San Francisco Night (10 page)

Nightingale phoned Father Benedict after breakfast. The call went through to voicemail and Nightingale left a message. He was halfway through his second coffee when his phone rang. It was the Abbot returning his call. “I was in the vineyards,” he said. “A problem with the irrigation system.”

“No rest for the wicked, so they say,” said Nightingale.

“That’s certainly true,” said the Abbot.

“I was joking,” said Nightingale.

“I got that,” said the Abbot. “I assume you’re calling about the diary?”

“Are you getting anywhere?”

“I’m about halfway through,” said the Abbot. “I spent most of the night working on it, in fact I fell asleep at three o’clock in the morning and missed dawn prayers. It’s fascinating stuff, and really very, very worrying.”

“So it is a diary?”

“It’s a diary, but it’s more than that. It contains details of various rituals, including the words that need to be spoken. It’s nasty stuff, Jack. Very nasty. And you are right, I’m afraid. This group is all about human sacrifice.”

“That’s what I feared.”

“I’m transcribing this onto my computer. When I’m finished, what do you plan to do?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You have to take it to the police, surely?”

“The problem with that is that they almost certainly won’t take me seriously. There are no bodies. No forensic evidence, in fact no evidence at all that any killings have taken place.”

“You have this diary.”

“Which could be a work of fiction,” said Nightingale. “The police will want proof, and so far I don’t have any.”

“I saw something that might help you take this further,” said the Abbot. “There was a Latin phrase that seemed a little out of place, where the author refers to seeking enlightenment on the path of hatred from the prophet who watches the stars.”

“That’s a strange thing to say.”

“That’s what I thought. It was a bit of a puzzle and I have to say I’m a fan of puzzles. Crossword puzzles, especially. Then it hit me. He was referring to Haight Street. It was a pun.” He spelled out the word for Nightingale. “Haight. Hate. Very clever.”

 “Haight Street? Where’s that?” he asked.

“In the city’s Haight-Ashbury district. It’s where all the hippies lived in the seventies. I would suggest you continue your search there.”

“When do you think you’ll have finished?” asked Nightingale.

“Late tonight, I hope,” said the Abbot. “Unfortunately I have several meetings this afternoon, but I’m clear from four o’clock onwards.”

“I’ll drive out to see you tomorrow morning,” said Nightingale. “I can return Brother Gregory’s rosary.”

“Was the rosary any help?”

“It’s not good news, I’m afraid. You need to prepare yourself for the worst.”

“I’d already done that,” said the Abbot. “And if this diary is true, there is more to come.”

Nightingale’s SatNav took him to the middle of Haight Street but he ended up driving around for another fifteen minutes before he could find a parking space. He lit a cigarette and started walking back down towards the city center. He could well believe that this had been Hippy Central in the seventies, and plenty of traces of it still remained. The stores here were much smaller than in the center, none of the major chains, small clothes boutiques, music shops, a succession of bars catering to all preferences, smokers’ requisites, second-hand book stores. He had walked about a quarter of a mile when he came across an astrological shop. The sign above the store read WRITTEN IN THE STARS. It was a single unit with one large window to the left of the door. The window display consisted of a variety of crystals and candles set against a background of astrological charts and T-shirts bearing the signs of the Zodiac.

Nightingale pushed the door open and stepped inside. Bells announced his arrival and a short, bald man appeared from a back room.  He wore a neatly trimmed gray goatee, and was dressed in tight black jeans and a black, ribbed, roll-neck sweater. There looked to be not an ounce of fat on his body. The lack of hair made him look older, but Nightingale guessed early thirties. The man leaned forward against the shop counter and flashed Nightingale a professional smile. “Well, good morning. And how can I help you?” he said.

“This is a shot in the dark, but have you ever seen this man. Lee Mitchell?” Nightingale showed him the photograph of Mitchell that he’d ripped from the newspaper. He figured it would be best not to reveal up front that Mitchell was dead.

The man squinted at the picture, then his face creased into a smile. “Young Lee,” he said. “Such a very nice boy. And how do you come to know him, Mr.....”

“Just call me Jack,” said Nightingale.

“Jack it shall be then.  I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Starr. Two ‛r’s.”

 “Quite appropriate, you being an astrologer.”

“So it is, that’s why I took it. Kronstein didn’t work so well at all. Hah, but look at me, we’ve  known each other two minutes and already I’m telling you my life story. So tell me, why did our friend send you to me. What can I do for you...Jack? And why haven’t I seen him in a while?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure how you can help. I’m in the dark, so far. Grasping at straws, really.”

“I don’t follow you,” said Starr.

Nightingale took back the photograph. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

Starr grimaced. “Poor little sod. He was always in way over his head. Bastards. Let’s have  some privacy.”

He walked over to the door, slid the bolt and turned the sign to ‛CLOSED’. He ushered Nightingale into a back room and they sat at opposite ends of a faded and cracked brown leather sofa. The room was as big as the shop itself and appeared to contain nearly as many trinkets, candles, T-shirts and charts. There was a large desk at one end, covered in charts, rulers, protractors and compasses.

“What do you mean, he was in over his head?” asked Nightingale.

“I’m sorry, I need a drink,” said Starr. He stood up, looked for a second as if he was going to lose his balance, then went over to a bookcase and picked up a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a slug and threw it down, then refilled the glass and waved the bottle at Nightingale. Nightingale shook his head. Starr shrugged and carried the bottle and glass back to the sofa.

“How much do you know about what young Lee had got himself into?” asked Starr as he sat down heavily.

‘Some of it,” said Nightingale. “I found a diary of his.”

“A diary? He kept a diary?” Starr shook his head. “He was playing with fire, it’s not surprising he got burned. What happened?”

“His body was found washed up on Alcatraz. The police think that he fell off a boat and was churned up by the propeller.”

“The police have no idea what’s going on,” said Starr. He emptied his glass and refilled it. “You know he was gay?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I didn’t.” Nightingale was sure that Mitchell wasn’t gay, though he might well have been bisexual. But he figured it best not to burst Starr’s bubble.

“I met him about four years ago, at a party somewhere. He hadn’t really...accepted himself then, still trying to fight it, but it was easy to see. We hit it off, met a few times. Took it a little further. I was his first, but there was always something a little different about him, and not just being unsure.”

“Different how?” asked Nightingale.

“He was inexperienced, young, gauche almost. But there was a power within him, he was going places in the bank far younger than you might have expected. Of course, I figured it out fairly quickly, the first time I ever drew his chart. He was tapping into a source of power and wanted more. I spoke to him about it, but he was reluctant to admit it.” He shrugged. “We were pretty much over by then, he kept trying to change himself, deny his real needs. Maybe he saw me as a symbol of them, so he drew away from me. I think his occult friends expected him to swing both ways. I didn’t see him for months, but then last week he showed up here. Needing help badly, or so he said.”

“Did he say what he was afraid of?”

“He’d fallen in with a bad crowd. Some very heavy-hitters. He had realized that he was in over his head. Way over.”

 “Did he mention a group called The Apostles?”

Starr shivered and nodded.

“And the sacrifices?”

Starr nodded again, then frowned. “Sacrifices? He told me about one. That was when he came to me. I told him to get out straight away, but he was working for someone. Playing both sides. A dangerous game.”

“Playing both sides? What do you mean?”

“He said he’d found someone who would help him, but that someone wanted more information about the group. He wanted names. And he told Lee that he had to stay in the group a while longer. It was driving Lee crazy. He was so scared.”

“So if someone was already helping him, why did he come to you?”

“The stars, Jack. He knew there was something big coming up, he wanted me to tell him what and when.”

“And did you?” asked Nightingale.

“No. No data. I could have cast his chart, but I didn’t know any details for the other people. We figured out that the first girl he saw sacrificed was Suzanne Mills, and I was able to run her chart  and read the numbers on her. But it was nowhere near enough. I had no idea where these Apostles were going by sacrificing her.”

“What about Lee’s chart? What did that say?”

“It predicted a crisis on the twentieth, crossing the path of an emissary from Saturn on the twenty-second...and then nothing more, though I didn’t tell him that. I’m good at this. Too damned good.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Nightingale. “Sometimes you can’t save people, doesn’t matter how hard you try.” He leaned towards Starr. “I need to stop these people, Gabriel, before anyone else gets hurt, and before whatever they’re planning comes off, because it won’t be good. Will you help me?”

Starr nodded. “I’m not sure what help I can be, though?”

“I’m not sure either, yet. But maybe your charts can help me put me a time-line on what’s happening.’ He spent the next fifteen minutes telling Starr everything he knew, though he didn’t tell him about the Elemental appearing at Mitchell’s house. Some things were better left unsaid.

“So, you have a missing nun, a disappearing priest, a monk, a spinster, various church folk. All Christian, obviously. But you can see the other obvious connection, can’t you?”

“I don’t follow you,” said Nightingale.

 “Virginity,” he said. “Never been kissed, my dear. The Great Unfucked. Monks, nuns and priests take vows of chastity. The others are young, utterly fugly or maybe never got asked. Can’t be sure, of course, but a fair guess. They’re sacrificing virgins. Christian virgins.”

Nightingale opened his mouth to speak but Starr silenced him with a wave of his hand. “I’m an astrologer, Jackie, not a Satanist...but even I know that virgin blood has more potency than anything else in a sacrifice. Do you have the date of birth of the ones that are missing. I’ll cast horoscopes for them and see what they tell me.”

“I don’t have them to hand. I’ll call you with the dates when I get them.”

“I can make a start with their names.”

Nightingale frowned. “How does that work?”

“Numerology,” said Starr. “You can tell a lot from a person’s name.” He gave Nightingale a business card. “And what about your date of birth, Jack?”

“You want to do my chart?”

“It might show you what is coming,” said Starr.

“If it’s bad news, I’d be better off not knowing,” said Nightingale. “I’ll pass.”

Nightingale drove back to the Mission Street library and spent an hour on a computer looking for the birthdays of Sister Rosa, Father Mike and Brother Gregory. He had no luck and realized that there was only one way he was going to get the information he needed. He phoned Amy Chen. “It’s that pest of a Brit, I’m afraid,” he said when she answered. “I need a favor.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Can you let me have the dates of birth of the missing persons we spoke about?”

“Your missing Christians?”

“Yeah, do you mind?”

“Do you want to tell me why?”

Nightingale closed his eyes and winced. He didn’t like lying to her but he didn’t see he had any choice. “I just want to do a search of official records, see what I can dig up.”

“Okay, I don’t see why not,” she said.

“Have you had a chance to look at other missing Christians?” A librarian walked over, a hatchet-faced woman in her fifties, and she jabbed a finger at his phone and then wagged it. No phones in the library.

Nightingale waved a silent apology and headed outside, the phone still stuck to his ear.

“Yeah, I was in two minds about calling you about that,” said Chen.

“You found someone.”

“I found another two cases of Christians vanishing a week before a full moon.”

“So there is a pattern?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. If you stare at a blank wall long enough you see patterns. Your mind plays tricks, it tries to make sense of nothingness.”

“Christians going missing a week before a full moon is pretty specific.”

She sighed. “Yes, I know.”

“Who are they, these new cases?”

“Jack, I’m busy right now. And I’m not over happy about discussing cases over the phone. Do you like jazz?”

“Depends. Ella, Louis, Bessie Smith, yes. Not modern stuff very much.”

“Billie Holiday?”

“Overrated and a thin voice, even when she wasn’t strung out. Diana Ross did it better.”

“There’s a group of us going to The Blue Room tomorrow night. Fillmore Street, 8.30. Swing by and we’ll talk.”

“It’s a date,” said Nightingale.

“No it’s not,” said Chen. “It’s a meeting. I’ll see you there.”

The phone went dead and Nightingale slipped it back in his pocket. He took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one as he walked back to his car.

His phone rang again as he was walking into his hotel. It was the Abbot. “Jack, I’m more than halfway through the diary and it’s bad. Really bad.”

“In what way?”

“The individual sacrifices are just the start of it. When all twelve have been carried out there is to be a final ceremony, a ritual that will literally change the world.”

“What happens at this ceremony?”

“The diary talks about a young white cockerel and a young black hen being killed, but I think they are metaphors. I think they’re referring to children. There is to be a ceremony involving a double sacrifice that has to occur at a particular time. I’m still trying to work out when that might be. But I can tell you that before they are sacrificed, the children have to be branded.’

“Branded?”

“With hot irons. The mark of a demon has to be seared into the flesh. It has to begin healing and then the children are sacrificed.”