dry and cracked lips. His eyes flicked right then left, up then down. High above an ambient blue light glimmered through two arched windows, embedded in a pristine-white, twenty-foot-high, vaulted ceiling. It was though a radiant spill of celestial light was streaming through the stained glass windows of a gothic cathedral. He blinked again and the vision of this strange sanctuary dissolved into blackness. Sam’s head felt as though an iron helmet was slowly contracting, compressing tighter and tighter, sending spikes of pain through his skull.
Umm—Dap. Umm—Dap.
The deafening modulation droned on and on, clawing like meat hooks into his mind. Then a billion stellar nebulae burst and exploded onto the dark screen behind his eyelids.
Sam opened his eyes to see the ceiling now below him, with his body still in bed, suspended from the floor. The universe had turned 180 degrees. Waves of panic washed over his body.
The pitch of the humming sound—Umm-Dap, Umm-Dap—grew higher and higher, transforming into a horrific memory:
Buzzzzzzzzzz. . .
He thrashed his head, more needles of shooting pain. He blinked his eyes, daggers stabbing from behind his eyelids.
A blurred image materialized before him. It grew clearer, until the stark gruesome visage now floating before him, hit his psyche with a megaton force. Multifaceted eyes, insect-like, shrewd—a fly’s eyes—rushed over him.
A nightmarish parade of images from the hospital danced and cavorted before him: the whirling vortex of flies, the sagging flesh-clad army of grotesques, Dr. Greenbaum’s outstretched arms forming a brilliant radiant cross. The image dissolved into a close-up of Dr. Greenbaum’s contorted, terror struck face as he clawed at his beetle infested thorax.
The dreamscape drifted into emptiness.
Sam screamed in desperation. “Ryan!” No answer. “God, help me.” The screams dissolved into cries of anguish. He felt no recognition, no sense, that Ryan was still alive; that he existed.
He closed his eyes and wept. When he opened them again, the room was once again upright. Then, from nowhere a sticky globule, at first no bigger than a quarter, began to form and grow, floating in the air before him. Suddenly it dropped to the tile floor. A fluid, gelatinous mass—a blob, constricted from the formless, to the formed. It slithered across the floor and up the wall. An organism, congealing and drawing its viscous ectoplasm into itself by design.
A sentient being, a whorl of puss-yellow-red, transforming and evolving into a distorted human face. It suckled the wall’s surface slowly climbing inch by inch. First lips, then eyes, and finally a mouth emulsified into a living Halloween mask, pulled by the invisible strings of a demonic puppeteer.
It stopped at Sam’s eye level. It was a flux of quivering form; a masque of horror.
A distorted, wavering voice spiraled up from some distant circle of Hell. Faint and muffled at first, like little Carol Anne’s disembodied spirit calling for her mother through the static of the TV screen in Poltergeist. 
“Help me, Samuel. Help me, son.”
Sam convulsed with recognition. It was his father, Tata. He fought the temptation to speak to the masque.
The face pulsated and quivered. It buckled and leaped from the wall, transforming into a comely female body that now, this moment, seemed to gradually become recognizable. “Yes, it’s my Annie,” Sam cried. His darling wife Annie. Long dead, long cold in the grave, but always in his thoughts.
But there she was, her winsome young body looming before him. She was healthy now, not racked with disease and pain, not sickly and pale, but strong and sensual. Annie’s china-doll face radiated a glow like spun light—angelic purity. Liquid hazel eyes shone with warmth, with love. But cast slightly downward, slightly forlorn, reflecting an unfathomable lonesomeness, a yearning. A long forgotten feeling of happiness and serenity saturated Sam’s heart, embraced his spirit. Even her perfume, Joy, wafted in through the room now and filled his heart with longing. An ethereal hand reached outward and she spoke:
“Hold me, Samuel. Hold me. It’s been so long. I’m so cold.”
As Sam’s outstretched arms reached upward to hold her, she flew just out of reach, her image fading away to nothingness. It was as though a sylph, an elemental of the air, startled by his movement, had flown to the safety of a faerie circle somewhere deep in the wood.
A scream reeling in his chest, in his heart, fought to escape by punching out of his lungs with such force that it shook the universe.
“No more . . . No more. I said, no more!”
Sam turned away with tear-glossed eyes. He pressed his face hard against the pillow and pounded the bed, sobbing. Madness,sheer madness , he thought. Fissures of insanity marbled his world of reason. Suddenly he found himself transported to a childlike world with only fluvial boundaries between fantasy and the practical everyday reality of adulthood. Freud called it magical thinking, a state of childhood development where imagination ruled like the Wizard of OZ over the green muse, the emerald city. It ruled mind and body until puberty seized the throne. Hormones surged, gobbling up fairies and princesses, tree houses and backyard jungle safaris in their wake.
Confused and wrestling with thought, his mind gradually began to clear. At first just sentence fragments, gibberish, which sounded foreign to his ears, then gradually clarified. A remembered conversation played across his mind. He didn’t know from where or when, he didn’t know who or how. At least not at first. An effeminate lisping voice, yet definitely a man’s voice, said, “Hallucinogens-Psychodyleptics-LSD-DMT-Bufotenine-Mescaline-Psilocybin (sacred mushrooms) combined with astimulant (amphetamines) to intensify the experience: 
 “Perceptual Effects, Cognitive Effects, Emotional effects, and Ego Function. 
“The subject’s thinking becomes Eidetic—what is thought becomes ‘seen’ and ‘real,’ also known as ‘Knight’s Move Thinking’. A total loss of ability to distinguish self from the outer world. A mystical epiphany.”
Sam’s intellect slowly digested the words, sliding slats of data back and forth, as if solving a Chinese puzzle box.
The voice continued in his mind, “Physiological symptoms: a quickening of the pulse, increase in blood pressure, nausea, cold membranes and occasionally—a mock psychotic episode occurs.” 
The filmy image of a doughy-faced man with ruddy cheeks, bird eyes, and wisps of thin gray hair merged with the disembodied voice. It floated above him phantom-like. He saw an audience of blurred faces over the top of his lower torso and feet. Sam shook his head to clear the cobwebs. A million kilowatt jolt of comprehension struck him and then, terror as goose flesh rippled his arms.
Slowly, the ghost images of his memory trailed off into a murky pool, as though a strand of glass beads had unraveled from a necklace, plopping one by one into inky waters.
Damn! I’m on an acid trip! You stupid—Luftmensch, you! This isn’t real. Somebody pumped you full of dope!
Sam struggled to focus on the image of the doughy-faced man, but nothing came. A blank, smooth, seamless wall arose with no discernable doorway to enter. But he knew, instinctively, that he was the lab rat who had been pumped with the mind-bending fruit cocktail. But why?
This line of thinking didn’t bring him the least bit of comfort. Here, in the fun-house-hospital room, with an IV needle pumping even more crazy juice into his system, not having a clue as to where the hell —he was. He only knew that he’d fallen through the rabbit hole and the Mad Hatter was running the show.
He slid out of bed, ripping the oxygen tube from his face, and tore the IV needle from his forearm. But then as spikes of scintillating pain shot through his skull, he halted. He took a deep breath and cursed. He finger-combed his hair. That’s when he felt them. Tiny little scabs, like the chickenpox, dotted his scalp.
 What the hell? Whatever! Just move man, move. 
Sam staggered across the floor on wobbly legs, commanding his pain-racked body to continue.
Just as he reached the odd U-shaped doorway, it sprang open with a whoosh, as if it were somehow pressurized. A male nurse with an expressionless face and a stereotypical, saccharine-fixed smile ran right into him.“Now, where do we think we’re going?” the nurse taunted.
“We aren’t going anywhere, I am!” Sam said, as he cold-cocked the nurse with an uppercut to the jaw. The nurse swooned and collapsed like an empty pillow case.
Sam quickly donned the nurse’s greens, carried him to the bed, dumped him in, and covered him with the sheet. He turned his replacement’s head to the side, away from the doorway. Next, he affixed the oxygen tube and stuck the IV needle into the nurse’s arm, pausing briefly to stand back to admire his work.
“Oh yeah, almost forgot,” he laughed as he turned up the dosage flow of the IV bottle to maximum. “Sweet dreams, Asshole!” Sam said to the comatose devil’s nightingale, in a slurred Bogart imitation.
 III
  
SPINE PRESSED TO the stainless-steel wall of the corridor, Sam crept to the nearest corner. Damn, wish I had some real shoes, he thought. The cold copper-like floor leached through the surgical booties and into his bare feet as he inched along. The nurse’s sneakers were a size seven. Too small. A ballerina no doubt , Sam conjectured.
A stillness pressed down on him as his heart thundered in his rib cage. Then he heard it: the muffled laughter of . . . children? Yes, that was it, children.  He eased down the hall. On his left was a large window, no, a one-way observation window to be exact. Still cautious, he crouched down and peered over the sill.
Seated on a stool, surrounded by cross-legged children in a semi-circle on the floor at his feet was a ghoul. The doughy- faced apparition from Sam’s cataract-covered memory. Although rage flooded his mind, Sam quashed his initial impulse to rush in, and somehow throttle the little beast. Right now he needed answers: answers to a thousand questions that seared his brain. The pasty-faced man wore horn-rimmed glasses and held a children’s book in his sausage-like little fingers. Through a speaker box on the wall, Sam could hear into the room. The little imp spoke a nursery rhyme in a slightly depraved sounding lilt . . . his thick-tongued voice evoked the rhymes early beginnings: a carry over from the old charms of hooked-nosed witches in conical hats:
“RainRain , Go Away, Come Again Another Day . . .”
A hand touched Sam’s shoulder. He wheeled about with a start and looked up into the angelic face of a skinny, gawky kid with a small-boned frame and corn-yellow hair, which hung over one eye like a comma. He appeared to be about twelve-years-old with sky-blue eyes and a light cinnamon dusting of freckles on his cheeks. The boy wore a CUBS baseball cap tilted bill-up, and a matching jersey which hung loosely over his long-fingered hands, tucked snug into the front pockets of his jeans. Leaning against the wall, one dirty tennis-shoed foot locked around the other leg’s ankle, he was the picture of boyhood charm.
“Bet I scared thebejesusoutta ya, hey mister?”
Sam recognized the boy in a flash. It was Matt Mendecka.
Matt said, “C’mon. Don’t just sit there like a big dope. Let’s get the H-E-Double-Hockey Sticksoutta here.”
Sam shook his head and chuckled. But Matt grabbed his hand and began to drag him down the hallway. “ForCripe’s Sake, get the lead out, Mister!” And as Matt led on, he turned and smiled. “Oh, by the way . . . nice outfit, dude.” Sam trotted along behind him. Too dumfounded to argue, too groggy to formulate a question. They came to a double door and Sam hesitated.
“C’mon ya big chicken. Some big tough cop you are. NOT!” Matt jeered and rolled his eyes, tugging at Sam’s arm.
“Wait a minute. How did you know that I’m a cop?”
“Well, you’re, aren’t ya?”
When they reached a third doorway, Sam’s feet melted into the floor in apprehension. It was that same sound again. That lost sound. Like the hum of an enormous electrical field followed by a sharp snap; the sound of a blue-white spark arcing across gigantic electrodes in Dr. Frankenstein’s La-bbor-a-tory.
Umm—Dap. Umm—Dap.
Sam and Matt exchanged glances; Matt pulling onward, Sam pulling backward. Sam said, “Okay, okay, let’s go.” Taking charge now, Sam gingerly pushed open the door, and slid into the room with Matt now in tow. Sam halted. There, seated in the corner, rocking back and forth like an autistic child was Dr. Greenbaum. His eyes swam with terror and his knees were drawn into his chest. Arms wrapped around him, he laughed with a maniacal glee. His hair was a fizzled mess. He looked like the failed attempt of an electrocution—not enough voltage to kill him—but just enough to fry his brain. But then, just as Sam knelt before the fallen doctor, an agonizing pain convulsed through his own brain. It was as if the vibration, the resonance, of the pulsating sound—the Umm Dap—fired deep within Sam’s skull. Electroshock therapy. Sam spun around; his hands clasped the sides of his head, as if it would split down the center. Dark motes began to swirl before him as the outer edges of his vision slowly spiraled inward. The last thing he saw was Matt pulling a pair of Walkman headphones from around his neck and sliding them up onto his ears.
Kids and their music . . .
Cold wavelets washed over Sam’s body. Sensing something above him, his eyes turned toward the ceiling. He caught the glimpse of a shadowy form skittering across the ceiling. As his pupils contracted, adjusting for the dim light, he saw them: an old man and an old woman, crawling on all fours, upside down. They scurried across the ceiling like roaches when you turn on the light. His mind reeled in the stark face of madness. It was his father and mother up there. Sam redoubled his courage and rebuked his senses, shaking a defiant fist in the air. A fist of resolute thought and purpose, banishing the false projections of his mind.
Matt dug deep into his pockets, frantically pulling out items: a Boy Scout knife, a pack of trading cards, a comb . . . still digging . . . a rabbit’s foot, a whistle, and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. Matt quickly tore off the foil wrappers and jammed as many sticks of gum into his mouth as he could hold. Chewing fiercely, and then removing a huge wad of gum, he tore the wad in two. His hand ripped the headphones from his ears as he plugged each of his ear canals with gum.
Sam was on the floor, writhing in agony. His hands were cupped over his ears, trying in vain to block out the infernal sound. Matt motioned for him to put on the headphones. Sam finally understood that the droning sound was a form of hypnotic trigger that had activated the delusions he was experiencing. After checking the headphones for a snug fit, Matt cranked up the volume on the Walkman. The sounds of “White Snake” screamed in Sam’s eardrums. He shot a thumbs-up sign to Matt who still chomped more Juicy Fruit and bobbed his head.
In the hallway, Sam shouted, “I’ll have to come back for Dr. Greenbaum. I can’t handle anymore of that sound right now.”
Matt pointed to the headphones and reached up to Sam’s shirt pocket, thumbing the volume wheel of the Walkman down. As Sam removed the headphones, Matt pulled the gum from his own ears.
Matt shook his head in desperation. “Hey, stopshoutin ’ like that, will ya? Want to tell the whole world we’retryin ’ to escape?”
“Sorry, Matt?” Sam shrugged his shoulders and extended his hands, palms upward.
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
SAM SHOOK OFF the horrifying images that racked his brain. Move—keep moving  , he thought, no knew instinctively; movement was a talisman of protection. They came to another door in the hallway marked only with an X. Like a pup catching scent of his master, Matt broke into a run and burst through the enigmatic door. Sam, although his intuition told him otherwise, followed.
It was another hospital room, a hospital room from Tales of the Crypt . The overhead lighting was dim, as if approximating the weak flicker of candlelight, filling the room with ethereal shadows that crouched and huddled in the corners of the room. Overhead a ceiling fan slowly turned and whirred, painting the sterile walls with fleeting phantoms. To their left was Susan St. Clair. She lay in a hospital bed in silent serenity, surrounded by a macabre stillness.
For a moment, Matt’s joy in seeing Susan, the only real mother he had ever known, blotted out all other emotions, and he couldn’t remember the cause of the cold terror that haunted their lives. He ran to her, wrapping his little arms around her, determined to never let her go. Susan placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and flung her arms around him, returning his love in kind. For in that moment love conquered all: fear, heartache, isolation, and the uncertainty that haunted their future. As hot tears welled up in Sam’s eyes, he envied their love, a love he and Annie had once been privileged to share. Matt was crying. With tears streaking his face, he said, “Come on, Auntie Susie! I’m here to rescue you.”
But something was wrong with Susan, terribly wrong.
Susan’s eyes blinked in rapid succession, like the motor drive of a Nikon. A moronic smile washed over her face as she picked up a bowl and spoon from her bedside tray. Between bites, shoveling the food in her mouth as if this was her last meal, she said, “Boys, come on now! Stay and keep me company. It’s wonderful here!” She scooped another mouthful, licked the back of the spoon, and smacked her lips. “It’s butter brickle, home-made ice cream! Don’t ya know? Don’t be a party pooper, Sammy.” Then she sang, “Every party has a pooper, that’s why we invited you, party pooper, party pooper.”
Something clung to the handle of the spoon. It twitched and then with a bolt, scurried higher. First, onto Susan’s hand and then, ran up the length of her arm. Sam reached to dab a smidgen of ice cream from the corner of Susan’s mouth with his thumb. But as a viscous, rubbery substance met his fingertips, his hand recoiled in shock. He knew that Matt had seen it, too.
A wave of nausea rippled through his stomach. Like an eel it began in his stomach, slithered up his throat, and burst from his lips. He tried not to look into the bowl, but his curiosity overpowered the cowering child within him. No, it wasn’t Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, unless the flavor of the month was a teeming stew of squirming maggots and hard-shell cockroaches. Sam’s eyes met Matt’s, and he saw the inner terror reflected in his gaze. Matt backhanded the bowl from Susan’s hands, and it flew crashing to the floor, wobbling on its rim.
WaaWaaWaa—WHUMP . . .
It was then that Sam first became aware of the thin wire harness extending from a wall plate, and into the back of Susan’s head. The wire fed into a metal skull cap near her cowlick. Rage gripped Sam as he reached up and jerked the harness from Susan’s head. Her body slumped forward, bobbing slightly like a rag doll . . . .
Matt rushed to her, climbed onto the bed, and cradled her in his arms. As he pressed her close, he shouted, “You killed her! I hate you!”
 
* * *
 
 V
  
SAM KNEW SHE wasn’t dead. Yet, not on an intellectual level, no it was a new level, something he never felt before. Not just instinct, something more, but just as certain. Still, he checked her pulse. It was weak, slightly rapid, but there.
Then he perceived it or almost dreamt it or both, another human presence—danger—just before the door exploded behind him.
He spun in a crouch, taking in the armed Storm-Trooper-guard bursting into the room. The target. Sam sprang off the balls of his feet, drove the heel of his palm upward, smashing into the guard’s nose. It was so fast and with such force that it caused the trooper’s septum to pierce the brain. Instant death. The hand of the Dragon—SUPER JEW!
As the target toppled backward, Sam wrenched the MP-10 submachine gun from his cold fingers.
Matt, forgetting Susan for the moment, whistled and cheered, “Wow! Way to scramble an omelet, Sam.” He leaped down to Sam’s side.
Straining to catch his breath, Sam just nodded. He knelt in front of Matt, clutching his small shoulders tighter, struggling to speak as he shook the boy in frustration.
“There is nothing cool about it, Matt. Nothing. You hear me?” He rasped with measured tones as he continued. “This is real. This man is dead. Do you understand?”
Yeah, sure, but he is, and we . . .ain’t !”
Shaking him again, gazing eyeball to eyeball, Sam said, “Enough. I want some answers. And right now, mister.”
Matt cast his eyes downward in submission as the smile dissolved from his face.
“First, why are you here? And . . . Susan, why is she here . . . and the other children—?”
“Hey, one at a time—” Matt broke in.
Sam chided, “Matt!”
“Okay, Sam, okay. I’m sorry. I only remember parts of it. Only parts. Bad parts. Dr. Greenbaum and Sheila were helping me, see? I went to live with Susie Q, I mean Auntie Susan. They hurt me, Sam. They hurt me a lot and I think they made me . . .” Matt’s voice trailed off to a whisper. “They made me hurt other kids.”
“Go on, Matt. It’s okay.”
“My folks, my family . . . lots of people, Sam. Lots of people. They control you. They get inside your head. Then, they let you trust somebody. Trust somebody with you fears, with all the hurt in your guts. Then they pull the rug out! The person you trusted turns out to be one of them. They come to get you in the middle of the night or that friend helps you escape. But it’s all a pile of crap. You find out that friend ratted you out, Sam. I trusted Doc Felix. But then, he did bad things to me while they watched.”
“The little creep in the room with the kids? The one I see in my mind?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, that’s Doc Felix. He pretends to be nice, but then . . . well, like I said, he does . . .” The words became thick in Matt’s throat. “But hey, how did you know the guy you saw reading to the kids was Doc Felix?”
“I don’t how I knew it, Matt. Really, I don’t. Like I knew that guard was coming. I just saw it all, just before it happened.”
“They used to tell us they put things in our brains to control us, make us smarter and stuff—or kill us. Do you think they can really do it, Sam?”
 Maybe, Matt, Maybe , Sam thought as he finger-combed his own hair, feeling the pebbles of scab tissue on his scalp. “But how did you and Susan get out of the hospital? We were in the hospital, right?”
“Oh, it happened all right. They can do some really spooky stuff. Oh, yeah. Well, my friend Virgil got me out. The Storm Trooper guys grabbed Doc Greenbaum and you and Susie Q. But they’re afraid of Virgil. I think they gave him too much juice, ya know? Too much power,” Matt said, almost laughing now. “Yes, sir. Virg is kind of weird, but he likes me. Likes the kids. I think maybe they hurt him, too, and he’skinda a big kid.”
“But, who is he? How could he get you out of there?”
“I told you,” glancing at Susan’s comatose body as he spoke, stroking her hair, “he’s got powers, Sam. He can be anything he wants.”
“So can you if you apply yourself, Matt.”
“No, not like that, silly goose. He’s a wadda-ya-call-it . . . a Shape Shifter. He can change into stuff. Especially stuff that scares ya. You know, like in the movies. Ol’ Freddy uses the scary stuff in your own brain to trick ya. Get it?”
“Get it, yes. Like it, no. Not one bit. But how, Matt? How?”
“How? I think you know how. Maybe you’rekinda . . . scared, scared to say it. It’s magic, Sam. What else could it be?”
“Magic? No its drugs . . . I mean science. There has to be a rational explanation, Matt. There has to be!”
“Has to, smash-to. Nope, no such thing young Luke Skywalker.” Shaking his head and laughing, Matt continued. “Yeah, it’s not just hocus-pocus stuff. I heard them talking once. Thought I was asleep, they did.”
“What did you hear? This is important, Matt. Tell me.”
“Well, okay. They use drugs, hypnotize ya, plant stuff in your brain, and open the portal. Yup, that’s what they called it, a portal. Like a door, I guess.”
“A door? A portal? To what, Matt?”
“To the other side, the ancient ones, the other world—a sixth dimension they called it.”
“This is getting too crazy. There are only three dimensions.”
“Nope, wrong, you lose, Sam. Next contestant. Heck, I learned about it in school. That guy Einstein said five dimensions. Yup, five. Ya gotta count time and space, too, see? And you need alotta power and somebody like Virgil, somebody like ol’ Doc Felix—a Channeler they call ‘em. And, somebody like me!”
“Somebody like you?”
“Yeah, so they tell me,” Matt said with a look of embarrassment, biting his lip, and tapping his foot from side to side. He stood round-shouldered, gazing at the floor as shameful shadow-visions of the past slithered past: his thoughts, his actions, sloughed off the skeletal framework of his soul. It was in the manner of a molting of dead tissue, a snake casting off its skin. Only in this instance, no rebirth, no glistening coat of new flesh emerged. The radiance, the power of Matt’s essence lay hidden, draped in folds of a black lace veil of iniquity—Evil.
But, underneath this cloak of desperation was a tiny spark. Fulminating mercury the alchemists called it. It peeked through in intermittent glorious flashes of splendor. Sam, though somewhat cautious, somewhat suspicious, couldn’t help but regard the boy with a genuine affection and fondness. An angelic, penetrating aura took flight directly from Matt’s compelling boyish grin, right to Sam’s heart.
Standing before him with large liquid hazel eyes, baleful eyes, was a wounded sparrow. A little boy. His son perhaps if only his darling Annie had lived long enough to bestow such a gift.
A bad seed? No. Just a hurt little boy.
Susan groaned and came to with a jolt. Shaking the cobwebs from her head, she stared in bewilderment at Sam.
“A-hh. . . my head. Oh—God, it hurts so.”
“It’s okay, Susie Q. It’s Okay,” Matt said as he rocked and cradled her in his arms.
“Susan, it’s Sam Goldstein. I’ve got to get you and Matt out of here and fast. Can you walk?”
“Yeah, let’s go. Please, take me away from this evil place. Please?” Susan stammered. Then she rose to her feet on rubbery legs.
Sam quickly donned the guard’s uniform and boots and slung the H&K MP-10 over his shoulder. He decided to lighten the mood, waylay a little of their fear as he said, “Okay pilgrims, let’s saddle up,” in a Duke-Wayne drawl. “Who’d a’ figured this hombre to wear size 13 triple D’s. My feet feel like they’re swimmin’ cross theRio Grande .”
Susan’s captivating smile radiated currents of warmth as she leaned against Sam for support, tilted her head up slowly, and winked as she said, “Let’s ride, cowboy.”
“Oh . . . like so not happening. You guys can stick around all day, but I’m getting the heck out of Dodge and pronto!” Matt jeered, shaking his head as he ran out the door.
Even as they entered the corridor, Sam sensed it. Copper and stainless steel sheathed walls, ceiling, and floor. So cold. So lifeless. So metallic. They exuded the evacuated countenance of death. It was akin to being encapsulated in the gigantic metallic fallopian tube of some female robotic creature. And they were the ova hurtling toward the inevitable onslaught of a frenzied horde of phantom, mechanical sperm monsters.
Nevertheless, cautiously, like Dorothy, the Tin-Man, and Sam—the Cowardly Lion—they crept down the corridor, toward the elevator door.
Lions and Tigers and Bears—OH MY!!
 
* * *
 
 VI
  
AS DR. FELIX Ordinaire sat before a bank of closed-circuit TV monitors in the heart of the lair’s security control room, sour perspiration glistened on his face, as if the demons that dwelled in the dark recesses of his psychopathic mind oozed through the pores of his flesh. His pasty little hands clapped with glee. He had been following Sam’s movements the whole time, and taking a perverse delight in the threesome’s escape attempt.
He raved in spasms like Renfield’s manic laughter—Yes Master, Yes, Master—as though he were the mad apprentice of the Prince of Darkness himself. The seed of his conscious mind had been mutilated by the obscenities perpetrated against him in childhood.
He was the Channeler . He was now a hybrid freak of nature who relished, without guilt, in sadomasochistic savagery and power. A twisted soul. Evil frothed in his heart. Innocence was weakness, an entree to be devoured, simply an irresistible treat for his perverted palate.
“Oh dear, battle stations, lads. Get your little tootsies after them. Quickly now,” he lisped coquettishly to the security force, standing at the ready by his side. But as they burst out the door, he said, “Oh, please! Do, wait for me now. Slow down you dull beautiful brutes. They can’t even open the damn elevator. Wait—”
But they could open it and they did.
There was no call button, no security access card slot, no keypad . . . nothing.
“Star and Garters! We’re trapped,” Matt said.
“Like rats,” Susan said, glancing with her azure eyes, somewhat apologetically, toward Sam.
Though he knew they were right, though it did seem hopeless, Sam knew down deep, not exactly where, but somewhere within him that the tables had turned. Luck was with him, the Goddess Fortuna was now his lover and companion, cloaking him in her majestic arms.
He closed his eyes tightly, visualizing the doors opening and then:
 Hissss . . .
They did.
 
* * *
 VII
  
THE WAVES OF Devil’sLake pounded the jagged rock-strewn shoreline. A clambering, thunderous echo reverberated from the tangled maze of limestone and granite. First a hand, then an arm emerged from the swirls of frothing, black water. Trembling, distended fingers fought to grip the slippery, green, algae-covered stones. Platinum sprays of moonlight dappled the water soaked form as she emerged from the lake. She crawled higher and higher onto the shoreline and collapsed in exhaustion. Not unlike Jason having battled the mythological beast—the Sleepless Dragon of Colchis—she rested.

* * *
 
 VIII
  
AS THE ELEVATOR doors parted, Matt said, “How the heck did ya do that, Sam? I guess you just—” His sentence was interrupted by a spray of automatic weapons fire that sparked and ricocheted about them. They scrambled into the elevator.
When they turned to look back down the corridor, the overhead lighting pulsed an alarm signal in stroboscopic flashes, revealing a portent from the crypt: the bone-white face of death. A skull that glowed in a green, hellish, luminosity from beneath Ordinaire’s pasty masque of flesh. Peels of sardonic laughter spiraled down the hallway toward them as the doctor spoke:
“Party Poopers! Party Poopers! Please, do stay? A little more ice cream, Susan?” bellowed the little imp as he raised his hand, signaling the guards to cease fire. “You know, Mr. Goldstein, your friends Sheila and Michael were much more pleasant guests. Quick learners, too. Funny isn’t it though, they don’t remember a thing. Not the hospital, not even the Butter Brickle ! Can you imagine?”
“You bastard!” Susan cried.
“Oh, spare me the hysterics, Susan dear. Matt, step out of the elevator. Come on, Matt. Let’s play a game . Come to Dr. Felix.”
Matt’s eyes glossed over as the piercing, watery, little eyes of Dr. Felix bore into him.
Matt took a step forward.
The dew of perspiration beaded his forehead.
Just as Susan grabbed Matt’s shoulders, holding him back, she felt a stabbing pain in her shoulder. She turned and saw a bloodstain flowing on her sleeve. She’d been hit.
Sam’s chest tightened. His left hand balled into a fist, his neck corded.
“Fuck you, you bastards!” Sam screamed.
In a blaze of motion, Sam raised the MP-10, sweeping the corridor from left to right in a deluge of hot lead. Slugs tore through flesh and bone. The lead guards rushed forward only to recoil and tumble in screams of agony. The coppery scent of blood and cordite filled the crowded corridor. Sam, adrenaline pumping, fired again and again. Dr. Felix’s first reaction was to scream, but he couldn’t, the words were sucked from his mouth by fear. Fear so terrifying, he soiled his pants.
Just as Sam had Ordinaire in his sights, the elevator door closed, and the compartment shuddered with such violence that Sam was thrown to the floor. Susan and Matt clung to the handrail. The elevator shook and groaned as it plummeted down the shaft, rocketing to the seventh circle of Hell itself. In a blur of motion and confusion, Sam saw the floor indicator above the door scroll backwards.
 Oh Tata, help me think. Help me, Tata. Once again he had crossed into the Twilight Zone , where the White Rabbit, the Queen of Hearts and a Cheshire Cat were not at all out of the ordinary scheme of things, but were mundanely conventional.
That’s it. It’s yourdreamworld vs. theirs. Ordinaire’s thoughts vs. Super Jew—no contest!
Sam squeezed his eyelids tight, closed his mind. The elevator lurched. Susan was thrown against the opposite wall. He reached out, knowing he had only seconds to spare, concentrating with every fiber of his being.
The elevator began to slow, and then crawled to a gentle stop.
He cradled Susan in his arms, Madonna-like. But Susan was injured. He had to act quickly.
He hoisted Susan over his shoulder in a firemen’s carry, motioned for Matt to stand to the side of the elevator door, checked the ammo-level-indication on the MP-10’s magazine—fifteen rounds—and hit the button opening the elevator door.
Using the side wall as cover, he sneak-peeked a quick look around the lip of the doorsill. They were on ground level. Three guards were rushing toward their position, firing as they ran with chunks of cinder block flying about the door as bursts of 10 mm rounds crashed at the sides of the doorway.
Sam extended the MP-10’s muzzle in his weak hand, still maintaining cover, and squeezed off two fanned bursts towards the onrushing attackers. Suppressive fire. Deadly fire. As if somehow magically guided, the rounds found their mark; the volley zipped one attacker in the throat toppling his body into the second, whose temple exploded as the rounds ripped home. The second volley rocketed like a cruise missile towards the third attacker as he back peddled, waving his arms and screaming, dropping his weapon he turned to flee. He never made it. The round cut through the back of his skull spraying the night air with blood and bone fragments.
Sam’s heart hammered, his mouth was punk dry. He turned toward Matt and threw him the weapon.
“Okay partner, welcome to West World ,” Sam shouted.
Matt’s eyes swam in their sockets, but as he gripped the weapon firmly in his hands, a grin of self-assurance and power washed over his face.
“I can’t shoot and run with Susan. I’ll make for that tree line. You lay down a burst if you see any targets. Then follow. Okay?” Sam questioned as he smiled at Matt. “Just squeeze . . . then run like hell. Got it?”
“Let’s rock-’n’-roll, Sam!” Matt shouted.
Before them, across an open area of the compound no more than fifty yards in length, stood a dark forest laced with webs of shadows and light, cloaked in shimmering moonlight; a phalanx of sable-emerald pine, fir, maple and birch in all directions. Childhood fairytales came to mind, haunting stories of gnomes, gruesome trolls, wolves, changelings and witches. Children who entered those woods never returned. But he was not a child. He was a man running for his life, no, for three lives.
‘ Samuel, don’t be afraid of the dark,’ Papa would say. ‘If they can’t see you, they can’t hurt you.’ 
So, he ran. Ran to the safety of the black night. Followed by a growing boy, a special boy, who hid in the safety of his shadow, and the safety of the night.
The sounds of Sam’s excited breath and his pounding footfalls seemed to boom like thunder in the cold silence, as if amplified a thousand times by his own fear. The shrill wail of a Klaxon over shouting voices, and the roar of a helicopter’s turbine and churning rotors cleaved the night air. But it also acted as a drug, providing an adrenaline rush, supercharging his metabolism: the fight or flight syndrome.
Run. Run to the night.
But, then it happened, the balance of the visceral storm was tipped to the side of the numbing paralysis of the parasympathetic nervous system. Sam was seized by ceaseless waves of terror-filled, nightmarish demons that chase the id down long, canted, geometrically grotesque hallways of a bad dream.
Sam had stepped through the looking glass, teleported to an inverted world, a mystical fantasy land, where Merlin and Dr. Faust reigned supreme, dragons guarded the golden fleece, and trolls and ghouls went bump in the night—in the forest. The dark Robin’s Wood. In this new paradigm he was the hero, the Fisher King, sent to rescue Susan and Matt from the clutches of the evil wizard of the Black Lodge. He had pierced the veil, never to ramble through quiet meadows bathed in the fake sunlight of the past. The security and safety of the old work-a-day world had been dissolved by an acid awareness. An unsettling awareness.
The world spun counter clockwise.
Faintness stole over him. He tried to fight it, but his knees buckled. A coppery, salty taste filled his mouth, as he collapsed in a heap, Susan at his side and Matt kneeling, panting with sheer exhaustion.
“What’s . . . what’s wrong?” Matt wheezed.
“Damn! My tongue. I bit my stupid tongue,” Sam cried. His cheek pressed against the prickly grass, he reached out with one arm, rolled onto his side, and pushed his tortured body upward. First to a crouch, hesitating to catch his breath, then slowly, ever so slowly, he rose to his feet. Still dizzy, he bowed his head, inhaled deeply, and tried to raise it again, but it just wobbled like Rocky, the fighter, after one too many jabs. His eyes swam. But, he got to his feet and slung Susan back over his shoulder.
Pain marched like a phalanx of Roman Centurions across his scalp and down his spine. He staggered in the over deliberate, plodding, weaving manner of a drunk.
The blue-white search beam of the helicopter overhead washed over the threesome as a wall of wind beat down against their bodies. But the chopper rocketed past.
“I’ll get ‘em!” Matt screamed, over the roar of the beating rotors.
Matt dropped to one knee, raised the weapon, sighted, and squeezed off a burst of automatic fire. He fell on his butt as he screamed in disbelief.
“Holy shit! I hit ‘em. Right in thekeister , Sam! Look! They’regoin ’ down.”
The rounds hit the cocci rotor causing the chopper to spin out of control and headlong into the tree line to their right. A ball of oily flame burst over the treetops.
“Awesome shot, Matt.” Sam wheezed between gulps of air. “Move it out. Gotta get to the trees.”
Runnn. . .
They hit the edge of the dense forest. Running full out, stumbling, eyes straining to find a path in the darkness. They used the forest of shadows that dotted their path as natural cover. They ran deeper and deeper. Matt fell face first into the spring-thawed soil and cursed as he scrambled to his feet. Pine needles crunched beneath their feet and razor-like tree boughs flailed at their arms as they tore through low hanging branches.
With lungs burning, a stitch in his side like a dagger thrust under his ribs, his stamina all but depleted, Sam ran for his life.
Just a few more yards, you’re almost there, keep moving.
 
* * *
 
 IX
  
SILENCE SUDDENLY CRUSHED down upon them. They had reached a clearing that appeared mirage-like in the dense forest. The pagan, ritual grove.
A pale moon cast a surreal luminescence over the undulating grass and painted the surrounding foliage with moon dust. Shadows swept over the earth like faint puffs of dreams. A heavy, green, phosphorescent fog washed across the clearing and coiled itself about gnarled tree trunks; an exhalation that drifted across the opaque rock strewn floor of the woods.
Lightning scarred the tissue of the night sky.
HEAVY FOG.
BLACK FOG.
EMERALD FOG.
Fear infected Sam once more. It crept step by step, inch by inch, into his consciousness, holding dominion over him.
Don’t look up. Don’t look up.
But he did. The cold impersonal countenance of the night leered back at him. Dared him. Scoffed him. The still blackness roared, violating the very core of his sanity. Thin unintelligible whispers and discordant moans floated in the damp night air. At first distant babble, then closer, still closer, more distinct, increasing in volume and resonance until he not only heard, but felt its intensity. He stood paralyzed. Mortar and stone replaced blood and tissue. Panting, he gasped for air, slung Susan off his shoulder and onto a bed of soft pine needles and spring grass. He pressed his forehead against the coolness of a tall pine; its gnarled bark dug into his flesh. As he braced himself against the tree trunk, his head turned slowly upward. A slivered moon loomed between tree limbs and branches that stretched and swayed, clawing the inky sky. Like an out-of-body experience, he seemed to rocket through the wind swept branches—higher and higher—into the black abyss of sky.
He suddenly realized he was alone. All alone. Susan and Matt were gone.
 PANIC. 
The very word derived from the Greek wood nymph—PAN, half-man, half-goat who prowled the dark night playing haunting, seductive, lyrical notes of seduction on his reed flute. The woods of the satyr—the horned goat.
 Where the hell are they? 
A giant oak tree stood before him in the center of the grove. Its leafy crown rose higher than the surrounding fir and birch. Its twisted, gnarled, timorous bark formed a face-like countenance on its truck. Backlit by emerald, radiant, phosphorescence, it cast foreboding, dappled shadows on the green-gray, wavering meadow grass that encircled it. Its leaves and branches rustled in beguiling, whispering tones akin to the oracle of Jupiter who interpreted the future and wishes of the gods by the same rustling of leaf and branch. The night wind whipped through the tree limbs with violence, altering in temperature, intensity, and direction.
The luminous mist rolled across the clearing toward Goldstein like a summons from the grave.
 HEAVY FOG. 
 BLACK FOG. 
EMERALD FOG.
A piercing, reptilian shriek cleaved the night wind. A hungry shadow swept across the earth, followed by a rustling sound in the treetops. A beating, leathery sound. Then suddenly, the hollow cracking sound of a tree limb groaning, straining, bowing under too heavy tonnage, ripped the air. Followed by another deafening, protracted shriek whose aftershock swept over the ground in tremors. It was as if St. George had speared the dragon of legend whose mournful cry echoed across time itself.
CAWWW . . .
The tortured animal cry chilled the air and hammered icy needles of sheer terror into his flesh. The darkness crushed downward with tremendous force and pressure. A thousand pounding hearts, a thousand wailing phantoms, a thousand devilish images assaulted his senses in that instant.
Then straining to see, squinting his eyes in the eerie moonlight, he saw them. Susan and Matt were standing hand-in-hand at the base of the towering oak.
Thunder erupted and shook the sky. Skeletons of lightning danced across the night’s ballroom. The giant oak’s limbs shuddered, then snapped as a bolt of lightning, white-heat, licked the tree. It exploded in a violent burst of flame.
A thundering thrashing, a beating of leathery wings. Then in a blur of motion as a giant winged creature swooped down, alighting before Matt and Susan, shielding them from the burning inferno with its yawning wingspan.
Sam studied the creature, the Shape Shifter, with disbelief and awe. He studied its face and blazing molten eyes. For a second, just a second, the face of the beast blurred, transforming into that of a man. Like in a Hollywood SFX dissolve, the body of the werewolf, having been struck by a sliver bullet, morphed into a human form in death’s restful repose.
 So this is Virgil—Matt’s protector. Staring into the face of the man-creature, Sam sensed an iciness, an inhuman quality. A flatness. A mind-numbing quality. But underneath this frozen mantle, a certain kindness seeped out. Poured through his baleful, elliptical, blue eyes. Through his very pores. His expression: the slightly upturned lip, the lingering trace of a smile, the way his head bowed with an air of gentle humility, almost reverence, were all clues.
Once, an innocent child had inhabited this same—now loathsome—soul. It was like looking deeply into the flat eyes of an abandoned and abused puppy who now barred his teeth in a fearsome snarl, as it cowered trembling in a corner. The snarl of preservation. A mask which hid the tortured soul of a man. Certainly, beyond any doubt, he was now a hideous beast, but a beast with an intuitive understanding of the horrors Matt and Susan had faced at the pernicious hands of Dr. Drexler, for he had equally suffered. The Brotherhood and the government had found him, embraced him in their malicious arms. And used him, turning him into their wicked killing machine.
Because of this shared trauma, a strange kinship and a bond had formed. He was imbued with compassion. But compassion solely for the survivors—Matt and Susan.
The sky was scored with flames of blue fire. As the creature enfolded them in his wings, a heavy black-velvet shadow cloaked the earth, then a thundering thrashing of giant wings and they were gone.
A reckless, tingling sensation crawled up Sam’s spine as a savage, biting breeze tore across his face. Tears welled up in his eyes. Yes, they were gone.
Run. Run to the night.
As he ran, the frenzied bark of pursuing attack dogs, like the hounds of Hell, echoed at his heels. The headlights of passing cars peeked and streamed through a fence line of trees just yards before him—a highway.
Get to the road man. Run. You’re almost there.
As his feet pounded the moist earth, a shower of divots exploded in the ground around him. A hot slug whizzed past his cheek, then another and another.
The bastards are shooting at me!
He ran serpentine, struggling to avoid the sights of their weapons. Tree bark splintered from the pines absorbing the maelstrom of lead as he careened haphazardly through the stand. A tapestry of barking rabid dogs. Traffic in the distance. His pounding heart and automatic weapons fire roared in his eardrums. He ran. Low hanging branches lashed and flailed at his arms and face. And he was the warrior running a gauntlet of leaded, leather thongs that rendered the flesh raw.
He climbed the embankment and stumbled onto the highway. Blinding headlights bore down on him like the beacon of a locomotive hurtling from the mouth of a tunnel. Blurred flashes and coronal after-images stabbed the darkness in a psychosis of polychromatic bursts of light.
The tortured squeal of protesting tires and the loud blast of an air horn signaled death. He slowly raised his hand in a halting gesture and the thundering eighteen-wheeler skidded past him in a mirrorlike, liquid blur of metal, so close it seemed to brush the hairs of his arm.
The tractor trailer jack-knifed straddling the roads shoulder, striking his armed pursuers crouched in the ditch with such force, that it catapulted two of them thirty yards into an adjacent field. The third, along with two hell-dogs, was squashed like a June bug against a car’s windshield as it hurtled down a country blacktop on a warm summer night—Road Kill Stew.
Tires screeched and glass shattered.
A chain reaction collision. Vehicles rocketed toward Sam. But at the last instant they slid to either side of him, as if deflected by an invisible forcefield; a wrinkle in the fabric of space.
Like Dr. Morbius in Forbidden Planet —Sam had taken the KRELL’S IQ test, increasing his sixth sense. But what of the powers of the id? Could its voracious appetites be controlled, held in check, by discipline? Sam prayed they could.
As he stood in the center of the roadway, surrounded by chaos, emptiness floated down upon him. A great loss. Matt and Susan. Matt and Susan.
The red beacon and hot-white strobe flash of a highway patrol cruiser’s grill lights snaked through the carnage of stalled and wrecked vehicles. Bearing down on Sam, it skidded to a screeching, lurching halt at his side.
The passenger door flew open. A young woman’s striking face, framed in a mantle of damp auburn hair, stared back at him. She had piercing, topaz eyes and wore wet-soaked clothing and a black windbreaker. Josey leaned across the front seat.
“Get in, Goldstein.” He stood frozen as a stump. “Move it, detective! We’re on borrowed time,” Josey said.
Sam hesitated for a moment, stepped back, and looked down the highway. A parade of red-and-blue police beacons in the distance were closing fast. He jumped into the car. Barely closing the squad’s door as the car lurched forward, smoke curling from the rear tires, they screamed into the darkness.
Josey shot him a glance, winked, and threw him a pair a goggles. “Night-vision optics. Put ‘em on if you want to see the show,” Josey said as she lowered a matching set over her own eyes. Then she killed the headlights and emergency beacons.
Sam did as instructed and cringed back in his seat. The green-glow landscape stretched out before his eyes. The center white line and rushing pavement were devoured under the hood of the speeding cruiser.
“What the hell . . . and who are you? And where are you taking me?” Sam stammered.
“Wonder Woman, at your service. Shalom, Samuel,” she said with an exaggerated nod. “We can discuss it all on the way. I have just as many questions for you. Maybe you can fill in some blanks for us.”
“Us?”
“All in due time. How about some coffee?”
“Didn’t bring any,” Sam said. “That goes for answers, too! And how the hell do you know my name?”
Ignoring the question, Josey gestured toward the back seat with a flick of her head.
“In the thermos, Sam. I don’t think the trooper would mind if we helped ourselves, do you?”
Sam swung around and saw a State Trooper handcuffed, duck tape stretched across his mouth, eyes swimming in confusion and fear, seated very uncomfortably in the back seat.
“I mean . . . you know . . . national security and all. A spirit of cooperation, etc, etc, etc . . . ,” Josey quipped.
Sam burst out in a roar of laughter, grabbed the thermos and shook his head. He poured a coffee, threw back a hit, refilled the cup, and handed one to Josey. Still disoriented from the escape and the night-vision lenses he spilled coffee in his crotch.
“Damn, that smarts,” Sam cried.
“Putz.”
“Shmuck,” Sam shot back involuntarily. “Wouldn’t be from across the pond? Say Tel Aviv? Would you?”
“Ask me no questions, I will tell thee no lies.”
“You just answered my question. Don’t suppose you have a real name?”
“Of course I do, everybody’s got a name.” She winked and smiled.
“Okay, be that way.” Damn, I’m flirting with her. “Butwhatta we do with our friend in the back? And where are we going?” Sam asked.
“Been to the zoo lately?”
“What? We’re going to the zoo?”
“Got something against monkeys, do ya?”
“Only when someone thinks she can make one out of me.”
The rear end of the car fishtailed, spraying gravel as they took a curve. Sam glanced at the speedometer. They were pushing ninety mph.
The blood drained from Sam’s face. “Could you slow down a little?”
“What? Can’t follow my line of reasoning?” she asked.
She mashed the brake before steering into a curve, and then tromped the accelerator again as they pulled out.
“You drive like a mad woman!” Sam shot a glance to the back seat where the trooper was nodding in agreement.
“No,” she said, “I’m just in a hurry. I’ve got a stash car at the Milwaukee County Zoo. Want to get there before the rush. I hate waiting in line. Don’t you?”
Despite himself, Sam was taken by this woman. Her sarcasm, her beauty. But could he trust her? It seemed to him that at this juncture, he had no choice. “What do we do with our friend in the back seat?”
“We give the trooper a mickey of forgetful serum. Great stuff, he’ll forget how he got there. I’ve got some clothes in the trunk of the stash car for you. Black Nomex isn’t your color, you know?”
“Funny, I thought it went rather well with my complexion.”
His humor was returning; he couldn’t help it.
“And . . . then pay a visit to you brother.”
“My brother? What’s Jacob got to do with this?”
“Oh just everything and at the same time, possibly nothing at all. Clear as mud, eh Sam?” Josey taunted.
“OyVey! Just like this coffee.” Sam took another swig from the thermos.
Josey told him her real name. It violated the rules, but there was something about Sam that was unique, made her want to confide in him.
As the cruiser streamed through the sable-cloak of the night, the pale shimmer of dawn’s light began to peer over the horizon: a thin strip of sunlight, like a crack under night’s door. It filigreed the leafy treetops and sprayed a subdued rose-yellow light across the farmland. Life and hope reborn again. And Sam thought that maybe this woman was right. Maybe Jacob could help.
But an inner queasy feeling chewed at his gut. He believed that much, if not all of what he felt, was an after effect of the drug, for to admit the truth was far too much a weighty potion to swallow at this juncture. For his own sanity’s sake, like a thirst parched nomad lost in the burning desert sands who encounters an oasis, he decided to take only small sips at the pool of truth or explode with the liquidity of too much knowledge, much too soon.
However, he would need help to even lift the chalice of enlightenment to his lips; the help and strength that only his brother, Jacob, could provide.
Yes, she was right. Blood he hoped—no prayed—was thicker than water, thicker than evil.
In the zoo’s parking lot, they injected the trooper with “forgetful” serum (a combination of Versed and Ketamine ) and switched cars. But just as they drove off, the honed point of a dagger seemed to press against the back of Sam’s eyelids. He fainted.

 
 
CHAPTER 18
 
 I:Vatican City : The Process
  
ON SPRING-THAWED mornings, the radiant light streams through the tall Palladian windows of the papal study situated on the third floor of theApostolicPalace . Its flame pours across the carpeting, igniting its colors. It washes across walls and tall ceilings with willful abandon.
This Thursday, in April, was just such a day. On the wall, the sunlight cast dueling shadows from the Pope’s pen as he worked feverishly at his desk.
A rap at the study door.
His Holiness’s ashen and debilitated face slowly rose to the study door. His face reflected the torment that bridled his soul. Pale, he was, his eyes as haunted as old mansions.
“Avanti!” The Pontiff’s tremulous hand laid down his pen and slouched back in his chair with a sigh of exhaustion. It was time for the regular morning briefing. The Cardinal Secretary of State, Luciano Sindona, together with the Chief of Papal Security, Commander Gustavo Stato entered clutching red dossiers. With a nod of his doddering head, His Holiness gestured for them to be seated.
Cardinal Sindona was round of face and round of body; double-chinned, half-bald, and fat-necked. And as if to add insult to injury, a purple-stained birthmark covered half his face. Commander Stato, on the other hand, was his complete antitheses. With his starling combination of Mediterranean features, lush black hair and plum-dark eyes, his good looks, and his fit physique, Stato had the movie star appearance of the quintessential hero; faithful, courageous, and ever-vigilant. He trained with the Swiss Guard. He had served two years of additional Ausbildung inBernand was posted to the Italian Special Forces, intelligence service. Following the 1981 assassination attempt on the Pope, he had been recruited for and assumed the position as Chief of Papal Security.
His eyes bristled with intensity as he spoke:
“As per your request, Your Holiness, I have prepared a detailed account of the circumstances surrounding the death of Colonel Pico and Monsignore Scarlotti.”
“Yes, I have read it. Continua, per favore. ”
Stato straightened himself and said, “As you are aware theVatican has received generous financial support over the years from various western intelligence agencies in the hope that a strong united Church would aid in the combat of communism. Monsignore Scarlotti was recruited through his niece—one Josephine Schulman, a Mossad agent.”
Poker-faced, the Pope leaned forward and nodded.
“The Holy See has been the focus of western intelligence exemplified by the Americans’ posting of ‘special envoy,’ Mr. James Wilcox. Wilcox was a career intelligence officer for the CIA who had been posted to hot spots and centers of political espionage such asTehran ,Havana ,Bangkok , andTegucigalpa . Tel Aviv’s role is, of course, that ofAmerica ’s strongest and staunchest ally in theMiddle East .”
Cardinal Secretary Sindona shifted impatiently in his seat, twisting a kink from his neck like a chained mastiff, abiding his turn to speak.
Commander Stato, though aware of the cardinal’s growing agitation, refused to acknowledge it. “The suspicious demise of the American Regional Security Officer, William Cotter, at the scene of Monsignore Scarlotti’s death demonstrates the American intelligence community’s involvement in this affair.” Stato paused and drew a breath. “Now to the robbery of the Archive. Colonel Pico was killed . . . at the hand of Monsignore Scarlotti. Fingerprints on the brass bookend found near Pico’s body confirm this.”
The Slavic Pope lowered his head, sighed, and then returned his gaze to Stato.
“It’s my belief that the intelligence community, after years of struggling, has determined that the Le Cahier de le Rose Noire was the ‘key’ to our diplomatic cipher-code. Without that knowledge and without the key, even the colossal Cray 900 computers of the NSA inFortMeadecould not break our code!”
Cardinal Secretary Sindona broke in. “What he means to say, Your Holiness, is that they could break the code, but without the key it was still meaningless dribble.”
“And now?” the Pontiff asked.
“And now communication between our papal nuncios is an open book,” replied Sindona.
Stato steeled himself and continued, “Holy Father, Monsignore Scarlotti was an agente dippio (double agent)! I recommend that strict protocols of counter-intelligence security be instituted at once.” He slid his analysis across the Pontiff’s desktop.
Sindona sat in silence, letting the words of the youthful Commander twist in the air like a corpse on the gallows.
The Slavic Pope placed a hand on the document without reading it, even glancing at it.
A smirk of apparent satisfaction washed over Cardinal Sindona’s face. He turned to Stato, his eyes trying to bore into his. But Stato’s eyes were fixated on the Pope’s expression, trying to desperately decipher the message hidden behind that pallid face.
“I agree with your assessment fully, Commander.” A slight twinkle came to the Pope’s eyes as he said it. “I wish to expand your duties, your responsibility. You shall immediately assume command of the Vigilanza , the Swiss Guard, and all intelligence matters.”
Commander Stato swallowed audibly.
The Slavic Pope turned to Cardinal Sindona. The cardinal met the steady-eyed, innocent gaze of the Pope as best he could as the Pope asked, “Don’t you agree, Eminenza ?”
“Yes, Your Holiness. My thoughts exactly!”
“ Grazie, Eminenza .” Now, turning his attention to Stato again, the Pope said, “However, first I have a mission for you that must be conducted with aplomb and the utmost discretion.
“Do you have a protégée to serve in your stead during your absence?”
“During my absence, Holy Father? I mean . . . of course, but where—”
“The hounds of the Lord, Domini Canes , will brief you.”
“Did you say the hounds of—?”
The opening of the study door interrupted Stato’s words. The Master-General of the Dominicans, Father Damien Spears, entered. He could have been a Teutonic Knight for his German bloodlines had produced a giant. At over six foot five and weighing in at almost three hundred pounds, he looked like he could have eaten the Dallas Cowboys’ front four as a snack along with a case of Wiener schnitzel, a bushel of sauerkraut, several pounds of spaetzle, and two barrels of beer.
But dressed in his cream-colored robes of the Dominican Order, he more resembled a strudel pastry covered in mounds of whipped cream. His ruddy complexion and flame-red hair served as the cherry topping. As he rushed to take a seat, rivulets of perspiration poured off his forehead.
Silence.
His Holiness folded his hands on the desktop, drew a deep breath and spoke: “What we are about to discuss will never be repeated beyond the confines of this room.” His eyes panned to each one in turn. “Is that fully understood?” They signaled their agreement with a simple nod.
The Pope continued, “Commander Stato, your assessment is only half correct.” Stato perked his ears at the rebuke. “Yes, Monsignore Scarlotti was a double agent. More correctly an agent provocateur who had been assigned by the Holy Office to infiltrate and report directly to me.” Stato’s mouth gaped in awe. “And yes, the Church has been infiltrated, but by a far more dangerous enemy than any governmental intelligence service.”
Stato’s eyes searched the Pope’s, and then turned to the Master-General, whose eyes only telegraphed agreement. Returning his gaze to the Pope, he said, “Forgive me, Holy Father . . . but I don’t understand?”
“You shall, my son. I speak of Protocollo Diciassette (P-17). ”
“But Your Holiness, they were disbanded, run to ground by the reform government.”
“Are you so sure of this? Is not a snake who sheds his skin still a snake? Does it not lay in wait beneath the rocks, cloaked in shadow, coiled to strike again? The heresy has borne many names: Gnosticism, Humanism, the enlightenment of the Illuminati through pure reason, placing science above God. The rejection of nation state and sovereignty. The rejection of all the organized religions of the world. The rejection of God’s commandments. The belief that your own will surpasses that of the creator. And by harnessing its energy you can align yourself with the ‘force behind the forces.’ The creation of a New World Order. The crusades, the Inquisition may in retrospect seem ruthless, but the Adversary is equally ruthless.”
Stato met the Pope’s eyes and, with a note of apology said, “Of course, one hears the rumors. One hears of cabals of intrigue, tentacles of international conspiracy slithering through banking, industry, Rosicrucian Masonry and even the Holy See. The Bohemian Grove convocation inCalifornia . Satanic Ritual Abuse conducted by members of the clergy. But Your Holiness, these are only—”
Master-General Spears’s towering frame rose from his chair. “Your Holiness, if I may?” The Pontiff nodded his approval. Like an enraged spirit, the gargantuan white-robed Dominican loomed over Stato. “As the Americans say ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’ An all consuming fire threatens the very walls of this Church and its tongues of flame lick at the hearts and souls of the clergy and the laity alike.” Father Spears’s eyes bristled, punctuating each word with a razor-edged glare. “Are you familiar with the terms ‘THE PROCESS,’ ‘THE ENTHRONEMENT,’ and ‘THE AVAILING TIME’?”
Stato’s flesh crawled with the pronunciation of each word, each syllable. An unreasonable fear slithered in his stomach. He had read and heard these terms in his study of comparative religions and theology at the tutelage of his uncle,Professore Georges Monti. He had even considered joining the priesthood in his youth. THE PROCESS being a Luciferean concept of the plan for the domination of this world by the “force behind the forces,” Colin Wilson’s “Faculty X,” and Elephas Lévi’s demonic Astral Light. The inverse god of Péladan’s ceremonial magical system “erotic Catholicism-cum-magick” and Abbe’ Ordinaire’s dark god of the perverted fidele d’amore who stalked the seminary and convent of St. Sulpice inParis. The red serpent god, Le serpent rouge , of the Rennes-le-Château ofLanguedoc,France. The consort of the Hindus’ murderess—Goddess Kali—with her necklace of skulls andCrowley’s red-headed whore ofBabylon. The Great Architect of the Universe of Masonry’s OTO (Ordo Templi Orientis), The Golden Rosy Cross, and Cagliostro’s the Rite of Memphis founded in Venezia in the 1700’s. The All-seeing, un blinking eye atop the pyramid. None other than: ‘Pleased to meet ya, hope you can guess my name’—Shaitan . . . Lucifer . . . The Devil.
Stato stared vacantly into space, digesting the implications.
Master-General Spears gave him a moment to reflect before he spoke. “I can see by your reaction that you are indeed familiar with these terms.”
“But surely not ‘THE ENTHRONEMENT!’ No! This can’t be true. The Anti-Christ cannot be seated on the throne of God!” Tears began to crowd Stato’s eyes and track down his cheeks as he said it, soon replaced by creases of anger. But he still maintained a kind of patrician dignity.
“Yes, they held the ceremony beneath the basilica, in the crypt of St. Peter’s, the site of an ancient Roman cemetery, and what remains of the Circus of Nero.”
Stato had toured the sub-basement. In his mind’s eye, he saw the long corridor that sloped down toward theTiber . He saw the assortment of crypts, the statue of the Black Madonna; he smelled the dank odor, felt the weeping rock beneath his fingertips.
The Master-General’s booming voice jolted him back to the present. “Here,” he said as he proffered a parchment to Stato. “See for yourself.”
Cardinal Secretary of State Sindona adjusted his skullcap and clutched his ornamented crucifix. His face was flaming as red as his sash.
With trembling hands Stato took the parchment. Emblazoned across the top were the words Protocollo Diciassette (P-17) flanked by inverted crosses; a white dove soared downward beneath the title. And beneath it the signatures of numerous high-ranking cardinals of the Holy See. Stato’s eyes burned with indignation as they traveled down the list of names: Archbishop Agrippa, former head of the Vatican Bank; and at the very bottom, in a wide looping scrawl—Cardinal Sindona.
Cardinal Sindona’s eyes locked on Father Spears, staring him down like a hungry pit bull. Without warning he leaped across the desk. His arms flailing, he grabbed for the Slavic Pope, his wart-stippled hands clawing at the Pontiff’s throat. He panted like a bitch in heat. His purple-stained face contorted in madness as he screamed strings of obscenities.
Father Spears’s spatula-sized hands seized the mad dog, plucking him off the Pope and hurtling him to floor. Just as the mongrel cardinal rose to launch a second attack, Stato was on him. Beretta in hand, he rammed the pistol’s muzzle beneath his chin. The cardinal’s eyes reeked not of terror but undiluted hatred. Hearing the commotion, two Swiss Guardsmen, replete in their Michelangelo-designed striped jump suits, burst through the door wielding halberds, vicious-looking, long-handled axes made originally for infantrymen to unhorse armored knights. Savage weapons made to crack you open like a lobster. Made to dismember.
Stato quickly concealed his Beretta, jamming it into the small of Cardinal Sindona’s back. “Just give me an excuse, you pig,” he whispered into Sindona’s ear.
Father Damien Spears, bear-like, giant of a man that he was, now stood at the Pope’s side behind the desk. A picture of demure demeanor, there was a gentle concern in his manner and expression as he tended to the Holy Father. He dismissed the Swiss Guard with a wave of his large ham of a hand. The Holy Father nodded his acquiescence.
The door closed with the quiet slip of wood on wood.
Stato threw Cardinal Sindona into a high-backed chair and bound his hands to the arms of the chair.
A soft light poured through a forest of crossbars on the windowpanes, dappling the Pope’s cheeks in a penumbra of tear-like shadows. Stato was struck by the supernal effect of the phantom teardrops. However, in contrast, only a resolute strength, a vitality, seemed to corona the Holy Father’s gossamer, white vestments as he sat in profile bathed in light.
The Pope rose slowly on rubbery legs and began to move toward a side door. He turned to Sindona. “Christ is no longer honored in the tabernacle. You have replaced him with debauchery and avarice, but the true body of Christ; The Mystical Body of Christ lives on. It lives on in the faith of the multitudes who live their meager lives in quiet desperation, sometimes under the boot of tyranny, but they have hope, they have faith. It lives on in the eyes of a child who glows with innocence and love. It lives on in the faces of a few valiant men and women who fight the good fight, sometimes against overwhelming odds. Who stand tall in the light of day, sure in their convictions. Who do not cower in the shadows of secrecy, plotting and coveting. Men and women who reject the Prince of Lies and live by Christ’s seminal words ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ They sacrifice, endure ridicule and hardship, but they do not falter, they do not surrender.”
Sindona struggled in his chair, fighting against his bonds.
The Pope’s gentle eyes fell upon him. “You have fettered more than your limbs, Eminenza. You have bound your soul with the machinations of the Left Hand Path. But it’s never too late.
Do you wish to renew your baptismal vows, your Holy Ordination, and reject Satan?”
Sindona’s face twisted into a sardonic grin as he cursed.
The Pontiff’s face became leaden with sorrow. “Stato, learn what you can from him.”
“Yes, Your Holiness. With pleasure,” Stato answered.
The Holy Father’s brow creased with pain. “You must travel toTurinto La Cattedrale Di San John il Battista . Secure the Shroud of Turin from its custodian Cardinal Saldarini and bring it here immediately.”
“As you wish, Your Holiness,” Stato said.
Raising his hand in the traditional papal blessing, ring and pinky fingers curved against the inner palm, index and middle fingers extended, thumb hooked inward, the Pope blessed Stato.
A radiant light streamed through the Palladian windows washing across the Pope’s extended hand and cast a shadow image upon the wall, a hovering, smoke-like portent. The diabolical inverse. The horned head of Satan.

 
 
CHAPTER 19
 
 I:Chicago —The Plan
  
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, at the safe house, Sam awoke, blurry-eyed and confused.
“Well, hello there.”
Sam turned his head, searching for the person who had spoken. But his vision blurred again, and a dull pain pulsed in his temples. A haze of white, blinding light and a distorted face were all he could make out.
The voice belonged to Dr. Gottlieb, a local physician and Sayan (volunteer) inIsrael ’s service. His was a thin, dour-faced man, about sixty, with thick licorice-black hair combed straight back from his lined forehead and face. Crow’s-feet extended from the corners of his plum-dark eyes, eyes that radiated compassion.
Sam’s vision cleared. Beseechingly, he looked up at the man before him.
“I am Dr. Gottlieb, Mr. Goldstein.”
Sam tried to speak, but his throat was parch-dry.
“How do you feel, Sam?”
Now another voice spoke. It was Josey’s voice: soothing and warm. He blinked, but when he shook his head to clear the cobwebs, pain clawed at the base of his skull.
His eyes ticked left to Josey seated next to the doctor. She reached out and held Sam’s hand. Nodding her head, she signaled that he should not try to speak.
Dr. Gottlieb said, “If you’re up to it, we need to talk.”
Icy shadows sifted down around Sam. He knew that what he was about to hear would be incredible, if not terrifying.
It waseight o’clockby the time Dr. Gottlieb had finished briefing Sam on the complexities and peculiarities of his medical condition. By taking into account the information gleaned from Josey’s electronic eavesdropping, just before The Other’s attack, namely the HEMP Project, and combining it with his own examination of Sam, he had reached a hypothesis. Sam had been used as a human guinea pig. He hadn’t just been drugged and hypnotized. The tiny scabs that dotted his scalp were most likely micro-filament implants. A diabolical grid-work.
Sam looked over Josey’s shoulder to the window. The night’s dark countenance pressed inward, silently shouting admonitions of danger. Fear scythed downward toward him like a giant falcon, its hungry talons poised to snatch the last fleeting thoughts of hope and reason.
Sam turned to Dr. Gottlieb. “What’s my prognosis, Doc?” His voice was laced with a slight tremor.
The doctor paused, took a deep breath and said, “You have to understand that most of this is conjecture, young man. Without a full MRI and CAT scan, I’m working in the dark here. I have no way of making a completely accurate diagnosis, nor could I speculate on the complications of the introduction of these foreign bodies into your brain. You see—”
Sam cut him off. “Can’t you just remove these damn things?”
“No, it would be a very complicated procedure. Only a highly skilled neurosurgeon would even attempt it.”
“But—!”
“No buts, Mr. Goldstein. It could kill you!”
Sam’s eyes slid back to Josey. Tears began to crowd his stare.
She held his gaze, squeezed his hand tightly. Economically and precisely as she had been taught to do during her Mossad training, Josey related most of what she now knew of the HEMP Project and the death of her father—the book—and finally the attack upon herself and Uri in the van. Josey continued: “Sam, I think your brother can help us. He was my father’s understudy, and may have a deeper insight into the metaphysical aspect of what’s going on here.” Even as she said it, she could hardly believe these were her words. But she had begun to believe in her father’s work.
Sam met Josey’s eyes. “I’d prefer to leave Jacob out of it!” He gulped hard. “I don’t want to put him in harm’s way.”
Josey weighed her words, and then spoke: “We may have no choice. But why don’t we leave that up to him?”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking,” Sam said, “and . . . well, maybe your right. I’ve seen and heard things that would have seemed entirely impossible just forty-eight hours ago.” Sam studied his hands, as if he was a fortune-teller searching for an answer in the lines of his palms.
Josey gave him a moment before she continued. “What things, Sam? We’ve shared with you, but now it’s your turn.”
Sam nodded, bit his lower lip. He related the strange hallucinatory images of his father and wife, what he knew of Dr. Ordinaire or Doc Felix as Matt had called him. He told of the hypnotic trigger effect of the dissonant “Umm-Dap” sound, and how he’d overcome it with Matt’s help. He told of Susan’sprogrammed behavior, of Matt’s history and the escape. As he continued, his head swam. He felt weak. Then pausing briefly, he related the appearance of Virgil— The Other —in the form of a giant Harpy, and Susan’s and Matt’s disappearance. Sam half-expected them to fit him for a straightjacket right then and there. But they didn’t, of course. The solemn look in their eyes signaled that they somehow knew he spoke the truth. And for a moment, their separate silences hushed the room.
Dr. Gottlieb said, “Mr. Goldstein, I’d like to try a little experiment if you’re up to it?”
“Sure. Why not? What do you want the bionic brain to do?” Sam half-chuckled.
The doctor removed a pen from his pocket, placed it on the bedside table next to Sam. “I want you to concentrate on the pen.” Sam nodded in agreement. “Now, I want you to move it with your mind, your will,” the doctor said.
For a moment, Sam shot a half-bewildered look at the doctor, then Josey. Josey said, “Go ahead, Sam. Give it a try.”
Sam turned toward the pen, his eyebrows knitted together in deep concentration. At first nothing happened; then the pen began to jitter, and then shake. It shook harder, faster. Violently. Suddenly it flew across the room and ricocheted off the wall. Sam collapsed back onto his pillow. He squeezed his eyes tightly together. And now a spasm shook his body almost as violently as the pen moments before.
Dr. Gottlieb stroked his chin and rising, he said, “He needs rest now. I have to leave to make my late rounds at the hospital. You have my cell number, if you need me just call.”
Josey accompanied the doctor out of the room.
Sam, alone with his thoughts now, looked to the window again, studying the breathing darkness that dwelt beyond the pane.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
WHEN SAM AWOKE at early morning and focused his eyes on the bright, white ceiling tiles, he knew that he was not in his apartment. Then it came to him, the safe house, Josey, everything. He sat up and looked about. Where was she? He heard the sweet tones of a female voice humming from behind the bathroom door on the far wall. It was Josey.
She emerged, her auburn hair wet and hanging loosely about her shoulders. She was wearing a terrycloth bathrobe that did not completely cover her breasts. Her long supple legs were tanned, her feet bare.
“Josey, I—” Sam stammered.
“Shhh,” she said, “don’t speak.” She moved toward him, and sat down on the bed at his side.
Words weren’t necessary. They both sensed the same longing, the same yearning deep in their core. Sam reached up gently, brushed a lock of hair from her eye, and pulled her toward him.
She didn’t resist, but fell into his arms.
And for a moment he just held her tenderly, not moving, not speaking. In that moment they were in a land beyond words.
They could have spoken of loss or grief, of their wants or desires, of their hopes and dreams. But it wasn’t the time, wasn’t necessary, for even if Sam could’ve read her mind, again it wasn’t necessary. The beating of her heart against his chest, her soft breath against his neck, spoke volumes. He was deeply aroused by the clean soapy fragrance of her skin and breasts, but was unable to transform thought and need into physical intimacy, not yet.
Sam struggled to rise. She pushed him down hard, straddled him. Her lips moved to his. Not a kiss, no probing, just resting on his. Their breath entwined now with each inhalation and exhalation. Souls conjoined. Then he kissed her, softly at first, her lips, her cheek, moving slowly up her neck to her earlobe. He nibbled. Explored her inner ear with his tongue. She shuddered, pushed back and rose, pulling her robe off her shoulders, her small but firm breasts exposed. Her nipples, gorged with blood, stood erect. She lowered them to his wet, waiting mouth. He licked, caressed them with a reverent passion.
As he reached upward and held them in his hands, he thought of Annie his late wife, his first love, the first woman he’d ever touched like this. But the name he called out now was Josey’s.
Her hand slowly slid down the side of his torso, to his hip, his inner thigh. His manhood surged against her hand. She moaned and pressed her pelvis against him, rocking in gentle rhythms. Then, he entered into the depths of her, and they cried out together, their breathless whispers and cries, piercing the silence.
Now she sought his rhythm, pulling him into her own, steering him towards heaven’s gate, towards rapture. They convulsed in unison as the backdoor to paradise was flung open.
And then it ended as it had begun, in hushed silence, a soft whimper, a lingering kiss. Her hair fanned across his face and chest, he breathed deeply, savoring her essence. She collapsed at his side; a sheen of perspiration filming her breasts and flat stomach. At first unfettered, now unshackled completely by love’s euphoric high, they drifted upward, the memory of their joy an invisible umbilical. How long they had lay like that, staring into one another’s searching eyes, or with only a dim light pressing memories of each other’s faces against the shell of their closed eyelids, they did not know. In this instant, in this moment, time no longer held sway over them.
She sighed and propped herself up on one elbow considering him. Reaching out, she ran her fingertip over one dew-stained eyebrow. It tickled and Sam flinched.
“You know,” she said, “we could go on doing this all day?”
“Forever,” he said. “Until the cows come home.”
“Or they jump over the moon.”
Sam sighed. “I’ve never known any woman who could enjoy it the way you do.” He lowered his head over her stomach, rubbing his nose back and forth across the angel hairs that ran up the center.
“Oh, how many have there been?”
“You mean women?” He blew lightly across her bellybutton.
“NO. Cows! Of course, women.” She gave his forehead a sharp tap with her fingertips. “Are you saying that I’m oversexed?”
“Well, no, but you’re certainly not undersexed.”
“Was Annie, that was her name right?”
“Yes, but you’re so—”
“So what, Sam? Intellectual?”
“No—”
“You saying I’m stupid?”
“No, I just—”
“So stunning, then?”
“No—”
“No?”
“I mean yes, but more than that. You’re so alive, filled with life, so vibrant . . . and well . . . such a smart-ass—”
She reached up and tugged his lip hard grabbing it between thumb and index finger, brought it to hers. That was all it took. The bell rang. Round two.
 
* * *
 
 III
  
IN THE KITCHEN, Sam and Josey sat at the table. Dr. Gottlieb topped off their coffee cups and placed the carafe on the yellow-checkered tablecloth between them. He pulled up a chair, lit his pipe, and folded his hands on his lap. “Tell me, Mr. Goldstein. Did you sleep well? Feeling more rested now are we?”
Sam shot Josey a sheepish grin and turned to the doctor.
“Yes, very well. But please, call me Sam.”
The doctor smiled, and winked at Josey. She blushed slightly. “Any dreams, Sam?”
“No—”
“Any recurrence of pain or well . . . unusual sights or sounds?
“No pain and no hallucinations, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Sam’s voice grew hard with these last words.
“Splendid—”
Dr. Gottlieb was interrupted by the opening of the kitchen’s back door. Schlomo, another Mossad agent, entered, nodding his head toward Josey. She returned his nod.
Schlomo’s head was shovel-shaped with a Neanderthal forehead; his complexion sickly, the color of dusting powder. His shoulders were wide as a railroad tie, and his towering frame seemed to almost brush the ceiling. With his hands the size of scoop shovels and his body slightly misshapen, Schlomo resembled a sideshow attraction. Sam blinked, and did a double take, half-expecting to see bolts protruding from the sides of the man’s neck: old zipper neck himself. He began to rise from his seat, but Josey placed a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.
“Sam, this is Schlomo. He’s one of ours.”
“Thank God,” Sam replied. “I’m certainly glad you’re on our side.”
Schlomo managed a weak grin, as if to do so was painful. Then he turned and shambled out the door.
Sam said, “Strong silent type I guess?”
“He’s—” Josey paused, “brought someone to see you, Sam.”
The door opened and behind the lumbering hulk—Jacob appeared in the doorway.
Sam and Jacob exchanged a look in which each could read the other’s thoughts as clearly as if the words had been spoken aloud. And in their mind’s eye, they saw one another not as grown men, but as young boys, with no walls, no preconceptions between them; just a youthful openness, a youthful honesty.
Sam stood, his heart pounding in his throat, his stomach knotting. Clearing his throat and raising his voice a notch, he said, “Jacob?”
A simple nod of the head, a slight tremor of the lower lip, served as Jacob’s reply. They embraced. And in that embrace they found a simple but universal truth: the love of brother for brother endures forever.
Whatever the reasons, whether it had been Jacob who was to blame or Sam, right here and now, it was of no importance. Because now only the fact that they were together again mattered. Nothing else.
Jacob pushed back and held Sam by the shoulders, studying him. A smile broke free from his heart.
“You know, Samuel, for a dead man you look . . . well, pretty good.”
Sam shook with silent laughter. “As the man once said, ‘the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’”
“Let us hope you live to be a hundred, but like a twenty-year-old.Oy Vey, Samuel. It’s truly so good to see you.”
“And Sophie, still as beautiful as ever?”
“Yes, but she was so upset at your funeral.”
“My funeral? They had a funeral?”
“What else would you expect? Don’t be such a nudge ! With honors and—”
“A pest! Excuse me, but it’s not every day I hear of my funeral from my long lost brother who—”
“ Halt din zoken (hold your socks), boys!” Josey’s voiceserved as referee as she rose from her chair. “You two haven’t spoken for what? Twelve years? I can see why, but we’ve got other priorities right now!”
Simultaneously, Sam and Jacob shrugged sheepishly.
“She’s right, Samuel. Forgive me, Ms. Schulman.” Jacob studied her face, searching for the right words. “I’m terribly sorry about your father’s death. If only I could have known, maybe if I had been more alert or—”
Josey cut him off. “You couldn’t have known, Rabbe. And if anyone should have been more alert, more cautious, it’s me.” The words cut deep, even now, as a sudden, vivid flashback—her father hanging in the elevator shaft—brought tears to the corners of her eyes.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Jacob said.
Josey blinked back her tears. “I don’t! I blame that little beast, Ordinaire, and his cronies, and I intend to avenge my father’s death, make that sick son-of-a-bitch suffer!” Her hands fisted at her sides.
Sam met her gaze with compassion and, in that instant, her temper cooled. He suggested they all take a seat as he introduced Dr. Gottlieb. Sam’s eyes panned their faces one by one. Lines of anger and anguish creased Jacob and Josey’s faces. In fact, their faces were set, unsmiling. However, Dr. Gottlieb appeared to be vigilant but calm. Schlomo, the gentle giant, stood in the corner of the kitchen, leaning against the countertop.
For a moment, Sam’s thoughts were muddled and blurred, not much more than spidery tracings etched on the watery surface of his violated memory and brain. Ebbing and flowing like the reflection of phantasmic tree branches on the surface of a pond.
But then he steeled himself and gradually his thoughts took on form and substance, shaping into words.
When Sam finally spoke, his voice was flat and measured.
“Let’s pool our resources, our knowledge, and compare notes.” He took a legal pad and pen from the center of the table. Across the top of the pad he scrawled a name. Dr. Felix
Ordinaire. And labeled two subheadings:
 
#
 
Background and Facts                 Possible Agenda
 
#

As he related the information he had gained for Jacob and Dr. Gottlieb’s benefit, he scribbled down his observations. Then he passed the notepad to Josey, and then to Dr. Gottlieb and Jacob, who did the same.
They came to an overwhelming consensus—Drs. Drexler and Ordinaire were part of an international cabal who called itself Protocol-17, and were responsible for deaths of at least a handful of people of which they had direct knowledge. Possibly even hundreds or thousands more. Possibly the Vice President. They also knew they possessed highly advanced and sophisticated techniques of mind control, and perhaps some sort of revolutionary satellite-based weapons system.
The incredulousness of the facts didn’t escape them. But their firsthand experiences reinforced their acceptance of the previously unacceptable.
Josey requested the floor. “I’ll send an encrypted report to The Institute via the Consulate here inChicago .”
“Think they’ll send in the Marines?” Sam asked.
“Hell, I don’t even know if they will believe a word of it. The background cables suggested a black ops form of psychic combat, but nothing like a giant fucking Harpy and cop who could deflect an eighteen-wheeler with his mind alone!”
They all exchanged thoughtful glances.
Sam said, “Maybe you should leave those parts out. Stick to the security ofIsrael and the free world type of angle. I still have no idea where they were holding me. Some sort of a secret base.”
Josey weighed her words. “It’s listed as an abandoned military base. And Drexler has a glass fortress adjacent to it. But you really don’t think we have any chance in trying to shut down that operation ourselves, do you, Sam?”
“Not a televangelist’s chance in Hell!” Sam answered.
Josey agreed, wrote a quick telex on the pad, ripped it off, and handed it to Schlomo. “I’ll deliver it,” he said in a thick, labored voice.
“No. Give it to one of the other men outside. We may need you right here,” Josey said in perfect Hebrew. As Schlomo plodded out the door, Jacob began to speak.
“If I may say a word here?”
“Please, Jacob. Go ahead.” Sam said.
“Very well then, before we go off half cooked—”
“That’s half cocked, Jacob,” Sam corrected him.
“Cooked, cocked, Sha shitel , Samuel! The important thing is this—”
The shrill ring of the telephone severed his words.
Like schoolboys caught in the john sneaking a smoke as the coach walked in, their eyes panned to the phone.
It rang again.
“Private line, Dr. Gottlieb?” Josey asked.
“Yes, only my case officer, Levine, has the number,” he replied.
The third ring.
No one moved.
“Don’t you call in on the hour?” she asked, checking her watch.
“Yes, I just called in not twenty minutes ago.”
The foreboding ringing sent chills down Sam’s spine.
His newfound abilities told him it wasn’t the case officer; it wasn’t dialing for dollars with a question about the Beatles’s White Album, giving away a free trip for two to thePoconos . None of the above.
Dr. Gottlieb stiffened, rose, and moved for the phone. Just as he did, Sam followed. He knew the call was for him.
A pale death-like rictus washed over Dr. Gottlieb’s face as he handed the phone to Sam who exchanged a questioning glance with Josey as he took the receiver.
A guttural, distorted, micro-chip-synthesized voice reverberated through the earpiece. Sam recognized it as a voice masking device.
“Officer Goldstein?”
“I’m here.”
“Listen very carefully.”
“Who the hell is this?”
“A friend. And if you value your friend’s lives . . . you’ll waste no more time.”
Then in hit Sam. Like an ice pick rammed through his nostril and into his brainpan, the flashback struck home. He was in the hallway with Matt and Susan, facing down the Storm Troopers. Dr. Ordinaire was saying something about his friends, Ryan and Sheila, being better party guests, something about butter brickle, about not remembering a thing . . . 
“ GOLDSTEIN! ” the Darth-Vader-like voice shouted through the earpiece, jolting Sam back to the present.
“If you harm one hair on their heads, so help me I’ll—”
“Who’s heads, Mr. Goldstein? Who’s heads?”the voice intoned.
“You know damn well, Sheila Riley and Sgt. Michael Ryan, you bastard!”
“I have no intention of harming them. Nor do I have them.”
“BULLSHIT!”
“Manners Mr. Goldstein, manners. Do you want to save them or not?”
Sam gathered his wits, cooled his temper.
“Where are they then?”
“The Drexler estate. Do you know what the date is, Mr. Goldstein?”
“The Drexler estate? The date? No but what’s that—”
“It’s April 30th—”
“So?”
“Ask your brother, the rabbi. Ask him what—Walpurgisnacht is.”
“How do you know—?”
Click.
The vapid hum of the dial tone was his answer.
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
A PINK-KNUCKLED, STUBBY little hand flicked off the voice-masking program and cradled the phone. As he sat at his desk in a nondescript office just around the corner from theFederalBuilding onDearborn St. inChicago , Special Agent in Charge, Peter Manwich, reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a Snickers candy bar, his tenth today. His underling, Agent Kyle, flashed a toothy grin and signaled that his boss had something lodged between his teeth by pointing to his own teeth with his index finger. Manwich nodded, pried open a paper clip, and proceeded to perform a little dental hygiene. Then he reached for a can of Coke, his twelfth today, and struggled to pull the tab. Failing, he handed it to Kyle.
“You think it’s smart to use them to do our dirty work?” Kyle asked as he popped the ring and handed the can to Manwich.
Manwich took a long hit and belched. “Jesus, you’rekillin ’ me!”
“Sorry, boss, just want to learn from the master is all.”
“No. Not you, idiot. The Coke. My gut’s actin’ up again, feels like I gottaschoolofPiranha swimmin’ around in there.”
“Maybe you should—”
Ignoring him, Manwich continued, “Yup, watch and learn, boy. Word’s come down from the top that ol’ Doc Felix’s time is up. Time to pull the plug on the operation here. We’ll close up shop and move onto the alternate site.”
“But I thought we needed Ordinaire?”
“Nope, found a replacement.”
“Who?”
“You don’t need to know, Mr. Kyle.”
“So we discredit Ordinaire, pull out, and wash our hands of him.”
“Bingo! That’s it. He’s about as useless to us now as my uncle’s collection of Bobby Vinton eight-track tapes.” Manwich swallowed a handful of Tums and chugged the last of his Coke.
“But what if they don’t get there in time to save the cop and his girlfriend?”
“Good question, Kyle. But I gotta better one for ya.
What if Michael Jackson, Osama Bin Laden, and Richard Simmons were all lost at sea?”
“I don’t think anyone would give a damn, boss.”
“Exactly my point!”

 
 
CHAPTER 20
 
 I: The Puppet Master
  
ACCORDING TO MS. Richman in the Lake County Tax Assessor’s office (who Sam had called pretending to be an interested real-estate attorney) Drexler owned a sprawling ten-acre estate in westernLake Forest,IL . And it hadn’t surprised Sam one bit when he discovered that Drexler’s home base was at the epicenter of a series of disappearances and murders in the far northeast suburbs.
He’d pulled a list of abductions that resulted in homicides, reported gang rapes, and disappearances, offCPD’s database by tapping into their computer with Josey’s laptop at the safe house, using Ryan’s password. After plotting out the locations of the reported crimes on a pin map, a pattern began to form. An unbelievable pattern. By connecting the groupings of pins with lines drawn with a red-tipped marker, a star pattern slowly emerged. An inverted star, a Pentagram. Doing a quick Internet search confirmed his suspicions: it was the seal of Bhaphomet, the horned one, the goat-headed god himself—Satan.
Josey took it one step further. She ran the dates of the abductions through a computerized cross check program and found that they all had occurred within a window of time corresponding with Roman Catholic Holy Days of obligation. But they were actually more closely in alignment with pagan High Ritual dates: Imbolic, falling on February, 2; Samhain, falling on October, 31st; and Beltane, or Walpurgisnacht , falling on April 30th . . . that very night. Night of the demons.
 
* * *
 
 II
  
SAM DROVE WITH Josey beside him, Jacob and Schlomo in the back. All but Jacob were armed; outfitted with Uzis stored in the trunk and sidearms from Josey’s cache hidden at the safe house. Jacob had refused the weapon, but acquiesced when it came to donning body armor like the rest. Sam had reminded him that it was not proper to “tempt the Lord.” But knowing that they were probably outnumbered twenty to one, they were counting on guile and chutzpah, not firepower, to save Ryan and Sheila.
They rode in silence, each of them sunk deep in their own thoughts. Covertly, Josey studied her companion’s faces. She wondered if the same dark thoughts, thoughts like daggers tipped with the poison of anger, revulsion, and hatred stabbed at their psyche, their hearts.
And for what seemed to be the umpteenth time in the last few hours, Josey found herself thinking of Sam. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself the luxury of love, of truly caring for a man. But suddenly in the midst of this sorrow and nightmare, there he was. A soul mate, somebody to grow old with?
Tateh would’ve liked this man. This damn wisecracking sonofabitch of a man who had gotten to her. But then it hit her. Tateh’s favorite expression: “go flap your ears!” No, bullshit!Get a grip. You’ll both be lucky to come out of this alive , she thought.
The night sky was clear and star-spattered. Once outside the city limits, they made good time. A turn off the main thoroughfare finally brought them to a deserted county road.
No other vehicles were in sight. Silence and darkness reigned as they steadily closed on their destination.
Twenty minutes beforemidnight , before the showdown, Sam steered their car onto an isolated, shadow-cloaked road in the midst of a heavily wooded area. It was little more than a narrow, graveled fire trail disappearing into the mouth of the forest. Killing the headlights, Sam slowed to a crawl. About a hundred yards ahead an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with razor-edged concertina wire, glimmered in the moonlight like ragged cross-stitching sewn into the fabric of the night.
The howl of a dog cut the air as they quietly climbed from the car. “ The Child-ranov da night ,” Sam said in aBelaLugosi accent as he pointed to the tree line with an exaggerated wave of his hand.
From the cover of the wood’s velvety darkness a deep voice whispered, “Knock it off, Goldstein! What are ya, a wise-ass ghost? You’re supposed to be dead!”
Sam turned, the semi-auto ready in his right hand.
A tall figure coalesced out of the darkness. It was Tom Stokes, his spindly legs and bad knees knocking together, clattering like a belly dancer’s castanets during the dance of the veils.
“Hey, put that thing down will ya?” Stokes said. “I’m on your side remember?” Sam lowered the pistol. Shaking his head, he chortled, “As I live and breathe, you scared the shitoutta me, Tom. And what the hell . . . I mean how the hell—”
Stokes’s broad grin was barely visible in the moon-driven darkness.
“I’m here because I must have a hole in my head the size of theRosemontHorizonCenter . Besides, who the hell else would help your sorry ass—” Before Stokes could continue, two giant arms grabbed him from behind in a bear hug. It was Schlomo who despite his size had crept up behind Stokes with the silken stealth of a Panther.
Sam said, “Easy bigfella , he’s a cop.”
Schlomo’s eyes darted to Josey, searching for an answer. She nodded and in a second, Schlomo’s tree-trunk-sized arms released Stokes, who collapsed to the ground gasping for air.
Schlomo stepped back and grunted, “Sorry?”
Rising to his feet on shaky legs and surveying the giant hulk, Tom said, “Damn, King Kong lives.”
Sam moved to Tom’s side and asked, “You still haven’t explained how you knew we were here?”
Stokes’s eyes ticked back to Sam. “Somebody doing a really bad impersonation of Darth Vader called and tipped me off. Told me Ryan and Sheila were chopped liver. You think this could be a setup? And who’s the girl?”
Josey’s glare could have freeze-dried Stokes’s short hairs.
Sam made introductions, gave Stokes a quick rundown and waited for his reaction.
Stokes’s eyes widened. “The fuckin’ Mossad?” He turned a sheepish glance toward Josey and Jacob. “Sorry, ma’am, ah-h . . . Rabbe. This is all comin’ a little fast down the shoot for me. But Sam, the important thing is, if Ryan’s got his ass jammed up we better get moving.”
“Don’t apologize to her, Tom. She’s tough as nails, killer instinct, secret agent stuff and all ya know?” Sam said.
Josey’s eyes narrowed to slits and met Sam’s. Her long auburn hair had fallen across her face, and she glared through it, like a lioness peering through its wind-tossed mane. She released her gaze and turned, quietly opened the trunk and began to issue the submachine guns and Kevlar-lined tactical vests. Then she quickly issued flash-bang grenades, clipped them to their vests and instructed them in their use. Jacob struggled with his vest, trying to pull it over his hat, and then finally threw the hat to the ground in desperation. Sam helped him into his vest. They moved closer to the fence line. The mansion stood about a hundred yards away, floodlit and white against a black backdrop of night and sky. Closer was a row of outbuildings: servants’ quarters and an enormous garage. Across the meadow before them drifted the muffled sounds of faint music, voices.
Sam turned to Josey. “Sounds like a party. Place is probably crawlin’ with guards. Did anyone remember to bring our invitations?”
Josey raised her weapon. “I’ve got mine.” Jacob clutched what appeared to be his prayer book in mock agreement. Schlomo cracked his knuckles. Sam just shook his head.
“All right you snot-nosed brats—that’s enough. Remember I out rank you all,” Stokes barked.
“Since when?” Sam protested.
“It’s Major Stokes—Airborne Rangers, three tours inNam , smart guy!”
Sam saluted. Schlomo rolled his eyes, a Lerch-like moan passed from his lips.
Stokes took a deep breath. “Now, what we need to do is just like we did inNam . Stealth, boys and girls.” Stokes pulled a garrote from his pant’s pocket, yanked it taut, and twisted it around the neck of an imaginary victim. “Snap their windpipes so fast you won’t hear a peep!” he said.
Josey couldn’t help but smile. She spun Sam around, drew her combat knife scabbard in her vest, wrapped her forearm around Sam’s head, and drew the blade across his throat just within inches of his skin. Then she released him and shoved him forward. “You mean like that, Major Stokes?”
“Yeah, that’s the ticket, girl.” Stokes looked at Sam who was still rubbing his throat, and belly-laughed. “Okay, let’s get the lead out!”
Schlomo ripped the chain-link fence from its fasteners and peeled it back as though it were made of tinfoil. They set out toward the mansion. They fanned out with Jacob bringing up the rear, tripping and stumbling as he went.
Once reaching the rear of the garage, Sam and Jacob crouched in shadows, while Josey, Schlomo, and Stokes set out to inflict some damage on the guard-force sentries and conduct reconnaissance, or recon as the Stokes had called it. Sam had protested, but one look at his brother Jacob, alone and terrified in the nightshade, had apparently convinced him to cover their rear. As she left, Josey quickly turned and gave Sam a quick peck on the cheek—then a stinging slap on the ass. Sam just stared as her form coalesced into the blackness.
Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes. Where the hell are they? Sam began to fidget while Jacob, eyes closed tightly, began to pray. His lips mouthing soft intonations of words Sam had long forgotten, words which now seemed to reappear like phantoms from childhood’s playground walking the night.
Suddenly, sirens shredded the air. And the reports of gunfire punctuated their wailing cries. Dozens of small arms fire snapped the air around Sam’s head. He grabbed for Jacob, pushing him to the ground, shielding him with his body. He struggled to turn to one side just in time to see two figures approaching fast, muzzles blazing. Sam rolled hard to his right, raised his Uzi, and fired two bursts.
“Gevalt! I think you got them, Sam.” Sam turned to see Jacob on his hands and knees, straining to see into the night before them.
Jacob began to rise, but Sam pulled him down hard.
“Stay down, Jacob. For Jezzus’s, sake!”
“Now, just because we aren’t Christians, there is no call for that kind of—”
Sam cut him off. Another burst of automatic weapons fire tattooed the night. Grabbing Jacob by the arm, Sam pulled him in the direction of the gunfire. An explosion echoed as fire grew visible, glowing against the night sky. As they rounded the corner of the garage, Sam saw them. Josey and Stokes were pinned down behind two Range Rovers parked nose-to-nose in the mansion’s center courtyard, rounds pounded the ground around them and stitched the sides of the vehicle. One of the Range Rovers was awash in flames. Schlomo was nowhere to be seen. Sam looked up and saw muzzle flashes spurting from along the roofline of the mansion.
“Fuck, we’ve gotta get ‘emoutta there, and fast. That other vehicle could go any second! And they’ve cut off our path to the front door,” Sam said, turning back over his shoulder toward Jacob. But Jacob was gone.
Sam looked left, then right, still no Jacob. His eyes darted back to the vehicles as another fusillade of rounds stenciled the hood of the Range Rover with their signature just as Josey rose to return fire. Sam moved the selector switch on his Uzi to single fire, targeted on the muzzle flashes stuttering from the rooftop, and squeezed the trigger. A body toppled from the roof, falling like a lead weight to the ground.
One down, God knows how many more to go.
But just as he began to sight in on the next target, he heard a loud rumbling from within the garage. Then the roar of an engine charging to life. A crash. Sam peered around the corner of the garage’s wall and saw a large black Hummer catapult through the doors of the garage and into the courtyard. Its headlights lancing the night, the Hummer landed hard and careened forward ramming the blazing Range Rover broadside, shoving it yards from the other vehicle and finally forcing it to topple on its side. Clouds of dust streamed into the air engulfing the Hummer like a dust devil.
Its gears grinding, rear tires smoking on the pavement, the Hummer lurched backward away from the inferno. It spun to a halt, giving cover to Sam’s trapped cohorts.
In the same instant, Stokes rose, popped the spoon, and hurled a grenade high into the air.
KaaBamm!!
The concussion of the flash bang tore through Sam’s ears.
He shook his head hard and tore off in a low crouch toward the Hummer, firing upward as he ran. Josey sprang up, laying a cover fire of hot lead across the rooftop. From the corner of his eye, Sam could see Stokes raise his weapon, joining Josey in a duet of lethal death song, as he shouted: “Take that, you fuckin’ sick bastards!”
As Sam slammed into the side of the Hummer, wheezing hard, lungs flaming, he looked up to see the driver-side door fly open. Jacob tumbled out, head first, and sprawled at his feet. Then he rolled onto his back, rubbed his head to dust off the shards of glass from the Hummer’s windshield that powdered his hair, and looked up. A broad grin filled his face. “Samuel, how do they say it in the movies? Yippy Yi Yo, Yippy Ki Yea—MutthaFucker!”
Sam crawled to Jacob’s side, gave him a noogie and said, “That’s how they say it, all right.”
A hail of return fire from the rooftop forced Josey and Mad Major Stokes to crouch for cover behind the Range Rover.
“Thought you’d never get here, Sam,” Stokes shouted through the roar of flames and gunfire.
“Took a wrong turnatAlbuquerque, I guess.”
Stokes wiped his sweat-drenched forehead with the back of his hand and shouted, “Damn wise-ass! If it wasn’t for Ryan, why I’d—”
Rounds whizzed overhead cutting him off. The tart taste of cordite filled Sam’s nostrils and clung to the back of his throat. He spat on the ground at Tom’s feet.
“So this is what you call a stealth recon, Tom?” Sam jeered.
Stokes answered with a shrug of his shoulders.
Josey asked Sam, “Have you seen Schlomo?”
He looked hard into her eyes and shook his head. Then Sam crawled to Josey’s side. Her chest heaving, gasping for air, her face was streaked with smoke black and sweat. Shards of glass had lacerated Josey’s cheek, slightly welling her face and collar with blood.
“Damn, Josey, you’re hit!” Sam rasped.
“No, Sam, it’s okay. Just a cut,” Josey said as she brushed her cheek with the sleeve of her shirt. “It looks worse than it is.” Sam curled his fingers around his shirt cuff and gently dabbed her cheek. He held her chin, looked into her eyes, and kissed her hard on the mouth.
“If you love birds are through, I’d like to remind you we’re in the middle of a Gawddamn firefight here!” Strokes growled, his voice bellowing between bursts of automatic weapons fire.
Josey straightened and pulled two grenades from her vest; Sam and Stokes mimicked her move. Crouching together, their jaws grinding, causing their facial muscles to ripple, they pulled the spoons, rose, and hurdled the grenades in unison.
The explosion was deafening, a white blast devoured the blackness. Sprinting toward the front door with Jacob in tow and firing from the hip, they reached the cover of the vestibule.
Sam’s eyes panned upward. A hideous gargoyle loomed from the apex of the doorway. Jacob made a gesture, warding off the evil eye. Josey nodded toward the door. She reached out and pushed; it was unlocked. Josey and Stokes scrambled through the door first, taking up positions on either side of the huge marble-tiled foyer, on bended knee, weapons ready.
“Damn, it’s huge! Must be a hundred rooms,” Stokes said, a note of defeat in his voice.
Sam entered with Jacob. As they crouched at Josey’s side, Sam cocked his head to one side, as if straining to hear something. He bolted to his feet and ran. Glancing back over his shoulder, he shouted, “C’mon! Follow me. I know where they are!”
His comrades exchanged bewildered looks, and then dashed after him. Gunfire sounded close behind them as they pursued Sam deeper and deeper into the bowels of the mansion. In the distance they heard the faint, incongruous sounds of laughter and music. They ran on, the echoes of their footfalls now the only sound. When they finally caught up with Sam, he was standing motionless in the center of a huge ballroom. An empty ballroom, still laced with the scent of perfume, and the warmth of body heat as if the room had been occupied just moments before. And beneath their feet the parquet floor was decorated with intricate, inlaid patterns. The room was circular, surrounded on all sides by mirrors. At the far end stood a carousel, silent and still, with brightly enameled stallions suspended in midplunge, impaled on golden poles, faces frozen in time. Rows and rows of dimmed bulbs covered its canopy; the horses’ sightless eyes stared vacantly.
They stood in the center, backs to each other, drowning in their own fathom-deep reflections. A myriad of mirrored images encircled them, leering back with their cold winter gaze.
Still short of breath, her chest rippling, Josey said, “Sam, is this your sixth-sense kicking in or have you cracked up?”
Sam didn’t answer at first. He gazed about the carnival-like ballroom, searching his twin reflection’s eyes for an answer. But before he could answer . . .
The carousel came to life.
The calliope steamed a dissonant tune.
The bulbs blinked bright.
The surrounding wall of silver and gray began to slowly revolve counterclockwise. As if bowing to its dance partner of glass, the floor beneath them shuddered and creaked, slowly shifted, then lurched. Their legs counterbalanced as the floor began to turn clockwise; first the section of flooring forming a radius of about fifteen feet immediately around them, then another circular segment began to turn and another and another . . .
Fear and confusion darkened their faces. They braced themselves for what uncertainty awaited them.
The calliope droned on and on.
Its shrill rasping notes grew louder and louder.
A look of understanding, determination, suddenly flooded Sam’s face. He pivoted toward the far wall, raised the Uzi, and let loose with a barrage of lead. First the mirrored wall splinted, and then exploded in a glimmering curtain that rained down upon the ballroom floor.
A few shards of jagged glass remained around the edges of the wall resembling the vicious teeth of some silvery-scaled reptile.
Paralyzed momentarily by confusion, Josey stood staring in awe at Sam. The floor still revolving, Jacob and Stokes crab-walked slowly toward Sam’s side.
Sam pointed to the left side of the mirror’s gaping maw. “See there, a hydraulic mechanism to swing open a section of the wall.”
Stokes’s jaw dropped wide and his eyes blinked as if slapped. “Well I’ll be damned, it’s a secret passageway. But how the blazes did you know it was there?”
“Good instincts, good Intel. We had the blueprints, Major Tom,” Josey lied to cover her awareness of Sam’s increasing physic abilities.
“Blueprints my ass—”
Sam cut him short, “Let’s move!”
Tom was about to reply, but he never got the chance. Josey and Sam leaped through the looking glass and into Wonderland.
 
* * *
 
 III
  
ONCE INSIDE THE secret passageway, they stopped short. A stairway loomed before them: narrow stone-hewn steps spiraled downward. Seemingly bottomless. Single file they carefully navigated the winding stairway, guns at the ready, red-lens-covered flashlights cutting pendulous arcs through the blackness. The walls wept with moisture and felt scaly—crystalline—to the touch almost rippling like a pupae in the process of metamorphosis. The air was stale, so thick it became hard to breathe. And from below, rising from the yawning center of spiral staircase, came a fiery glow.
At the bottom of the staircase, they encountered a huge archway. The spandrel of the arch was carved with intricate designs and at the apex were words that Jacob recognized as Latin:
“ Terriibilisestlocusiste .” 
Jacob shuddered slightly as he translated. “This is a terrible place. From the book of Genesis (28:17) to be exact.”
They all exchanged fearful glances.
Jacob continued: “And see there around the edges? Enochian glyphs and incantations.” His eyes squinted in the dim light. “Sorry, I can only make out one word . . . door, no, portal.”
Simultaneously they swung the beams of their flashlights to the center of the archway. What had been a gigantic wooden door just moments ago was now an obsidian void. Smooth as pooled oil. The light from their flashlights was not reflected, but rather, seemingly absorbed like light falling into a deep well. In spite of the fear that raced within him, Sam felt compelled to reach out and touch the smooth inky surface.
Sam took a step forward. Then another.
He clutched the Uzi with what he knew to be a misplaced trust in its power, shoving it out in front of him as a primitive Neanderthal might brandish his spear as he approached the gaping maw of a saber-toothed tiger’s lair.
However, his fear of the doorway, and what lay beyond it, was overcome by his compulsion to proceed, to lie to rest his nagging mistrust of his own perceptions and judgment. He desperately needed to trust his instincts once again; believe in himself. Believe in something.
“Samuel, stop! Don’t go any closer,” Jacob beseeched him in a tremulous voice.
But it was too late. Sam drew back and leaped into the flawlessly black portal. As his body passed through, the blackness claimed the first half of his torso so completely that it appeared as though he had been sliced in two by Leather Face wielding a chainsaw. A truncated body, half in this realm and half in the next. And then he was gone.
As they stared in amazement, Stokes stepped forward, steeled himself and raised his trembling hand. Easing his hand forward, like a man trying to pet a ravenous Black Bear, Stokes lightly stroked the gateway. Coolness. A tingling sensation against the damp palm of his hand and fingertips. A slight pressure pushed back resembling the feeling of extending your hand out the window of a moving car, trying to hold back the wind. Forceful and yet, soft.
He turned toward Josey and shrugged.
The air grew cold. Thickened with an ozone-like scent. It crackled and shuddered around him. With a sudden jolt, Stokes was lifted off his feet and catapulted across the room.
It was Josey’s turn at bat. She threw her full weight against the invisible forcefield only to be hurled back like confetti shot from a cannon.
They both lay on the earthen floor, the cold countenance of the abyss leering back at them. Josey reached for a grenade.
Jacob shook his head. “Brute force will not overcome this Devil’s gate. We must try an alternate means.”
Josey and Stokes nodded in stunned bewilderment.
Suddenly the portal shimmered, and then rippled. Vaguely visible in the candle-lit darkness were the occupants of the inner chamber. Sam stood with his back to them, encircled by dark amorphous specters, seemingly unaware of their presence.
Josey leapt to her feet and shouted to him.
 
* * *
 
 IV
  
SAM HAD TO struggle to keep his wits about him. A sheer evil dwelt here, a palpable presence, an entity that leached into his bone marrow, suckling at his free will. Hell personified.
The air was filled with the smell of some faded, exotic incense. Long black tapers stood on candelabras, emitting a fragile light; flickering candles that struggled to deny the darkness absolute mastery. The room was filled with a soft glow, yet strangely dark, as though the candle flames were being gently seduced by the darkness, to be snuffed out one by one. And about the particles of light the shadows grew.
Upon entering, Sam’s eyes first embraced the ebony-tiled floor. An enormous Pentagram was laid out in red on a field of black marble. His eyes shot upward. The ceiling seemed to disappear into space giving the illusion of a cavernous dark grove with carved oak pillars, like tree limbs, forming arches of supplication to ancient gods. He took in the Titan-like statues at the front of the hall: the Hawk-headedHorus , son ofOsiris ; the Jackal-headedAnubis ,weigher of souls; the Cat-goddess, Bast and finally, the Baboon-toothedThoth , father of magick and healer. Silent sentinels, living columns reaching into the dark abyss above. And straining his eyes in the ambient candlelight, he saw the altar. It lay in the center, draped in black-and-red satin with the motto ofDashwood’s Hellfire Club emblazoned in gold:
“DO WHAT THOU WILT”
Sam recognized the words. Not on an intellectual level, not on an instinctual level, but a much deeper level as if he was now linked by a magical umbilical with an all-pervading universal spirit.
He knew that these were the same words which were later stolen by Aleister Crowley, along with his whole system of Thelema, from Rabelais’s classic Gargantua and Pantaguel. Knowing these facts, but not knowing why or how, gave him neither satisfaction nor comfort. In this instance he truly felt knowledge was a dangerous thing.
A soft moan at first. Then a silken rustling. And finally someone or something scuttled past him in the shadows, startling him. It jolted him back to awareness of his surroundings.
As Sam stood motionless, icy tentacles running up his spine, he sucked in a deep breath and held it, his ears straining to determine the direction of the sounds. His hand fisted tightly around the grip of the Uzi, the ball of his index finger on the trigger.
Suddenly floodlights blazed to life, lancing the dark shroud surrounding him. They ignited in sequence. First one, then another and another . . .
And what he saw turned his stomach.
 
* * *
 
 V
  
OUTSIDE THE PORTAL, Josey continued to shout, desperately trying to get Sam’s attention. But it was as if her words were thrown back at her, unable to traverse the void.
“Rabbe! Do something for God’s sake. We have to get in there now!” Josey cried.
Jacob stepped back studying the sigils, glyphs, and writings carved into the spandrel. He closed his eyes in deep concentration and suddenly they blinked open. “ GottimHimmel ! Why didn’t I see it before?” He moved closer, reached out his hand, running his fingertips over the stonework.
He turned to Josey and Stokes. “You see, it’s a vortex, an inter-dimensional gateway between parallel planes. I just needed the key that bridges the—”
“Hey, Rabbe,” Stokes interrupted. “We don’t need the fifty-dollar lecture; just get us the hell in there!”
“Yes, Major, of course. Time is of the essence. I should have realized that they would invert and reverse the incantation. My Latin’s a bit rusty but—”
Josey sputtered, “Now, Rabbe. Now!”
Jacob steeled himself and in a quivering voice intoned the words:
“ Deflagratemuri tempi etinteruallia ! ”
The unrelieved blackness of the portal began to shimmer, like a black-beaded curtain. The hairs on the nape of their necks stood on end. The air was charged with electricity as a deep rumbling pulsed through it.
Jacob murmured the translation as he stood frozen with anticipation. “Burn down the walls of time and space.”
The floor beneath them began to tremble, forcing Jacob to shout over the din. “Jump when the shimmer fades!”
They stood poised, waiting for their opportunity to charge headlong into oblivion . . .
 
* * *
 
 VI
  
ON THE HELIPAD at the rear of the Drexler mansion sat a black Bell JetRanger, bathed in the jaundice glow of sodium vapor spotlights, its rotors churning the air like black smoke. A human shield of Storm Troopers, guarding Dr. Drexler and Honora Celine, ran—heads down—toward the chopper. The backwash of the rotors buffeted their bodies and the grass around them.
Seated in the rear of the helo, Drexler shouted to the pilot, “Get us the hell out of here right now!” The helicopter began to rise in a nose down attitude, slowly climbing into the night.
The pilot’s head, perched atop massive shoulders, slowly pivoted to the rear. With a wide grin Schlomo said, “Fasten your shoulder harnesses, please.”
 
* * *
 
 VII
  
THEY STOOD AT Sam’s side now within the Chapel Perilous  .
The harsh floodlights revealed a throng of worshipers dressed for a masquerade ball, filling the pews on either side of them. Their limbs were entwined in a Marquis de Sade demented vision of debauchery: sweat drenched bosoms heaving from beneath the tightly synched corsets of their low-cut ball gowns, Marie Antoinette-like wigs askew, their eyes wild, their faces contorted in madness and lust. They rutted in the mud of depravity. Bedecked in elaborate costumes depicting infamous figures of history: Torquemada, The Abbess of Convent of Innocents,Cagliostro , PopeHonorius —the Anti-Christ.
A cold, static charge vibrated in the air. The stench of body odor filled Sam’s nostrils and caused the acidic taste of bile to rise in his throat.
Another floodlight blazed to life over the altar.
Sam’s eyes slowly panned upward. Dangling high above the altar was Michael Ryan. He hovered like a wounded angel. They had stripped him naked, his flesh battered and cloaked in dried bloodstains resembling swabs of burial linen.
Faltering slightly, like a disoriented sleepwalker, Sam took a step forward.
Stokes spat in disgust as he grabbed the nearest celebrant. Yanking the robe-clad man to his face, he rasped, “You motherfuckers!” He rammed the muzzle of the Uzi under the faux-monk’s chin. “Let him down!”
Suddenly, another floodlight ignited from above, illuminating a towering pulpit, which stood to the side of the altar. And in the pulpit, facing the altar with her back to the chapel, stood what appeared to be a little girl with long golden locks. She was dressed in a robins-egg-blue dress covered by a white puffed pinafore with white leggings and shiny, black, patent-leather, brass-buckled shoes.
Miss Little Bo-peep raised her arms above her, clutching a gilded staff fitted at the end with an acorn-shaped phallic symbol: a Priapic Wand.
Josey raised her Uzi sighting on Little Bo-peep.
A hush washed over the celebrants. They ceased their lechery and rose in unison. The pan-faced monk spat in Stokes face. Stokes lifted the insolent cleric with his free hand, tossing him into the center aisle like a beanbag. When another celebrant moved to assist the fallen monk, Stokes smashed the back of his head with the butt of the carbine.
As Miss Bo-peep pirouetted slowly like a jewelry box ballerina, Sam saw that the childlike face was that of a man. A man made up in a doll face with heavily rouged cheeks, a white powered face and flaming red lipstick, framed in a mantle of golden curls: Truman Capote in drag—Dr. Ordinaire.
In a Goldie-Locks falsetto voice, he said, “Welcome to the party, Sgt. Goldstein.”
Josey fired a burst of hot lead, but just as Ordinaire curtsied, missing her target and splintering the railing at his side.
Ordinaire made an exaggerated, cobra-quick wave of the wand as he shouted, “Enough!”
Before Josey could squeeze off a second burst, she, Sam, and Stokes were frozen like ice sculptures. Sam was still able to see, hear, and think, but was unable to move. He assumed the same was true for his comrades.
“Now, that’s better,” Ordinaire cooed. “Yes, much better. Don’t you think?” His eyes bore into theirs. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” He snickered. “Rabbe, please. I assure you your limbs are quite free to move. Come closer won’t you. We men of faith have an understanding, no?” Jacob glanced right then left, swallowed hard, and approached the pulpit.
Ordinaire shrugged and continued. “Now, let me explain exactly what’s happening to our friend, Mr. Ryan.”
He gestured toward Ryan’s pendulous form as it swayed to and fro above the altar.
“The device is called The Strappado. An implement of torture put to good use by the Dominicans during the Inquisition.
Oh, yes it’s really quite ingenious you see. They would take an infidel or a Jew, same thing in their eyes, and bind his hands behind him, wrists chained to pulleys—the nonbeliever would be drawn upward to the ceiling to hang with . . . o-hh, yes this is the good part . . . weights tied to his feet.”
Jacob wanted to vomit, but decided to buy time. He affected a poker face and said, “Yes, such cruelty, fed by pious self-aggrandizement, was inflicted upon my people by many of the so-called enlightened establishment.”
Ordinaire nibbled at the bait. “Marvelous, Rabbe! You see we do understand one another. But as I was saying . . . the sheer weight dislocated the joints of the infidel one by one. But that’s not the half of it.” He signaled with a thumbs-up to a celebrant clad in the cassock of a Dominican whose hand grasped a brass lever. The lever was connected to a series of herringbone gears that controlled a spool of chain. The chain stretched upward, through a pulley, and back down to Ryan’s wrists.
As the priest-clad torturer pushed the lever forward, Ryan’s body was pulled higher and higher, chains rattling and clinking as the helpless victim rose. Ordinaire opened his palm, signaling to stop.
His eyes glistening with glee, he said, “Now, the best part!”
He signaled again, but in a Nero-like gesture—thumb’s-down. The priest squeezed a handgrip on the lever. The chain poured off the spool, almost smoking. Ryan dropped. Then suddenly, with a pull of the lever, Ryan’s body halted with a bone-wrenching jerk, bobbing in a glassy, exquisite pain and torment.
Wrists snapped. Tendons ripped. With each rise and fall. Again and again.
Jacob’s stomach lurched end-over-end.
Ordinaire said, “You see now, don’t you. It’s the frightening anticipation. It strains the infidel’s limits of sanity, which is much worse indeed than the actual agony itself.
Their minds snap before their bodies can surrender. Ingenious, is it not, Rabbe?”
Jacob nodded, again feigning interest in the mad doctor’s delight.
Ryan’s body glistened in sweat. His head hung, chin pressed to his chest.
“But wait,” Ordinaire shouted. “I forgot our guest of honor, silly me. Bring out the girl!”
 
* * *
 
 VIII
  
AS THE HELICOPTER banked left high over the treetops, Dr. Drexler looked down. Below, on the ribbon of Interstate 41, a long string of police cruisers, their beacons twinkling in the blackness, raced onward. Drexler knew their destination would be hisLake Forest estate. And he surmised that Judas bore the face of the NSA’s lackey, agent Peter Manwich. He seethed with anger at the thought of his family name, possibly his fortune—everything—was about to be taken from him. For the first time in his life he felt violated. He reached into his inner suit coat pocket, his hand fingering a remote detonation device.
Honora said, “That little Irish bitch was a tasty morsel, too bad she had to serve a greater purpose.”
Dr. Drexler ignored her, continued staring blankly downward.
Honora reached out her hand, clasping his in reassurance as she said, “They can’t get away with this. We have many friends, Dagon. The Institute and the Brotherhood will surely provide us safe haven.”
He placed his free hand on top of hers, patted it. “I knew that Ordinaire was a problem child. I knew he would become a sacrificial lamb.” A slight tremor laced his voice. “But I underestimated the possibility of betrayal from within our ranks, overlooked the obvious, an inner conspiracy for control.”
“Protocol-17 has been our life,” she said.
“Yes, but now I fear the serpent is devouring its own tail! But don’t fret my pretty, pretty . . .South America is lovely this time of year.” His hand withdrew the remote control. He punched in a code and the L.E.D. readout blinked to life, its numbers scowling backward rapidly.
Fifteen minutes . . . twelve minutes . . .
Staring intently as the readout whirled, Drexler said, “No loose ends. No evidence of Ordinaire. Just an unfortunate explosion in my lab at the estate.” Looking up into Honora’s eyes, he continued, “And of course I’ve placed our stand-in bodies at the scene and altered our dental records to match.”
“Darling, you always think of everything,” Honora squeezed his arm and kissed his brow.
The helo banked hard left and began to descend.
“What are you doing you idiot?” Drexler shouted.
The copilot reached for his sidearm scabbard in his shoulder holster. But Schlomo reached out with his free hand, grabbed the copilot’s helmeted head in his spatula-like hand, and pitched it hard, like a bowling ball, through the windscreen. His powerful fingers compressed muscle and vertebrae as if they were merely Silly Putty.
Eleven minutes . . .
Honora reacted like a hellcat, leaping onto Schlomo’s back. The helo dropped in a steep tactical attitude, the lights below rushed toward them. Honora clawed at Schlomo’s face with her long flame-red nails.
To Drexler, Schlomo roared in a doltish, labored voice, “Shut off that detonator and get this bitch off me or we’ll crash!”
“Honora, no! You’ll kill us all!” Drexler screamed.
But her fury increased as she continued to lash at Schlomo’s eyes. His eyes tearing, filling with blood, Schlomo managed to reach back, grab a handful of her golden mane, and jerk hard.
Her neck snapped like a pretzel. She rolled to the floor at Drexler’s feet, her head twisted at an unnatural angle, her tongue protruding from between her blue-tinged lips as though it was on display in a butcher case.
Still partially blinded, Schlomo strained to pull back on the collective and contain the shuddering rotor torque.
Ten minutes . . .
 
* * *
 
 IX
 
IN THE CHAPEL, where time was suspended by Ordinaire’s magick, four celebrants dressed as hooded executioners emerged from the shadows, carrying a massive cross. However, this cross was X-shaped in the more common style of the Roman crucifixions. A woman was spread-eagled against the rough wood, her legs and arms strapped, mimicking its shape. She was adorned in a fine white linen gown, her face concealed by multiple veils of gossamer-like gauze. She lay motionless.
Jacob stared in awe as the men climbed to the altar, and fitted a center hole notched into the cross onto a greased iron rod that protruded from the surface of the altar. The cross canted slightly toward the rear of the chapel, facing them.
As the men departed from the profane altar, Dr. Ordinaire turned to Jacob. “Oh, how rude of me, Rabbe.” He mounted the altar steps as he continued. “I just bet you would like a little peek, yes?” Ordinaire stood next to the woman. His hands grabbing the gown, he savagely tore away the fabric, revealing her nude body. The swell of her full breasts glistened with perspiration as did her flat stomach and long, sleek legs. Her body laid still, only the silken rise and fall of her bosom and her wide-eyed stare attested to the fact that she was indeed alive. Little Bo-peep’s blasphemous face flushed, his eyes wild and savage-looking as they tracked her thighs upward to the dark cleft of her sex.
Dr. Bo-peep spoke as his eyes devoured her flesh, “She’s under the influence of my special-recipe drug. It causes paralysis of the limbs and the vocal cords, but the subject remains fully conscious, able to feel pain, suffer humiliation.” He bent forward to her face, removed the veils, and placed a chaste kiss on the lips of Sheila Riley.
Her eyes swam in terror and revulsion.
Dr. Bo-peep stepped back as if offended. Turning to Jacob as his hands grabbed the cross, pulling hard, he said, “I just love Wheel of Fortune , don’t you?”
The cross slowly turned round and round as Dr. Bo-peep shouted in hisMerv -Griffin-like, falsetto voice, “Vanna, eat your heart out!”
Jacob choked down the bile rising in the back of his throat. His flesh crawled at the sight. He turned toward Sam and the others who still stood frozen in time.
Jacob, it’s me, Sam.
The hairs on the back of Jacob’s neck prickled to attention.
Jacob, it’s me. I’m speaking telepathically. Answer me with your mind.
Jacob thought, Gevalt,Samuel. What . . . how? No never mind. What should I do? In the name of God, what should I do? 
Sam’s thoughts answered, Remember what you told me. Their weakness lies in their vanity. Their vanity, Jacob. Use it against them! 
Jacob nodded and thought, Yes, I have a plan. 
To Ordinaire, Jacob said, “Doctor, surely this isn’t an example of your powers, the great power of the Le Cahier de le Rose Noire? ”
Ordinaire’s eyes narrowed into slits. He moved to the side of the altar and stood before a podium, slowly lifting the infernal, black-rose grimoire  high into the air. “What do you suggest then, Rabbe? What could you have to offer?” He smirked with the satisfaction of a hyena leering at its fallen prey.
“Only this,” Jacob said, removing a tattered, leather-bound book from his inner coat pocket, and waving it in the air. “Only the Kabbalistic formulae of Rabbi JudahLoew of Prague.”
Dr. Bo-peep sucked in a deep sibilant breath. “The legend of the Golem: The Clay Man. Old-wives-tales, fairy tales, nothing more. Our Brotherhood searched the attic of theStaronovaSkola synagogue in the late sixteen-hundreds to no avail. Sheerpoppycock. Why I—”
Jacob crushed his words. “You’re afraid, just as I thought! All show, no substance.”
“Afraid of you? Of your pitiful god? Never!”
“NO! Afraid of the true test, my God against yours.”
Ordinaire, fuming and bug-eyed, slowly said, “The late and not so great Jehovah vs. Bal.” Then his eyes brightened. “Ooh my . . . a WWF grudge match.”
“Yes, you’re on, Rabbe. But me first!”
Ding . . . Round one.
With that Dr. Bo-peep drew a dagger from beneath his pinafore, and slit his palm with its honed point. He turned to a bowl that rested upon a table next to him. As he held his hand over the bowl, his blood trickled from the wound, down his palm, and into the bowl.
Turning to Jacob, he said, “Watch closely now. The urn is filled with fresh grave dirt. When it mixes with my blood . . .” He raised the dagger, point down. The viscous blade gleamed as it plunged into the earth-filled bowl. Dr. Bo-peep made an exaggerated gesticulation and intoned an arcane incantation.
First, from the lip of the bowl, one tiny gnarled hand with long razor-sharp nails appeared, then another, grasping the edge, pulling itself upward, as sinewy arms flexed and strained. Next a tiny misshapen head, pockmarked and concave on one side, bloated and convex on the other, rose over the edge. And in the center of which a grotesque face loomed; its eyes were yellow, reptilian; its brow was flat, oversized. As it rose from the side of the bowl, its body came into view. The skin was scaly, a mottled greenish-yellow-black; its chest was chiseled in muscle, and its legs were knotted with brawn. Standing slightly hunchbacked, on feet with barbed spurs curling out from each heel and lethal chitinous claws, its eyes darted about the chapel, searching. It was a homunculus—a small man about eleven inches high. It clutched a miniature razor-sharp spear that caught the floodlights and glinted along its cutting edge.
Dr. Bo-peep tittered and clapped his hands with glee as he said, “Welcome, my little homunculine.”
As it leaped to the floor, the homunculine’s mouth cracked wide, exposing a forest of pointed teeth. A pebbled black tongue darted from between its lips, moist and glossy like raw liver; the end of it was bisected, and it fluttered like a serpent.
The beast’s Hell-lit eyes narrowed, fixing on Jacob. And staring into the creature’s eyes, Jacob felt both physically and spiritually violated. The beast sniffed the air and whipped his head to the side, zooming in on Sheila. He screeched and scampered off in her direction.
Suddenly, the bowl stirred and then, crashed to the floor, erupting with legions of black, tarantula-like spiders. And sprouting from their backs were grimaced-faces, lilliputian heads. The Hellborn: they were Goeticdemons summoned from the bowels of the Pit. The mutant arachnoids swarmed across the floor, their hairy legs scuttling in unison, their voices screaming in a demented chorus. Teeth gnashing, they scurried toward the altar, toward Sheila.
Everyone was so captivated by the loathsome spectacle that they didn’t notice Sam. The sight of Sheila’s helpless body about to suffer unspeakable terrors and Ryan’s already ravaged body still suspended above, unleashed a force within him. A white heat began at the base of his spine and rocketed upward exploding through his skull. His arms slumped slightly. Realizing he was now free to move, he quickly raised his arms and took a faltering step forward. And now for the others , he thought. In his mind’s eye, he visualized Josey and Stokes, saw them breaking free like the once rusted, now oiled—Tin Man, and he was Dorothy about to liquidate the Wicked Witch of the West: Dr. Bo-peep.
 Josey, Stokes . . . don’t say a word, just hear my thoughts in your mind. You can move! Sam telepathed to them.
From the corner of his eye, Sam took in their startled and bewildered expressions. Then he caught a flash of recognition in their eyes like sharp sabers rising. He knew they both understood, because he could read their thoughts. He took another step.
Jacob cleared his throat, and fixing his eyes on Little Bo-Peep, he said, “Doctor Ordinaire, I believe it’s my turn.”
 
* * *
 
 X
  
SCHLOMO’S VISION BEGAN to clear. The helicopter yawed and pitched. It was Schlomo’s intention to safely land the helo and neutralize the target—Dr. Drexler. But in that moment it appeared that he may have to ditch the chopper, and his Mossad training conditioned him to regard himself as expendable. Unlike his American counterparts, he frequently considered scenarios that left no backdoor, no escape. And this was one. Since there was the possibility that in attempting to safely ditch the chopper he would be injured or killed, and Drexler could survive, could escape. A fireball of oily flame was the only viable solution. Maybe he could crash the helo and in so doing stop the detonator’s whirling countdown. The nose of the helo tipped forward.
Eight minutes . . .
He took a last glance over his shoulder. Drexler’s face changed, grew slick, almost translucent, as if light were shining from within. Schlomo felt as though sharp claws were digging at the base of his skull. Pangs of nausea tore at his stomach lining. Something seemed to wash over Drexler’s face, absorbing him, as if consumed by another presence, something more depraved and powerful than the man. And the eyes were transforming into hollow sockets that glowed from somewhere deep within.
Schlomo could actually feel the mutated Drexler inside his own body, breathing, thinking, feeling, taking control of him. Schlomo stared at his hand. It wasn’t his hand on the collective, and yet there on his finger was his father’s ring, passed down to him, the oldest son. Drexler was in absolute control.
Now images invaded Schlomo’s mind, nightmarish tendrils of distorted and blurred thought phantoms: glistening snakes, thousands of snakes, slithering through the labyrinth of his mind.
He heard a scream, muffled as if trailing through a lead pipe. A distant scream that grew louder, closer, but Schlomo knew it was his own voice, wailing like a madman.
Now conjured images.
 Death camps . . . lines of emaciated prisoners shuffling onward . . . marking time to the music. Children clutching their mothers’ hands. And the fiddler played. Shuffling onward toward the gas chamber. And the fiddler played on. 
Now a voice, saccharine but vile, filled his mind.
I’m in control. It’s hopeless to resist. Surrender your will to me. Land this helicopter safely. I’m in control.
Schlomo struggled to regain control, to crash the chopper.
Five minutes . . .
Out of nowhere something dark and shrill came at Drexler from the starboard side of the helo, gliding beneath the chopper’s whirling blades. A claw burst through the fuselage, its nine-inch nails dug into Drexler’s thigh. He roared and bellowed as it snatched him, like a bird in the talons of a swooping hawk, through the side of the helo.
The giant Harpy— The Other —soared past with Drexler hanging by one leg in its clutches, the detonator still in his hand. It dipped one wing as if signaling its departure and sailed past the nose of the helicopter.
Schlomo, now released from the mind-meld and in control, eased back on the collective and said a silent prayer for Josey.
Three minutes . . .
 
* * *
 
 XI: The Pinocchio Effect
  
THE HAIRY-LEGGED denizens of Hell washed across the floor beneath the altar: a black wave of obscenity. The homunculus climbed the altar, his tiny muscles rippling as he strained to reach the top.
“Oh very well, Rabbe. Reach into your little bag of tricks and save the poor girl.” Ordinaire said. “But you’d better hurry. My little friends are ravenous with hunger . . .
“Tick Tock . . . Tick Tock.”
Jacob stooped to the floor, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a tiny leather pouch. He opened the pouch and spilled its contents onto the floor. A small pile of earth and clay formed at his feet. He stood, pulled the leather-bound tome from inside his coat and, with quivering hands, opened the book. His forceful voice projected full and round tones and the occasional dramatic vibrato of a Shakespearean actor. His voice was solemn, commanding the attention of the celebrants who stood in hushed anticipation.
Sam and Josey exchanged glances as they inched forward step by step. Stokes also moved slowly, undetected, and took up a position on the far side.
Jacob’s voiced boomed through the naked air as he recited the ancient Kabbalistic incantation:
“ Nafshitihiyehb’gufsheladama. . .emet ! ”
Again, somehow Sam understood on a deep level as he silently mouthed the translation. “Let my soul be in the body of the earth!”
The air began to hiss-crackle-hiss with the static charge of electricity.
It pulsed.
It shuddered.
Jacob stepped back. The pile of earth began to vibrate; harder and faster as if the molecules were growing, expanding with a preternatural elasticity. Goose flesh crawled up Jacob’s arms. A thunderous clap shook the air as a churning column of mud began to spin in an ever-widening vortex. Higher and higher. Darker and darker. It began to take on definition assuming the form of a man about eight feet tall. Fiery sparks danced around the figure. Suddenly they winked out.
Silence.
There before Jacob stood the Golem . Huge. Towering. The expression on its face was serene but soulless. The eyes unseeing. The body was deformed, distorted as if the emergence from clay was halted before completed, as if God’s breath blew too lightly.
The eyes unblinking. It stood mute.
It was an inextricable amalgam of spirit and matter. A gigantic child’s toy. And like a doll cast aside by a child whose attention has been diverted to a new toy, the plaything sinks back into that inanimate mimesis of abject terror, glassy eyes stark and sightless that bore into your soul whose puppet master is nowhere to be seen. It waits, always just on the verge of reanimation. It waits for the puppet master’s return and his life-giving attention.
And now Jacob was the puppet master.
Dr. Ordinaire sucked in a deep breath. His face was stained by terror; his pores exuded the sour stench of fear. He took an involuntary step back, moving cautiously behind the altar.
The Golem dragged one foot forward, then the next, trudging slowly toward the altar.
Closer.
Another giant step.
Closer. Arms outstretched. Staring blankly.
The man-beast was scrambling up Sheila’s leg as she—still unable to move—stared down at him, her eyes darting from the little man to the spiders and back to the man.
First the man-beast, then the legion of black arachnoids froze in their scurrying tracks. The demonic spidermens’ tiny heads turned in unison, taking in with their insectile-eyes a multifaceted image of the approaching Golem . Their mouths gaped wide. A cacophony of screeching voices signaled their retreat as their hairy legs scuttled off the altar and toward their gateway to Hell: the earth-filled bowl.
A shock wave quaked through the room. The walls, the floors, the pews trembled. An explosion. The overhead rafters began to splinter and sag. Then, breaking loose, they fell to the floor below, crushing a Marie Antoinette look alike, a faux-cardinal, and two women masquerading as nuns. A cloud of ash and soot bellowed through the chapel.
The little man-beast cocked his head from side to side and hurled his tiny spear at the Golem in disgust as he grunted and leaped to the floor only to be crushed like a cockroach beneath the leaden foot of the Golem .
In the ensuing pandemonium shots rang out, whizzing over Josey’s head. She swung in a low crouch, spotting two robed celebrants to her left, their pistols blazing. Their eyes locked. They turned and ran. She opened fire spewing hot globs of lead in the direction of the two fleeing disciples retreat. Their bodies flew forward. More gunfire. Stokes was exchanging round for round with a group of hooded executioners. The Uzi lurched in his grip as it poured out its death song, ripping through their flesh like a nail-gun through sheets of tissue paper.
Sam was at the chain spool of the Strappado. Slowly lowering Ryan to the ground. The priest-clad boom operator lay dead at his feet, the hilt of Sam’s Gerber combat knife sticking out from his back. Sam pulled back the dead faux-priest’s cowl. Aleister Adams’s face glared back at him in a death rictus.
Another deafening explosion rocked the chapel.
Jacob stood motionless in a deep trance-like state bathed in the smell of cordite and blood.
Josey bounded up the steps to the altar and ground to halt.
Her eyes searched the smoke-clotted air for Dr. Ordinaire, her mind and heart bursting with the torment of revenge. But she was too late. Ordinaire was suspended in midair, his heels kicking wildly, his eyes bulging in panic. His golden locks disheveled and his red painted lips contorted in a horror-stricken grimace.
The Golem held him high in the air, its massive limbs swinging him from side to side, shaking him like a rag doll.
His terror-sharpened gaze pleaded with Josey. “Help me, please? Help me!”
She raised her Uzi. Sighted on his forehead. Her finger curled around the trigger. Perspiration trickled down her brow, stinging her eyes.
The crunch of bone. The tearing of fabric, then flesh.
Ordinaire let loose a bloodcurdling scream as the Golem tore him limb from limb. Josey closed her eyes in disgust, and turned her head.
When she looked up the Golem stood frozen, its hooded eyes vacant. The dismembered body of Ordinaire littered the floor at the creature’s feet. She glanced down following a swath of blood that coursed to her own feet. A powder-dusted face, sans golden locks, and bug-eyed stared back at her: the decapitated head of the late, not so great —Dr. Ordinaire.
Stokes was at her side. Together they untied Sheila from the cross. Then Stokes hoisted her over his shoulder in a firemen’s carry. Sam gently laid Ryan on the cold marble at Josey’s feet.
“Is he alive?” Josey shouted through the smoke-filled room.
“Just barely,” Sam answered.
“Quick, give him this,” she said as she dug into her vest and handed him a field syringe filled with morphine. “It’ll ease his pain.”
Stokes shouted, “Sam, grab your brother and let’s get the hell out of here!”
Sam wheeled around. Jacob was sprawled on the floor, apparently unconscious. Sam ran to his side, and raised his head. His breathing was shallow; his color was sheet-rock white.
Josey’s eyes shot to the Golem then back to Jacob. “It’s the Golem. It’s draining his life-force. Quickly Sam, turn him over.”
Sam’s face twisted with confusion.
Josey said, “My father explained it to me years ago. It’s a soulless being animated by the soul and life-force of the Kabbalist. But it’s a sponge. Do what I say! We have to peak him right now!”
Sam shuddered but followed her instructions. Turning Jacob onto his stomach, he drew back his hand and pounded Jacob’s back between the shoulder blades.
No reaction.
“Again!” Josey shouted. “Hit ‘em again!”
The second blow worked. Jacob coughed in spasms; he gulped the smoke-laced air. He struggled to mutter the counteracting incantation, “Met!” A jolt of electrical energy pulsed through the chapel. Josey turned toward the altar. In the spot where the Golem had stood, frozen like a giant totem, was nothing but a small pile of dust. She bolted for the podium and grabbed the grimoire. 
Stokes shouted as he adjusted Sheila’s weight on his shoulder, “Okay, this way ‘Dr.’ Goldstein. There’s another stairway. Let’s move people. I’ve been shot at, and zombified. I’ve got a timeshare apartment, two rugrats, and a mighty impatient missus waitin’ for me inMiami . This girlain’t gettingta ’ be any lighter a load, either. And if you haven’t noticed, thisain’t exactly the fun and sun capital of the world we’re standing in here!”

 
 
CHAPTER 21

LOST CHILDREN FOUND
 
Lawyers for the Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago appeared in court today to answer charges of abuse and neglect surrounding the unreported disappearance of numerous children. The children who had resided at the diocese owned Old Orchardville Adolescent Home inDes Plaines,IL, suddenly appeared from nowhere. Both the Des Plaines police department and the Illinois Dept. of Children and Family Services confirmed that the state wards had never been reported missing. All were orphans and to quote Sheila Riley, a contract therapist for DCFS, “They are in overall good health, but unable to explain their whereabouts for the last six months.” The Office of the State Attorney General has launched an investigation into lax monitoring on DCFS’s part.

CRAIN’S
CHICAGOBUSINESS
 
Explosion at Drexler Estate
 
Chicagolandmourns the recent death of Dr. Dagon Drexler and his wife Honora Celine Boullan Drexler who were victims of a recent fire and explosion at theirLake Forest,IL, estate. The explosion originated in a laboratory within the mansion used by Dr. Drexler to augment his work with Fermi Lab and theUniversityofChicago. Capt. Peter Manwich of the Cook County Arson Investigation Unit was quoted as saying that the disaster was an “unfortunate accident.” Dr. Drexler was not only a noted scientist, but respected businessman as well. In keeping with his unselfish philanthropic work it comes as no surprise that attorneys for his estate, the law firm of Horowitz and Levine, announced today that the bulk of his fortune has been left to two charities: Catholic Social Services and the World Jewish Restitution Organization.

 
 
EPILOGUE
 
 I:Cartago,Costa Rica : Three months later
  
AFTER THEIR PLANE touched down at JuanSantamaria International inSan Jose,Costa Rica , Josey and Sam collected the luggage while Ryan and Sheila proceeded to the curb. They stood waiting, sweat pouring off their faces, clothing matting against the smalls of their backs, in the humedoycalente  August air. A black Range Rover lurched to a screeching halt at the curbside. Just as Josey and Sam appeared with the luggage, Schlomo exited the Range Rover he had rented upon his advanced arrival and joined them. Decked out in his broad-rimmed straw hat and long white shirt, he would have been hardly recognizable if not for the fact that his hulking frame towered over the mestizo  locals. They loaded the luggage, climbed into the welcoming coolness of the air-conditioned vehicle, and peeled away from the curb.
Schlomo slowed slightly as they passed the Mercado Central  with its sun-leathered vendors standing proudly beside their carts filled to the brim with verduras  :chiles of every shape, size, and color; green-yellow heaps of platanos  and avocados.
Quickly, they left the city, traveling in a south easterly direction into the campo . As they drove Sheila commented on the fertile slopes of farmland with row after row of coffee fields. A patchwork of cultivation mingled with dense verdant forest.
Gripping Ryan’s hand, Sheila asked, “Where are we headed again?” Sam answered, “Cartago, it’s a small town about twenty-four kliks fromSan Jose . Jacob and Sophie and the others are already there.”
Ryan smiled and said, “Wonder how he likes the heat?” He reached forward and tapped Schlomo on the shoulder. “Didn’t happen to pack a cold one or two did ya, big fellow?” As he said it, he massaged his left arm with his free hand. It was still in a sling. The torn ligaments and previously dislocated shoulder still pained him. Schlomo answered by nodding to a cooler on the floor. Sheila opened it and disbursed cold beer to the party. As they popped the bottles, they raised them in a brindo .
“ Salud ,” Sam toasted. “Here’s to the lucky couple. The best partner a guy could ever have and his Wild Irish Rose!” Their bottles clanked in agreement. “Imagine,gettin ’ married by a Tico  padre and a rabbi in the middle ofCentral America .”
They pulled to the side of the road for a pit stop. Sam shouted to Ryan and Sheila from the vehicle, “Don’t wander off you two, unless you want to get eaten by a three-toed sloth or a troop of squirrel monkeys.” Josey stuck her head out the window and added, “Or a blood thirsty flock of Scarlet Macaws and a giant Iguana!” Josey’s laugh drifted across the countryside.
“C’mon, Josey. Iguanas aren’t dangerous,” Sam said.
“Well, neither aresloths and monkeys, Jungle Jim.”
Turning serious for a moment, Sam said, “You sure Susan and the boy are safe down here? And how did you pull it off? Must have cost a fortune.”
Josey shrugged and winked. “Easy, Bwana . I used a little creative finance. Once I penetrated the trail of paper fronts, I just tapped into Drexler’s Swiss Bank accounts, and siphoned off some of it to a series of off-shore accounts controlled by Mossad. And bingo! Matt and Susan will be set for life. As for Drexler’s estate . . . well, my case officer’s brother, Attorney-at-law Ira Levine, ‘just happened’ to be executer of the late doctor’s will. The World Jewish Restitution Org. will make good use of the money, and Sheila tells me that Catholic Charities is using their share to find permanent placements for Ordinaire’s ‘Lost Boys.’ Sheila and Michael are adopting two of them.”
“My, what a coincidence? Women. Devious, the lot of you. Maybe you’re the dangerous jungle cat that prowls that forest out there?” Sam offered as his eyes darted away from her to the forest.
“Grrrrr—” Josey purred and grabbed him by the shirt. Pulling him toward her, she said, “I’m in here, Tarzan. And your a dead man remember?”
“Yeah, but a dead man imbued with super powers.”
“Listen up,SuperJew ! You’ve got a new job and a new life waiting for you in Tel Aviv!” Then she planted a wet kiss on Sam’s lips and pinned him to the seat.
Schlomo diverted his eyes and commented with a deep grunt.
The Range Rover rolled to a stop at the plaza and they exited. Across the courtyard stood the Basilica deLos Angeles . Atop its towering white pillars sat angels, their wings unfurled, guardians. Sunlight shimmered off the two rose windows that flanked the front entrance. Jacob and Sophie stood arm-in-arm next to Susan St. Clair and Matt. Susan was dressed like the other five bridesmaids in the native costume ofLas BailarinasCriollas : white peasant blouses, billowing gold, blue, and green skirts synched at the waist by a brightly colored sash. And GuariaMoradas , lavender orchids, tucked behind their ears.
MattMendecka’s eyes locked on Sam. He took off in a dead run across the courtyard, all elbows and knees, with a golden retriever scampering along at his side. His sneaker-clad feet skidded to a halt in front of Sam. He threw his boyish arms around Sam, clinging, enfolding him in the innocent love of a young boy. A Little Boy lost, now found.
“Woof,” barked the retriever, catching Sam’s attention.
As Sam released the boy, stooping to pet the dog, he said to the pooch, “And who might you be,Furface ?” Matt answered for the dog. “He likes to be called Shep now.” Matt bit his lower lip, his eyes ticked downward a moment and then, back to Sam’s. “But u-mm, I think you guys have already met, Sam.”
Sam searched Matt’s eyes for an answer, then finding none, his eyes returned to the dog. A pair of haunting, baleful eyes stared back at him. And in that moment he understood, for they were the very same tormented eyes that had bored into his in the grove, just before the lightning struck, just before Matt and Susan had vanished.
They were the eyes of The Other !
An intuitive understanding came to Sam. The Other  , out of love for the boy and Susan, had permanently assumed this more pleasing form. It granted him the boy’s unconditional love. It granted him companionship. He would never be without the love of a family again. For now he, too, was like the boy. A Little Boy lost, now found.
Sam’s eyes panned skyward, taking in the apex of the basilica. A statue of the Archangel Michael was perched on high, spear in hand, thrust downward against the serpent pinned beneath his heel. Yes, TheOther would retain this pleasing form, until they eventually came, and come they would. The Brotherhood. The Government. It didn’t matter. A hunting they would come. And The Other  , like theArchangel , would be ready.
 
* * *
 
 II:Turin,Italy
  
Commander Stato stood breathless, waiting for a voice to respond at the other end of the line. As the silence stretched, he felt his nerves stretch with it.
“ Pronto ?”
“Master-General Spears, per favore  ?”
“Speaking—”
His heart pounding, his throat raw with fear, Stato managed to speak: “Master-General, it’s gone!”
“Stato! Control yourself, please. What’s gone?”
“The Shroud of Turin, it’s been stolen!”
 
* * *

Acknowledgments

Writers dip into the deep well of the subconscious. Boyhood and adult influences played a great part in writing this book. I would like to thank some of the people and things that helped create Protocol-17, whether they’re aware of such help or not.
Many thanks to RodSerling and Twilight Zone ; BorisKarloff and Shock Theater; Famous Monsters ofFilmland and Forrest J. Ackerman;BelaLugosi ; Christopher Lee; Peter Cushing; Hammer Films; The drive-in concession stand and station wagons with steamed windows; RayHarryhausen and The SeventhVoyage of Sinbad ; The Outer Limits ; One Step Beyond ; Thirteen Ghosts and those weird eyeglasses; Margaret Hamilton, the Wicked Witch of the West, “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell thee no lies” and the flying monkeys; TheMysterians ; The Exorcist ; Superman; Batman; Green Lantern;Aquaman ; Super Car; Muscle cars; Rodan ; Reptilicus ; The Avengers ; Ian Fleming and Bond, James Bond; BasilRathbone and Nigel Bruce; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; The King in Yellow ; Casting the Runes ; Edgar Allan Poe; even Mr. “It was a dark and stormy night” EdwardBulwerLytton ; the master H.P. Lovecraft; The Magnificent Seven ; Cheyenne and The Mavericks andSugarfoot ; Paladin; JackPalance’s Dr. Jekyll andMr. Hyde ; PeterSellers’s Dr.Stranglove ; Richard Matheson’s TheNight Stalker ; Tarzan vs. the Nazis; RogerCorman and the queens of the B-movies; Twenty million cases of Pepsi and a gross ofCheesecurls ; teenage pimples andStri-Dex Medicated Pads; Winston Tastes Good Like aCigarette Should ; Tom Terrific and Crabby Applegate; Classics Illustrated ; Alien ; The Omen; Phantasm and the floating sphere; Vincent Price, 3-D and The House of Wax ; Zorro; Thriller ; Alfred Hitchcock; H. G. Wells; The Bride of Frankenstein and James Whale; and so many more that if I wasn’t a budding, pre-Alzheimer old fart I could remember them before finishing this.
And especially my mother who let me fill my head with all the above and more, got me that adult library card as a young boy, and believed censorship was a dirty word. And who said, “I knew you could write, but not like this!” Most of all, I would like to thank Mr. Dean R. Koontz and Leigh Nichols whose stylistic prose and cross-genre approach truly inspired me to write.
 I turn to his books for inspiration along with, to a moderately lesser degree, Ray Bradbury, John Farris, Robert Bloch, Stephen King, Whitley Strieber, Robert Anton Wilson, Nancy Kilpatrick and Thomas Harris. Gentleman, your wellspring will always be deeper and richer than mine, your cupboard never bare, your spaceships sleeker and faster, flying more closely to the truth, your monsters more terrifying. Thank you for your inspiration.
And from true-life experiences I would like to thank the dedicated men and woman of the Chicago Police Department and the INS, The State Dept., Mossad and the NSA who I had the privilege and honor of working with. Especially the real Special Agent Kyle.
A guy named Mike who always had my back during a tough time period. And having been the product of years of Catholic parochial schools, I would like to thank the loving and giving nuns and priests who gave unselfishly of themselves to educate me. Especially the late Fr. Robert Silk.
To the DFW Writers Group, The Flowermound Writers Group, and especially Sara Merlene, Ruth Percy, and Angie Porter who helped type, proofread, critique and edit, it’s finally in the can.
I save my deepest appreciation for my family. My loving, supportive wife and daughter (peaches) who—day after day—listened to my story and let daddy lock himself away in front of the computer screen.
 
Richard D. Weber