San Francisco Night (2 page)

Jack Nightingale frowned as he emerged into the Arrivals hall. On a list of things he hated, airplanes ranked just behind elevators, but nobody ever needed to spend four hours sitting in an elevator without a cigarette. Flying economy across a continent at two hours notice was no way to spend a day. He stopped walking and looked at the mass of people waiting to meet passengers, some holding up scrawled notices, others with iPads held aloft, the name neatly printed. He saw nobody he recognized amongst them.

“Jack.”

Nightingale turned and saw a tall, slim, black woman, dressed in what was probably a very expensive dark-blue pant-suit. He nodded at her. She didn’t smile.

“Valerie. You’re looking lovely as always.”

“Welcome to
San Francisco
,” she said. “No suitcase?”

Nightingale held up the small black leather holdall he was carrying. “I travel light,” he said.

“This way,” she said, and walked away.

Nightingale followed her as she threaded her way through the crowds, out through automatic doors, across a road towards a white limousine parked by the curb, engine running and a black man in a gray suit sitting behind the wheel.

The driver got out to open the door but Nightingale beat him to it. He held the door open for Valerie. She flashed him a tight smile and slid inside. Nightingale followed her.

The car drove off in the direction of the private aviation terminal, through a security barrier and out onto the apron to stop in front of a gleaming white Gulfstream jet. Valerie climbed out of the car and walked up the stairs to the plane’s open front door. Nightingale followed her inside.

Anyone seeing Joshua Wainwright for the first time might not immediately have jumped to the conclusion that he was a billionaire.  Not that a billionaire wasn’t entitled to wear a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap if he chose to, or be sitting back on a white leather sofa with his python-skin boots up on the table in front of him. The huge cigar he was smoking worked well for a man of extreme wealth, but Nightingale could never get over how young the perpetually smiling, slim, black Texan always looked. Mid twenties, maybe. Thirty at the most.

“Come on in, Jack,” said Wainwright, “take a load off. I guess you might be needing a cigarette right about now. Thank you Valerie, if you’d like to wait in the car Jack should be leaving in thirty minutes.”

Nightingale took the white leather armchair that Wainwright had waved him to and lit a Marlboro as Valerie headed out of the cabin. Wainwright let him smoke his way through half of it before breaking the silence. “Jack, you look like shit.”

“Flying cross-country does nothing for me or my clothes. I need a sleep and a shower. And I need to know what’s so urgent that I couldn’t have driven. You know I hate flying. Especially in economy.”

“Sorry, Jack. Last seat on the plane, that’s what Valerie told me.”

Nightingale smiled tightly. “First class was pretty much empty.”

Wainwright shrugged, then pressed the call button and a tall blonde appeared. She was wearing a stewardess uniform, though it looked to have been designed with more thought for form than function. The short skirt, tight jacket and high heels wouldn’t have passed muster with Delta, but it obviously worked for Wainwright. And Nightingale.

“Another Glenfiddich for me please, Amanda. You, Jack?”

“Coffee will be fine. Splash of milk.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the woman.

Amanda had a South African accent and a spectacular rear view, which Nightingale enjoyed as she walked away. She was back in a minute with the drinks, then disappeared to the rear cabin. Wainwright took a sip of his whiskey and lifted the glass to toast Nightingale. “Been a while, Jack.”

“I suppose it has,” replied Nightingale, “Too good to last. Still, always a pleasure.”

“How you been?” asked Wainwright. “How was Louisiana?”

“Hot and sweaty,” said Nightingale. “Why am I here?”

 “Got a little job for you, Jack. A task.” Wainwright lifted an attaché case onto the table and opened it. Nightingale was no authority on attaché cases, but he thought it had probably cost more than his last car.

Wainwright pushed three sheets of paper across to him. “Take a look at these.”

Nightingale studied the sheets for several minutes. They each bore a photograph and a list of personal details. Names, ages, occupations, descriptions, addresses. Time and place where last seen. Name of the person who had reported them missing, and to which police precinct. Sister Rosa Lopez, schoolteacher and nun, aged fifty-three. Suzanne Mills, college student, nineteen. Michael O’Hara, retired, eighty-three.

“Missing persons? You want me to find them?” asked Nightingale. “All by myself in a city of nearly a million people? Isn’t that what the cops are supposed to do?”

“I don’t think anyone will be finding them,” said Wainwright, “At least, not in this life.”

“So if they’re dead, why am I holding Missing Persons reports?”

“They’re dead. Murdered. I know that but the cops don’t. Yet.”

“And you’re not telling San Francisco’s finest because?”

“Because it’s not the victims I’m concerned about. It’s the killers. I want you to find them, not the cops.”

Wainwright’s smile had disappeared now, and his cigar lay neglected in the ashtray by his side.

“It’s one killer?”

Wainwright shook his head. “Killers, plural. A group. They call themselves the Apostles.”

“You want me to track down a group of killers? Why not just call the cops or the FBI? They have specialists.”

“These aren’t your run-of-the-mill killers, Jack. This is more your territory. Ritual killings. Based here in San Francisco. One of them got in touch a few days ago. He was in over his head and wanted out.”

Nightingale took a sip of his coffee.

“They kill people at their rituals, Jack. He’d been to two of them, the first one he said some girl got a spear pushed into her throat by a guy called Thomas. From the description he gave, it was this girl Mills, missing a month. The last one, two nights ago, they crucified a nun. Crucified her upside down then drank her blood. A girl calling herself Peter did that one.”

Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette. He looked down at the third photo.

“What about the old man?” he asked.

“The old man was a priest, he’s listed as missing from a retirement home, but my contact never mentioned him. The girl, Mills, was a theology student and sang in a church choir. Once I got the idea from her and the nun, we ran a search on missing religious figures. That’s the one we found. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’d gotten him too.”

“What about the bodies?”

“Disposed of. So the cops aren’t looking for killers.”

“Who’s your contact?”

“Guy called Lee Mitchell.”

“Where is he now?”

“I wish I knew. He phoned me, all in a panic. Now he’s disappeared.”

“And this group, the Apostles? What’s their story?”

“They use the names of Christ’s disciples. Except their leader.”

“Surely not Jesus?”

“No. The leader’s called Abaddon. She’s a woman but that’s all he knows. He hasn’t seen her face. Abaddon is an ancient name for the Angel Of Death. Mitchell was given the name of Simon. Each of the Apostles, as their initiation, needs to find and sacrifice a Christian. So there will be twelve killings in all.”

Nightingale stubbed out what was left of his cigarette. “Human sacrifice seems a little extreme. Is it normal in your world?” Nightingale knew of Wainwright’s reputation as a powerful Satanist, though he’d never seen any evidence of it. Or wanted to. 

Wainwright took a long drag on his cigar and shrugged. “Not so much these days. Shedding blood is a very powerful charm and it’s necessary in many advanced rituals, but usually a chicken, maybe a goat. Sacrificing a human within a circle stores up immense power for the members of that coven. Looks like these guys are into it big time, and that’s way too much power for people to have.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“I want to stop them before anyone discovers there is a Satanic link to the killings,” said Wainwright. “I don’t want Satanism splashed across the papers.”

“Giving you a bad name?”

“Satanism is best left where it belongs, in the shadows,” said Wainwright. “You know where the word ‘occult’ comes from?”

Nightingale shook his head.

“From the Latin, occultus. It means hidden. That’s how it’s meant to be, hidden from view. Look, Jack. These people aren’t just some street gang. And I don’t think they plan to stop at ritual killings. I don’t like this Biblical connection either, whatever Abaddon has in mind could well make the group far too powerful, and maybe a lot more people end up dead. Maybe they’re even trying something that could do real damage.”

“So why am I on the case? To protect you or to stop something bad happening?”

Wainwright pulled on his cigar as he studied Nightingale with amused eyes. “Does it matter?” he asked eventually.

Nightingale shrugged. “I guess not.” He put down the sheets of paper and lit another cigarette. “So do you have any idea who this woman might be?”

“Told you before, Jack. Chefs don’t share their recipes with other chefs, and people in my world guard our secrets jealously.”

“What do you think she’s planning?” asked Nightingale. “What is this bad thing?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out.” He gestured at the sheets of paper. “Find out about these three people, find out if there are any more missing. Track down the Apostles. Stop them.”

“Stop them how?”

“Anyway you need to.”

Nightingale blew a smoke ring. “I’m not an assassin, Joshua.”

“Just find out what’s happening then. And report back to me. We can cross the T’s and dot the I’s later. See if you can track down where the ceremonies are being held.”

“San Francisco is a big city.”

 “They blindfolded Mitchell since he wasn’t a full member. Made him leave his car twenty minutes away, then drove him. It’s a mansion, within twenty minutes drive, but he never saw the outside. With a crypt or a chapel built on, or maybe in the grounds.”

“And you know where this Mitchell lives?”

“I didn’t, but I do now. He was panicking when he called and for the first and only time he used his home phone. Up until that point he’d been using throwaway cellphones and all I had was his first name. I told him to get to the airport and when he didn’t turn up I got the number checked.” He handed Nightingale a photograph of a good-looking man in his mid twenties. “The address is on the back, plus the few details I have.”

Nightingale turned the photograph over. “He was a banker?”

Wainwright nodded.  “A high-flyer, he figured that Satanic power would help him fly higher.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“His car’s still in the drive and there’s no sign of a struggle, so your guess is as good as mine.”

“You went around?”

“I sent someone.”

“And these twelve Apostles. Is there any connection between them? Any link?”

‘”I don’t know,” said Wainwright. “Lee said he had recognized some of the people there but he wouldn’t give me any names until I pulled him out. I’ve arranged for any calls to the number he used to go straight to your cell.”

The cockpit door opened and a middle-aged man in a white shirt with black and yellow epaulettes stepped into the cabin.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Wainwright,” he said. “We’re scheduled to take off in ten minutes, unless you want me to take a later slot?”

“Ready when you are, Ed. My guest is just leaving. I’ll be in Rome for two days Jack, then I’ll check back with you.”

The captain went back into the cockpit as Wainwright and Nightingale shook hands. Nightingale put the photograph and sheets of paper in his pocket. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“The sooner the better,” said Wainwright. “You have to find what happened to those people and you have to make it stop. And, my friend, I don’t think you have a whole lot of time.”

They kept the children in separate rooms because that made it easier to control them. The rooms were in the basement at either end of a long corridor that could only be reached from a secret entrance hidden in a closet.  Three different construction firms had been hired to do the work, each believing that it was a wine cellar they were working on.

The rooms were windowless but had been decorated with cartoon characters on the wall and SpongeBob SquarePants duvet covers and pillows on the bed. There were buckets in the rooms and each day they were given a bowl of water to wash in. Bathrooms had never been a possibility as that would have raised questions with the contractors. There was a CCTV camera in a glass dome in one corner of each room so that the children could be monitored at all times by their guardians upstairs. Each child had an X-box and a selection of games and a
DVD
player with stacks of DVDs, mainly cartoons.

The doors were wood with bolts top and bottom, and totally soundproofed. Even if one of the children screamed nothing could be heard in the corridor, never mind upstairs. Not that the children did scream. They had both cried for a few hours when they were placed in the rooms but they soon got used to it.

The boy was called Brett. He was ten years old, pale-skinned with ginger hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He was big for his age and used to being the top dog in his class. He was an only child and had the arrogance of a kid who was used to getting his own way. The first time John had unbolted the door to give the boy a Burger King meal, the boy had demanded to be released as he’d glared up at him with his hands on his hips. John had said nothing, just thrust the meal into the boy’s hands and slammed the door shut.

The girl had been much more docile. Sharonda, her name was. Also ten years old, her skin the color of milk chocolate, her hair long and curly, tied back with a Barbie clip. She had stayed curled up on the bed for the first twenty-four hours, ignoring him when he’d brought her food.

Now it was the third day and they had both become resigned to their captivity. They both spent their time playing video games, watching DVDs, or sleeping. Both had asked if there was a bathroom they could use and both had been told to use the bucket.

John slid back the bolts to Brett’s room. The boy was sitting on his bed playing a war game on his X-box. The video games had been John’s idea. He figured the video games would take their minds off their predicament and so far it seemed to have worked. Brett looked up as the door opened. He scowled when he saw the Pizza Hut box that John was carrying. “I don’t like pizza,” he said.

“I’ll get you Burger King later,’ said John, tossing the box onto the bed.

“I want to go home,” said the boy, his eyes still on the screen.

“Soon,” said John. “We have to find your mother and father first.”

‘Where are they?”

‘We don’t know. That’s why you have to stay here.”

“I’m bored.”

“It won’t be long,” said John. He gingerly lifted the towel off the bucket. It was empty. “You haven’t been to the toilet.”

“I don’t want to,” said the boy.

“Suit yourself,” said John. He pulled the door closed and slid the bolts across. He’d left the second pizza on the floor and he picked it up and walked slowly down the corridor to the second cell.

The girl was already on her feet by the time he opened the door. “Can I go?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

Tears ran down her cheeks. “You said I could go home today.”

He handed her the pizza box. “I said maybe. We’re still looking for your mum.” Both children had been told the same lie, that something had happened to their mothers and that John would be taking care of them until the police found them. That was the lie that had got Brett and Sharonda into the car. James was upstairs, monitoring the cameras.

 “I need to use the bathroom.”

“That’s what the bucket is for.”

“I can’t use a bucket.”

“You have to.”

‘The men who brought us here said they were policemen.”

The Apostles who had picked up the kids had been wearing uniforms. People respected uniforms. Children and adults.

“They were.”

“But this isn’t a police station.”

“This is my house. The police station isn’t a nice place for children. It’s best you stay here until your mother turns up.”

“If it’s your house, it must have a bathroom. Why can’t I use the bathroom?”

“Because you’re safe down here. Now eat your pizza.”

“I don’t like pizza.”

“Everyone likes pizza.”

“I don’t.”

“Well what do you like to eat?”

“Mac and cheese.”

“Okay, I’ll get you mac and cheese.”

“I want my mom’s mac and cheese.”

“Then you’ll have to wait.”

John locked the door and climbed the stairs. He closed the trapdoor that concealed the stairs, and pushed open the door to the hallway. James was lying on a sofa, reading a book.  The CCTV monitors that gave views of the two cells and the walls surrounding the property were on the wall above a desk. James ran a hand through her long blonde hair. “How are they?” she asked.

“They’re eating. They both want to go home.”

James laughed and tossed her hair. “Well that’s not going to happen, is it?”

John shrugged. “So long as they’re quiet, that’s all that matters. I hate it when they cry.”