Bless the Child (10 page)

The phone call came close to eleven. It was Lieutenant Devlin; she could tell he was choosing his words carefully.

“Look, Mrs. O’Connor, I’ve been checking into this Maa Kheru business for you, and I have some info. The official word is that it’s just a crazy fantasy, but I’m not convinced that’s true.” Maggie took a deep breath.

“If Maa Kheru does exist,” he continued, “it’s a cartel of power brokers, heavy hitters from every kind of business. Bankers, politicians, lots of theater people, doctors, lawyers, congressmen, senators . . . According to the story—which of course nobody will confirm—they’re all practicing Black Magicians—Satanists, Voodoo practitioners, Palo Mayombe . . . a sort of ecumenical
Who’s Who
in the devil worship community. They’ve sold their souls to the Devil in return for fame, fortune, power, whatever. The words ‘Maa Kheru’ are ancient Word of Power that supposedly open the doorway to Hell. It’s all pretty hard to believe in this day and age, of course, but there’s a lot of stuff out there that’s pretty weird, so maybe we can’t discount this entirely, yet. There are plenty of gruesome murders that go uninvestigated every year, just because the local law enforcement doesn’t want to start a public panic by labeling something satanic, and then not being able to do anything about it. Like I told you earlier, Satanism is protected under the Constitution, just like every other religion.”

“I don’t know what to do with any of this information, Detective,” Maggie said emphatically, “other than be absolutely terrified.”

“There’s nothing you can do, at the moment, Mrs. O’Connor. But I’d suggest you
stay
terrified until we find out more. If Jenna’s really in bed with the Devil, it isn’t just your granddaughter who’s in danger here. You are, too.”

Maggie finished the conversation in a daze, so the next phone ring jarred her, it was Amanda. “I finally remembered what it is that’s special about the Malagasy, darlin’, and I thought I’d better tell you, even though it won’t cheer you up any. Those Madagascar darkies are feared by the other African natives because they practice a very potent type of Black Magic, Maggie. Something real spooky. More atavistic than Candomblé, and all those nasty South American tribal rituals. My informant told me it’s the parent of the most evil side of Voodoo practiced in the Caribbean. You don’t think Jenna could be mixed up in anything that grisly do you?”

Satanism. Black Magic. Evil.
The frightening words kept sizzling in Maggie’s head like hot flares.
Sweet Jesus, what am I going to do now?

M
aggie hit the mat hard and managed a powerful side kick to the ribs, in time to block a lethal blow to her throat. She was sweating profusely, half from exertion, half form the emotions that had brought her to the dojo. She scrambled her feet, facing her opponent in fight stance. “I know, Sifu,” she panted, “I blinked.”

“Blink while you fight and you will close your eyes for eternity,” the stocky Chinese master replied amiably. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Maggie had seen him best ten young black belts in a demonstration, several months before; breathing hard was not something Mr. Wong ever did, unless he wished to.

Maggie shook her head in sorry agreement.

“I’ll work more,” she said ruefully. “Another thirty-five years and I’ll get to be good at this.”

Mr. Wong smiled, his hooded eyes merry and animated, despite the composure of his face. He was not a young man, but his eyes were lively, potent. “So soon you can learn this, Maggie? Very good. Most people take longer.”

Maggie smiled at the old man she revered. There were times during Jack’s long illness, when she thought she’d go mad—or simply nova like a dying star, from the fear and the sorrow, the exhaustion and the inexorability of watching something so insidious destroy the man she loved. Then she’d started studying karate at the local Y, as an outlet for her frustrations—and after a year of getting in shape, she’d been introduced to Mr. Wong by her instructor, and she’d begun to study serious martial arts with him. The training and discipline had centered her, strengthened her, kept her going, in the worst of times.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand now, and fought to stay in control of her breathing. As much not to disappoint him, as for herself, Maggie resumed fighting stance and pushed the small failure down where it belonged, into insignificance.

This was her one self-indulgence, this hour or two a day, spent in class, or in her makeshift basement dojo. Six to eight A.M., before anyone was awake; the only hours of the day that were truly hers. Punch, kick, balance, focus. The powered grace of forms, the concentrated discipline of sparring. The wisdom of Mr. Wong. It was more than physical need that brought her back to train each day.

“Body, mind, spirit, all must be in harmony.”
Mr. Wong would remind her, a Taoist monk, disguised as a martial arts teacher.
“The techniques were there before you were born and will be there long after you are gone. Let them flow through you and marvel at their beauty.”
He understood the universe and the energies that drove it; he had parables that cleared the way for her when the road was indistinguishable and dark.

People asked her often if she studied martial arts for self-defense, and she always said yes . . . but she didn’t mean what they thought she meant. The real self-defense you need in this life is for the spirit.

Maggie glanced at the clock, it was nearly eight; she’d been here since five-thirty. She bowed to Mr. Wong and hurried home to shower. She knew the library opened at nine. Today, she intended to find out all she could about Satan.

M
aggie frowned at the dictionary. No enlightenment there. At least the computerized index was bursting with references. She jotted down the first dozen, secured them from the stacks and settled down to read.

Originally, Satan was a great angel; Chief of the Seraphim, head of the Order of Virtues and very close to the throne of God.

He fell from Grace through rebellion against God, thinking himself God’s equal. For this sin of Pride he was banished form Heaven, and all his legions with him, by the power of the Archangel Michael and his fiery sword.

Maggie thumbed through half a dozen volumes. Very interesting. The Talmud, Revelation, and Thomas Aquinas all spoke of Satan . . . So, the great mystical thinkers all believed in his existence . . . Maggie checked another source and settled in to read.

Satan is sometimes called Lucifer, the light giver, and Lucifer is sometimes referred to as “The Chief Council of Hell.”

She smiled. Wouldn’t you know he’d be a lawyer.
Damn!
She wished she could remember more from theology class on the Anti-Christ. It seemed clear he paraded under a vast array of names. Ahriman in Persian theosophy, Beelzebub in the Gospels, Iblis in the Koran, and Samuel in Jewish Scripture. It was really intriguing that every major religion acknowledged the existence of the Devil. And he didn’t seem to be alone; there were references to scores of other demons, as well. One hundred and three fallen angels were identifiable by name, and there were hundreds of other infernal names from every culture and every time period. Babylonia, Chaldea, Egypt, Sumeria . . .

Maggie went back to the stacks for another set of books. A large number of groups were practicing Devil worship openly, it seemed, all over America. There were satanic churches as well as various devil cults like Ju Ju, Voodoo, Palo Mayombe, and certain forms of Santería. She saw no mention of Maa Kheru, but one of the sources, Cults That Kill, said:

There are other orthodox Satanic groups that exist whose names we’ll never know, because they are not made public. These, in fact, may be the most dangerous of all.

To her astonishment, there was a considerable amount of information about human sacrifice. In magical theory, it seemed, having a freshly slaughtered victim enhanced the Black Magician’s chances of performing a successful spell.

Maggie sat back in her chair and tried to quell her revulsion. Cody was in the hands of people who believed in such things. She picked up another book; this one of interviews with law enforcement officers on the subject.

Capt. Dale Griffis of the Tifflin, Ohio, Police Department, “The use of blood in Satanic rituals is very important. According to the beliefs, blood contains the life force. If you have it, you have power. That’s why they drink it in their rituals and pour it on themselves.

“So is sacrificing people. When you sacrifice someone, for the instant before they die, they supposedly emit their life energy. That power, Satanists believe, can be harnessed for their use. They believe babies are best, because babies are pure; they haven’t sinned or been corrupted yet. They posses a higher power than adults. When you sacrifice a baby, you get greater power than if you sacrificed an adult. One of the most prized possessions of a Satanist is a candle made from the fat of an unbaptized baby.”

Maggie’s attention was riveted to the page.

Det. Sandi Gallant of the Intelligence Division, San Francisco Police Department, “Some Satanists believe that with specific body parts they can use the power contained therein. The head may contain the spirit, and the heart may contain the soul. These are things that would allow them to be in control. It’s been said they like to have a finger of the left hand. I don’t know exactly which finger. I understand about the left and right paths, but why the finger? Who knows?”

She put down the book and took a deep breath. Satanists really existed . . . they had churches . . . held services . . . celebrated holidays. This was much worse than she’d dreamed.

Maggie returned the books to the front desk and checked the transcript file for any TV news shows that might have explored this topic. She pulled out several talk show transcripts that looked promising and started to read, her heart sinking as she scanned the first terrifying pages.

There were women interviewed on these TV shows, who identified themselves as Breeders. They said they’d given birth to children, specifically for use in ritual sacrifice. Each story Maggie read was more chilling than the last. There were macabre tales of infants sacrificed and eaten in satanic ceremonies . . . of babies skinned alive . . . of children tortured . . . of blood used in Black Masses as an unholy Communion. She read of mothers brainwashed or forced against their will to be accomplices to their own children’s murder; grotesque, impossible stories of depravity and pervasion. There even seemed to be a self-help group called Overcomers Victorious for women who managed to escape the covens, and wanted to pull the remnants of their lives back together.

Each TV transcript seemed more implausible than the last. Could there really be whole towns in which everyone worshipped Satan? Could there really be doctors and lawyers and judges who formed a network of terror that even the police had trouble penetrating? And if any of these stories were true, how could it be that the world didn’t simply rise up in a body and stop them from doing such terrible things to people?

Maggie read transcripts for the better part of an hour; Geraldo, Donahue, Oprah, Sally Jessy Raphael,
20/20, 60 minutes
all had touched on Satanism in some way. Incest . . . child pornography . . . ritual murder . . . baby breeders . . . human sacrifice. The visions these words conjured up swirled like toxic sewage in Maggie’s brain.

She closed the last transcript and stood up, too agitated to stay still. People actually
worshipped
Satan . . .they tortured and murdered and abused for him. Right now. Right here in New York City. And California and Texas. And Everywhere!

And they had Cody.

They used little children . . . innocent babies were raped and mutilated and psychologically damaged beyond repair. Babies were bred for no other purpose than to be eaten . . .

And they had Cody!

Suddenly, Maggie couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Had to move. Get out of there, into the air . . . felt faint. Dizzy. Dark. Cold. Falling . . .

“You all right miss?” the man standing over her was asking urgently. Maggie tried to focus her eyes enough to learn why she was lying on the floor.
Oh God, I fainted.

She struggled to sit upright. “I’m okay,” she murmured, embarrassed and disoriented. “I must have forgotten to eat today.” She felt violently nauseous, but fought back the urge to vomit, and rose unsteadily to her feet. The man looked doubtful. Others were staring. Commotions had no business in libraries.

Maggie gathered up the stack of books and tried to make a dignified exit, despite the stares.
Screw the stares!
She thought, suddenly angry, as well as sick.
They hurt babies, and they’ve got Cody! I’ve got to get her out of that house.

Maggie cut across Bleecker, hurriedly; the library had yielded too much ghastly information, and her head was pounding. The cold wind was a welcome relief; there were several volumes left to read, but she intended to do so in the fresh air of Washington Square Park.

A book caught her eye in a shop window, as she hurried by:
Psychic Self-Defense,
God, do I need some of that, she thought with a weary sigh, and on impulse entered the shop. It was a warm, cozy place, full of glittering crystals, from charm size to huge decorator pieces. The late-afternoon sunlight glinted off an immense cluster of quartz at least four feet around, and refracted through the dozens of rainbow flashers in the window. They shivered in the breeze and produced a sort of stained-glass light dance, which brightened the interior of the shop considerably.

There were books, and wind chimes that tinkled musically as she shut the door behind her. Posters on esoteric subjects decorated the walls, and a couple of well-worn chintz armchairs filled a corner. On a table in between, a large crystal ball and a silver tea service gleamed.

A woman occupied one of the chairs. At first glance she seemed a young girl, in an updated flower-child ensemble; on second look, Maggie realized she must be close to forty. A spectacular body provided the deception.

The woman looked up from the book she was reading, and smiled, a lovely open smile, unexpected in New York. “I’m Ellie,” she said in a lilting voice that suggested contentment in her life. “If you’d like to put your books down here while you browse, I’d be happy to keep an eye on them for you.”

She had unusual eyes, violet-blue and incandescently sparkly. There was an otherworldly quality about her intelligent gaze, as if she weren’t quite human, but some sort of hybrid creature. Galadriel, Queen of the Fairies, straight out of Tolkien. Maggie tried to intuit what her ethnic background might be. Slavic, maybe. Or Russian. Masses of dark curly hair fell gypsy-like to her shoulders; beads of every conceivable variety jingle-jangled around her neck, along with gold sigils, zodiacal signs, and a silver cartouche.
I’ve fallen into a time warp to Woodstock
, Maggie thought, smiling back.

“Quite a collection you have here,” Ellie mused, checking out the titles of Maggie’s books. “Boning up for a doctoral dissertation on occultism?

“Something like that,” Maggie replied. “But I’m a bit out of my depth in all this, I’m afraid. It’s like trying to teach myself nuclear physics.”

Ellie laughed with genuine mirth. “Maybe I can help you,” she offered. “I’ve been into metaphysics since just before birth. I’d hate to say I’m an expert on anything, but I’ll probably do till you find one. What exactly are you looking for?”

“I’m trying to learn all I can about Black Magic; Satanism, I guess it’s called.”

Ellie’s eyes widened, then she frowned. “Surely you’re not thinking of dabbling in the Black Arts. I mean,
I
don’t even keep any books around on that stuff—only White Magic. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? That’s like playing around with nuclear fission for fun.” She looked genuinely concerned. “Tell you what . . . I was just about to close for a cup of tea. Why don’t you join me?”

Maggie smiled wistfully. “My mother always said if you’re Irish, a cup of tea can fix anything that ails you.”

“I’m sure she was right. The therapeutic value has probably been stamped into the genetic matrix by now.”

Maggie relaxed a little, there was something lovable about the woman. Ellie poured out two steaming cups of black tea, offered cream and sugar with the skill of a dowager, then settled back in her chair.

“Now, spill the beans. Why the interest in Black Magic? Are you a researcher of some kind? Or just your average satanic thrill seeker?”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a bizarre story, actually, all of which sounds crazy. But my grandchild is in a strange, dangerous situation—and somebody suggested to me it might have something to do with Satanism. So, I figured I better find out what I’m up against. Before today, I thought it was a subject fit only for those newspapers you look at on the supermarket checkout line. Now I’m really scared.”

“I see,” Ellie said judiciously. “Maybe you’d better give me a few specifics so I can advise you properly. I really do know what I’m talking about.”

Maggie hesitated then plunged in. She’d always been a decent judge of character, and it would help to talk with an expert.