San Francisco Night (14 page)

There were four Apostles with Abaddon.  It wasn’t a full Sabbat, but a full Sabbat wasn’t called for, not for what Abaddon needed to do. She had chosen John, Thaddeus, Bartholomew and Philip. The room had been cleansed and the incense had been burning for a full thirty minutes. Abaddon nodded at Thaddeus and Thaddeus rang the bell he was holding. The temple was illuminated by flickering black candles, each half the height of a man. They were standing at the five points of a pentagram which had been outlined with sea salt. Abaddon raised her left hand and pointed around the circle in an anticlockwise direction, invoking the four crowned princes of Hell: Satan to the east, Beelzebub to the north, Astaroth to the west and Azazel to the south.

In the center of the pentagram was a silver bowl full of glowing coals that had been sprinkled with various herbs and potions. They hissed and sparked as Abaddon finished invoking the princes. “In nomine dei nostri Satanas, Luciferi Excelsi,” began Abaddon. She spoke Latin for the best part of five minutes. When she had finished she reached into her black robe and took out the credit card that Judas had given her. She raised the card above her head, spoke the last dozen words of the ritual, leaned forward and dropped the card onto the burning coals. It curled up, then burst into flames. There was a plume of green smoke that turned to black and then it was gone.

Abaddon raised both arms above her head. “It is done,” she said. “Satan be praised.”

“Satan be praised!” chorused the four Apostles. “Death to our enemy!”

Nightingale blew smoke up at the night sky.  He heard a piano start to play, followed almost immediately by a snare drum. It looked as if Chen had been wrong about the time the music started. He took another slow pull on his cigarette as he stared at the sheet of paper Chen had given him. It was a cold night and even with his raincoat on he still shivered. The famous San Francisco fog seemed to be on the move again, wet and clammy. He frowned as he stared at the cloying mist rolling down the alley towards him. The sea was a long way away and there had been no mist when he’d climbed out of the taxi.

The door opened and Chen appeared. “They’ve started early,” she said. “You’re still okay to eat with us? You seemed to have made a good impression on my friends.”

“Sure,” said Nightingale. He shivered and turned up the collar of his raincoat.

“Now what were you saying about virgins?”

“I just asked you if you thought these two were virgins or not. It’s a simple enough question.”

“It’s a ridiculous thing to ask.”

“Is it? We had a monk, a priest, a nun, a spinster. All virgins. What about the two you found?”

“I don’t want to play this game,” she said.

“Humor me, please.” His feet were starting to go numb so he stamped then to get the circulation going. “Were they married? Either of them?”

Chen sighed. “As it happens, no. The organist was a spinster. No husband, no kids. The man still lived with his mother.” She shrugged. “I think you’re reading too much into coincidences. The victims are all white but that doesn’t make them racist crimes. Not that we even know for sure that crimes have been committed.”

“There’s a pattern here, Amy. Can’t you see that?”

Chen sighed. “So now you’re telling me we’re looking for a serial killer who is targeting Christian virgins. That’s perverse. Really perverse.” She shivered. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Do you want to borrow my coat?”

“That’s a nice gesture, but no. Thanks.” She frowned. “It shouldn’t be this cold, not this time of the year.”

Nightingale nodded at the cross at her neck. “You’re a Christian?”

“You sound surprised. Why? Chinese can’t be Christians?”

“That’s not why I’m surprised. It’s just that religion and police work tend not to go hand in hand, as a rule.”

“Well I’m a Christian, yes. But if you dare to ask me if I’m a virgin you will get your face slapped.”  She frowned as she stared at the gathering mist. “What the hell is that?’

“Fog,” said Nightingale, slipping the sheet of paper into his raincoat pocket.

“That’s not fog,” she said. “I’ve lived here my whole life and that’s not San Francisco fog.”

Nightingale sniffed the air. “Well it’s not smoke.”

As they stared down the alley the mist began to darken and to swirl around.

Nightingale cursed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Chen.

“I’ve seen something like this before.”

The mist was coalescing, dark shapes moved within it and there was a dry, rustling sound like the wind moving through dead leaves.

 “What is it?” said Chen.

Nightingale put a hand on her shoulder. “Just move away, Amy.”

A face appeared in the left of the fog. A young boy, his face a mass of bruises. The mouth moved soundlessly, and then melted back into the fog.

“Jack, what the hell is that?”

 “Just back away, Amy.”

Another face appeared in the mist. An old woman, her eyebrows pencil-thin and her lips curled back in a snarl. The fog was gray at the edges, almost black in the centre. Flecks of something glinted under the streetlights. The face melted back into the fog. The mist now filled the alley. There was no way of getting past it.

“Don’t touch it,” said Nightingale, remembering what the fog had done to the Rottweiler in Mitchell’s house.

Chen fumbled for her gun.

It was only feet from her and Nightingale pulled her back. “Keep away from it,” he said.

Chen pulled out her gun, held it with both hands and fired twice, the shots deafening in the confined space of alley. Both shots went through the darkest part of the fog and hit the wall of the alley.  The face of a young man appeared with an ugly knife wound across his face. She fired another two shots and both hit the face, but it rippled and vanished and the rounds buried themselves in the wall.

 “Bullets won’t work!” shouted Nightingale.

“Well what the hell will?” shouted Chen.

Nightingale reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver cross and the penknife. He tossed the cross at her. “Hold this,” he said.

She looked at the cross in astonishment as he opened the penknife, then fired two more shots at the fog.

“I told you, bullets won’t do any good!” he shouted. He lashed out with the silver blade. The fog seemed to laugh at him, there was a deep throbbing sound from within and it pulsed like a living thing. He slashed the knife back and forth but it had no effect and the fog continued to slide towards them. He threw the knife at the centre of the fog but it went straight through and clattered against the alley wall.

Chen fired two more shots at almost point blank range and there was angry roar from within the mist.

He pushed her back and the gun fell from her hands. She bent down to pick it up and the fog lurched towards her.  Nightingale pushed her again. “Get away, Amy!” he shouted. “Get away from it!”

The mist had moved around them so that they were now hemmed against the wall.  “Jack, what’s happening?”

“Don’t let it touch you!” he shouted.

The lead bullets hadn’t hurt the fog. Neither had the silver knife. He was running out of options. He saw the can of mace on Chen’s hip and grabbed it. “You think mace will hurt it when bullets went right through?” asked Chen.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette lighter. “Mace probably not, but fire might,” he said. He pressed the trigger of the mace can and sprayed the fog. As soon as the mace began to spray he flicked his cigarette lighter and held the flame under the stream. It ignited immediately and he played the flame over the mist. There was a hideous, ear-shattering scream from within it and the mist curled back. Screaming faces appeared. A man. A woman. A baby. Something that looked like a wolf but with cat-like eyes. A blank mask with no eyes and an open mouth. All of them screaming.

Nightingale stepped forward and aimed the flame at the black heart of the mist. The scream intensified and then there was a blue flash and the fog folded in on itself and vanished. The screams stopped the instant the fog disappeared.

Nightingale took his finger off the trigger and the flame died. He gave the can of mace back to an astonished Chen and pocketed the lighter.

“Jack, what just happened?” she asked, her voice trembling.

 “It’s okay, it’s over,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and putting his face close to hers. She shuddered, barely able to focus. He stared into her eyes. “Come on, Amy. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

She nodded. “I’m okay.”

She was still holding the silver cross and he took it from her, then he picked up the penknife, closed it, and slipped it and the cross into his raincoat pocket.

Chen was still staring at him, her mouth wide open.

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“I, I…” she started, but was unable to find the words.

Nightingale looked down the alley to his right. A middle-aged couple in near-matching coats were staring at them. They had probably heard the shots but Nightingale wasn’t sure what they had seen. The woman was pointing. Nightingale heard a squeal of brakes and a police cruiser pulled up, its lights flashing but no sound from the siren.

Chen stared down at her gun on the ground, then over at the cruiser. “I’m in so much shit, Jack,” she said.

“Why?”

“Why? Are you shitting me? I’ve just fired my gun half a dozen times in a city street. What do I tell them I was shooting at, Jack? A fog with heads in it? And where is it? If I tell them that, I’ll be on psych leave so fast that my feet won’t touch the ground and then I’ll be out on my ear.”

“It’s gone.”

“I know it’s gone. I can see it’s gone. That means I was firing at nothing and cops who go around shooting at shadows are out on their ear
PDQ
. I am so screwed.”

She was looking around frantically. The doors to the police cruiser opened and two uniformed officers climbed out, their hands moving towards their holsters. A second cruiser arrived and parked behind the first. They could hear sirens in the distance. “Here they come,” she said. “Shit.”

“Look at me, Amy,” said Nightingale.

She looked at him, panic in her eyes.

“I’m here, there’s two of us and I can back up any story you want to tell them.”

“Police! Put your hands in the air!” The two cops had drawn their weapons and were advancing cautiously into the alley. The couple in the long coats had hurried away.

Chen’s eyes darted in their direction. “Don’t look at them, Amy. Look at me. Here’s what we tell them. I came out of the restaurant for a smoke. Two guys came up, pulled knives and said they wanted my wallet. You came through the door and saw what was happening. You pulled your gun. They charged at you and you fired warning shots. They ran.”

“Police, put your hands above your heads!”

“Two guys, both white, wearing denim jackets and jeans. Meth-heads. Wide eyes, bad skin, they had the shakes. One of them had lizard cowboy boots. He had a switchblade. The other guy had a hunting knife. Got it?”

“Got it.” He could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

“Sure?”

“Two white guys wearing denim jackets and jeans. The one with a switchblade had lizard cowboy boots. The other had a hunting knife. They were mugging you.”

“The one with the switchblade went for you. You fired warning shots. They ran off that way,” said Nightingale, nodding at the alley to his left. The cops were still advancing on his right.

“Got it.” She sounded more sure now.

Nightingale smiled and slowly raised his hands. “It’ll be fine,” he said.

“You’ve clearly lied to cops before,” said Chen, following his example and putting her hands above her head.

“Sometimes you have to,” said Nightingale.

Chen turned towards the advancing uniforms. “I’m Inspector Amy Chen of the Family Crimes Unit. My handgun is on the ground. My ID is in my back pocket.”

“Keep your hands above your head,” shouted one of the uniforms.

“I am doing,” said Chen. “Just be careful there. There have been enough shots fired tonight.”

“Tell me again, from the top,” said the detective. His name was Matt Richards and he was with Internal Affairs. He was sitting opposite Nightingale in an interview room. His colleague was a few years younger, Sal Mancino, and he was standing just behind Nightingale’s right shoulder. Mancino had barely said a word during the thirty-minute interview though Nightingale suspected that he was the senior officer. Richards was a big man, well over six feet, with a weightlifter’s physique and a military crew cut. Mancino was taller and softer, and his jet black hair glistened as if he’d run gel through it before starting his shift.

Four cruisers had arrived at the alley eventually, and the uniforms had insisted that Chen and Nightingale wait until Internal Affairs had arrived. One of the uniforms, a sergeant, had taken Chen’s gun and given it to Mancino when he had turned up in a gray sedan.

The uniforms had kept Nightingale and Chen separate and they were taken to the precinct in different cars, Chen riding with the two Internal Affairs detectives and Nightingale in the back of a cruiser.

They had questioned Chen first while Nightingale had sat alone nursing a tepid coffee in the interview room. When the two detectives eventually came into the room they didn’t have any recording equipment and they didn’t read him his rights, and he took that as a good sign. He didn’t bother asking if he could smoke. Richards had started by asking what had happened and Nightingale told them the story he’d agreed with Chen. Richards had listened without any reaction and when Nightingale had finished, the detective switched tack and asked about Nightingale’s background and why he was in the States. Nightingale stuck to his private detective story and told them that he had been hired by relatives of Father Mike. Again that obviously matched what Chen had told them so they didn’t call him on it. Richards then asked him to run him through what had happened again, obviously checking for inconsistencies.

Over the next hour he was asked to tell the story four times. Now Richards was asking for the fifth. There was no point in showing his annoyance, they were only doing their jobs. So he settled back in his chair, linked his fingers and ran through it again. He’d left the bar to have a cigarette. Two men had approached him, brandishing knives. He had been about to hand over his watch and wallet when the door had opened and Chen had appeared. One of the men had attacked her, the one with the switchblade and the cowboy boots. She had identified herself as a policewoman and fired the gun, several times. Nightingale couldn’t remember how many shots. The men had run off and Chen had fired again as she shouted at them to stop. The men had run out of the alley and away. At that point the first cruiser had arrived.

Richards looked up at Mancino and Nightingale sensed that Mancino was nodding. “I don’t think we need to detain you any longer,” said Richards. “It sounds as if you had a lucky escape.”