San Francisco Night (13 page)

Nightingale lit a cigarette and walked a few hundred yards further up Haight Street. The double-fronted window display of Pagan World was full of candles, crystal balls, brass bowls and knives, amulets and astrological charts. Nightingale stamped out his cigarette and walked in. The place was bigger inside than Starr’s shop, with the front full of pagan paraphernalia and the back room given over to shelves of old books. Mounted on the walls were a variety of stuffed animals, deer heads, bear heads, whole raccoons, beavers and snakes. The woman behind the counter had frizzy blonde hair and wore a pair of large green plastic framed glasses on a chain  round her neck, Her floor-length dress had been tie-dyed, a riot of greens, yellows, blues and reds. She smiled at Nightingale. “Welcome to Pagan World,” she said.

“Are you Margaret?”

“I am indeed. What can I do for you?”

“Gabriel sent me along. I was wondering whether you had anything on Anton LaVey and the Church Of Satan. Perhaps a copy of one of his books.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Ah, Mr. LaVey, not one of my favorites, I must confess. As it happens I’ve recently bought in some nice first editions of his better-known ones, from a collector who’s downsizing. I can offer you The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals and The Satanic Witch, if you were interested.”

“I’ll take all three,” said Nightingale.

“Are you sure, they are quite expensive.”

“Not a problem, I have plenty of cash.”

“That’s always good to hear,” said the woman. She went into the back room, returning a few minutes later with three slim books bound in leather with the title and author’s name picked out in gold. She handed him one. “This is the Satanic Bible,” she said. “It was actually a special presentation copy that LaVey had printed to give to close friends and followers. It’s signed too.”

Nightingale opened the front cover. The flyleaf was indeed signed ‛To my dear friend Basil’ and the inside cover had a book-plate marked  ‛ex libris Basil Dukas.’

“Who’s Basil Dukas?” he asked.

“A friend of LaVey in his early years of the Church of Satan, though he claims he outgrew them fairly quickly. He does the taxidermy on the animals we sell. Very talented. He’s rumored to have one of the best libraries of the Occult in America, not that many are ever invited to see it. Or him, he’s a notorious recluse. He offered me these three by e-mail.”

The woman told Nightingale how much she wanted for the books and he paid her in cash. Wainwright was an avid collector of books on the Occult so he knew he’d happily find a place for them in his library.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she said brightly.

“What’s your opinion of LaVey?”

 “He wasn’t my scene at all, I’m a Wiccan, and his views ran pretty much counter to mine.”

“Yeah, I suppose worshiping Satan is a bit of a departure from love potions and crystals.”

“Ah, but he and his followers didn’t worship Satan, they didn’t even believe in him as an entity.”

“How did that work?” asked Nightingale. “That ‛Satanist’ name’s a little confusing then.”

“I think they saw it as more of a force than an entity,” she said. She gestured at his purchases. “If you read the books, they are surprisingly tame compared with most people’s perceptions.”

“So, no slaughtering of a goat at the full moon and capering around naked?”

“No, animals were not to be harmed, nor children, and sex was only by consent, I think. It’s a long time since I read his books.”

“Are there still covens in San Francisco today?” he asked.

“As far as I remember, the Church of Satan called them ‛Grottos’  and I wouldn’t know. I stay well away from the Left-Hand path. And, as I said, LaVey and his followers were quite tame compared to what people expect.”

“What about this Mr. Dukas. Would you have a number for him?”

 “I’ve already told you, I don’t know much about those people. Mr. Dukas’ number is unlisted, and I don’t think he’d be happy for me to pass it on. Why not send him an email? There’s a contact form on his website. www.basildukas.com.”
Her telephone rang and she turned to answer it, flashing him an apologetic smile. Nightingale thanked her and was about to leave when he saw a display case in which there were several crystal balls. He bent down to look at them.

Margaret finished her call and came up behind him. “Something else I can help you with?”

Nightingale pointed at the largest of the crystal balls. “Can I take a look at that?”

“You have a good eye,” she said. “That’s very old. More than a hundred years old, as it happens.”

“I’ll be careful with it,” he said.

“All damages have to be paid for in full,” she said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

She smiled and opened the case. She produced a white cotton handkerchief and used it to hold the ball before passing it to him.

“Do you know its history?” he asked.

“It was an estate sale, a year ago,” she said. “It belonged to an old lady. She had a lot of interesting things.”

“Wicca things?”

Margaret nodded. “Several interesting books, quite a collection of herbs, several crystals and this ball.”

Nightingale held the ball up and moved it from side to side, checking the clarity of the crystal. It appeared to be perfect.”

“Not a single defect,” she said. “I don’t think I have ever seen a better crystal ball.”

“I think you might be right,” said Nightingale. He held it so close to his face that his breath beaded on the crystal. “How much?”

“I’m asking four hundred dollars.”

“I’ll buy it then,” he said, handing it back to her. “I need a few other things,” he said. “A brass bowl, blue candles, some lemon twigs. And some herbs, I’ll write them down for you.”

“Now that’s much more like it,” she said. “You were starting to worry me with all your talk about Satanism. You are a follower of Wicca?”

Nightingale smiled. “I dabble.”

“You do more than dabble,” she said. “Not many people know how to really use a crystal ball.”

“I’m still working on my skills,” he said.

“You have a pink crystal, then?”

Nightingale nodded. “I do.”

“I would love to see it.”

“I don’t have it with me,” he said. “Maybe next time.”

She went off to wrap the crystal ball while Nightingale wrote down a list of the herbs he’d need.

Later, with several hundred dollars more charged to Wainwright’s credit card, Nightingale carried his purchases back to his SUV and drove to the Mission Street Library to resume his acquaintance with their free computers. He sat down and
typed in the address of Basil Dukas’s website. It was dedicated to taxidermy, palmistry and the buying and selling occult books. The taxidermy section featured photos of what looked to be the inside of a house, lined with stuffed animals of all sizes and rarities. There were prices quoted for stuffing customers’ hunting trophies as well as for buying ready-stuffed small animals.

The palmistry section was decorated with diagrams of hands, a brief explanation of the art and a list of prices for private readings, while the book page had photos of an extensive library together with a list of books for sale, and a much longer list of books that Dukas would be happy to buy. The ones for sale were mostly run-of-the-mill works at reasonably low prices, but Dukas’s wish list featured some far more obscure and esoteric items, one or two of which Nightingale knew to be in Wainwright’s library.

Nightingale pressed the contact button on the web page and typed in a short message, along with his cell phone number.

He drove back to his hotel and phoned Mrs Steadman. “I’m sorry, I’ve got bad news for new,” he said as soon as she answered.

“The Abbot?”

“You know?”

“I had a feeling.”

“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. They killed him.”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen, Jack. He was simply helping you.”

“He was a good man. If I hadn’t taken him the diary, none of this would have happened.”

“We choose our own paths, Jack.”

“I’m so, so sorry.”

“There is nothing to be gained from regret,” said Mrs Steadman. “The question is where do you go from here?”

“I have to stop them. I have to stop the Apostles.”

“Then do that. But be careful.”

“Everyone seems to be telling me that these days.”

“With good reason. And do not worry too much about the Abbot. Trust me, he is in a much better place now.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

She ended the call and Nightingale spent the rest of the afternoon reading the three books. It turned out that LaVey's Church Of Satan was the polar opposite of what he’d imagined a Satanist collective to be. For a start, they denied the very existence of Satan as an entity. The Satanic Bible described Satan
as a dark force of nature, the “Black Flame” representing the inner personality and desires. In LaVey's world there was nothing supernatural, neither God nor Devil. In fact Satanists were meant to be their own God. Most important of all from Nightingale’s point of view, there was no concept of sacrifice, since there was no entity to which anything could be sacrificed.

Whatever The Apostles believed in and were trying to achieve had nothing to do with traditional San Francisco Satanism, and went back a whole lot further. Which meant Nightingale was no closer to tracking them down.

Nightingale took a cab to the Blue Room, figuring that he’d be drinking and the SUV was best left in the hotel car park. He waited for several minutes to check that he wasn’t being tailed before walking inside. There was a long bar to the left and tables for drinkers on the right, and further down the room was a larger dining area and a young Asian girl dressed in black stood behind a lectern illuminated by a brass lamp. At the far end was a small stage with a piano and a drum set and several large speakers. He was early so he took a seat at the bar and ordered an Anchor. He was halfway through it when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Amy Chen smiling at him. “How are you finding the local beer?” she asked. She was wearing a black pant suit over a pale blue polo neck sweater. There was a small gold cross around the neck of her sweater.

“Truth be told, it found me,” he said, raising his glass.

There were two women standing behind Chen, a tall black girl in her twenties with long dreadlocks and razor-sharp cheekbones and a brunette with pretty much the longest legs he’d ever seen. “I assumed you’d be coming with colleagues,” he said.

 “How do you know they’re not cops?”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He raised his glass in salute. “Good evening, officers.”

“I’m a real estate agent,” said the brunette. “Melony. Melony Bagley.”

“I’m a cupcake maker,” said the black girl. “Misty. I’ll hold off telling you my surname until I know you better.”

“A cupcake maker?” repeated Nightingale.

“She makes the best cupcakes in San Francisco,” said Chen.

“Ah, that’s so sweet,” said the girl.

“And so are your cupcakes,” said Chen.

Nightingale held up his hands. “You’re not cops. I apologize.”

“What’s wrong with being a cop?” asked Chen.

“Nothing. I just meant…”

He stopped when he saw that Chen was laughing at him. “Its so easy to yank his chain,” Chen said to her friend and they all laughed.

“He’s a bit like Hugh Grant, isn’t he?” said Melony. “A younger version, anyway.”

“I was going to say Mr. Bean,” said Misty.

“Leave him alone, girls, he doesn’t have our American sense of humor.”

“Is there one?” asked Nightingale. He raised his glass. “Joke.”

“See, he has this thing where he says something insulting and then says ‘joke’ to take the edge of it,” said Chen.

“It doesn’t work, does it?” said Melony.

“It might for Hugh Grant,” said Misty.

“Why don’t you grab our table while I have a word with Jack,” said Chen, sliding on the stool next to him. She ordered a whiskey and Coke as the two girls went over to talk to the hostess.

“Did you get the dates of birth for me?” asked Nightingale.

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. She held it out to him but when he reached for it she moved it, just out of reach. “I looked at other missing persons, too.”

“And?’

 “I found two that had gone missing a week before a full moon. Well, one was four days before, one was three days before. I figured that would be about right.”

“Christians?”

Chen nodded. “One was a church organist in Oakland. Just vanished one Sunday afternoon after church. The other was a man who looked after the graveyard of a church in Daly City. But that doesn’t mean I subscribe to your cockamamie theory, okay?”

“Okay.”

She handed him the paper and he opened it.

“Were either of them married?” he asked as he scanned it.

Chen frowned. “No. Why?”

Nightingale paused before answering. “There’s another common factor, looks like. All the victims seem to be virgins.”

The couple sitting on their right looked over at Nightingale. The woman whispered something into her partner’s ear and he nodded. “I think we’d be better discussing this outside, don’t you?” said Chen. She nodded at a side door. “There’s a smoking area outside, at the back.”

“Perfect,” said Nightingale, sliding off his stool. “Because I’m a smoker.”

“Let me talk to my friends, they’ll be wondering what I’m up to,” she said. “Do you want to eat with us? The show starts in about an hour.”

“Just so long as you’re not trying to fix me up.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with my friends?”

“Joke,” said Nightingale.

“I’ve already told you, that shtick doesn’t work.”

“I’d love to join you,” said Nightingale.

“I’ll catch up with you outside.” Nightingale pushed his way through the door while Chen went over to her friends.