San Francisco Night (21 page)

Chen had picked up a large pepperoni pizza on the way home and she tossed it onto the coffee table and headed to the kitchen area while Nightingale took off his raincoat. She returned with two bottles of beer and gave one to him. “So what did you think?”

“About what?”

“About the movie star.”

Nightingale shrugged. “She’s got a presence, all right. Star quality.” He sat down on one of the sofas.

“It’s strange, she’s not traditionally beautiful. Her face isn’t completely symmetrical, did you notice? One eye is a slightly different shape.”

“I didn’t see that.”

“Clearly. You were too busy salivating over her.” She dropped down onto the sofa next to him.

“I was not.”

Chen shrugged. “Suit yourself. But your tongue was practically hanging out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re right about her presence. She does have that whole movie star thing down pat, doesn’t she? As if she’s the center of the known universe. And the camera loves her.” She sipped her beer. “You seriously think that her success is down to devil-worship?”

“That’s how it works,” said Nightingale. “Those that follow the Left Path get certain benefits. Charisma is one of them. What most people call luck can also be the result of demonic interference.”

Chen’s eyes narrowed. “You really believe Lucille Carr has done a deal with the devil?”

“With a devil, possibly. But she hasn’t sold her soul. That would bar her from becoming an Apostle.”

“How the hell do you know all this?”

Nightingale shrugged. “A misspent youth,” he said. “Can we use that to do Google searches and stuff?” he asked, nodding at the big-screen TV. “I want to see if Dukas was right about there being a connection between Satanism and the 1906 earthquake.”

“Sure,” she said. “Let me get the keyboard.” She retrieved it from the desk and this time flopped down on the sofa opposite Nightingale, who had already helped himself to a slice of pizza. “What do you need?”

“Try San Francisco, 1906 and earthquake.”

She did and shook her head. “A million and a half hits,” she said.

“Try using Satanism instead of earthquake.”

She followed his instructions. “More than 16 million hits,” she said. “That’s because there are a lots of references to Satanism on the internet. Let’s see what happens if I put a plus sign before each word.”

“How does that help?”

“That means all the terms have to be in any hit, not just one.” She hit the enter button. “There you go, no hits at all, There is nothing that contains San Francisco, 1906 and Satanism.”

“So Dukas is wrong? Or lying to me?”

“You sound surprised. You used to be a cop, you know that people rarely tell the truth.”

“He seemed to be sure.”

“Not everything got into the papers back then,” said Chen. “And if it didn’t get published, it wouldn’t be on the internet now.”

Nightingale picked up the iPad and tapped the tracker app. He looked at the screen. “They’re both back at home,” he said.

She came over and sat down next to him. He held the screen so that they could both see it. “Lucille hasn’t left her house,” said Chen.

“Speckman was down at Fisherman’s Wharf for a while. And what’s this place?”

“TV studio,” said Chen. “KPIX, Channel 5. It’s part of CBS. Probably an interview.”

Chen picked up her beer. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Not a problem, I can take care of myself. Do you want me to look for a hotel?”

“I’m in two minds about that,” she said. “I’m not thrilled about having you on my sofa, but at least this way I can keep an eye on you.”

“It’s not for much longer, it’ll all be over by Wednesday, one way or another.”

Chen bit down on her lower lip.

“We’ll find them,” said Nightingale.

“God, I hope so.”

The eleven Apostles were there, and so was Simon. The new Simon would be the twelfth and last. The room had been thoroughly cleansed. Thaddeus and John had done the cleaning and it had taken them three hours. When they had finished the temple had smelled of bleach, but they had sprinkled fresh herbs on the ground and incense had been burning in brass bowls for more than an hour. Tall black candles spluttered as they cast flickering shadows against the temple walls.

The Apostles filed into the temple and formed a circle around the altar. They had all bathed before donning their black robes. They were carrying musical instruments. Bells, tambourines, whistles, even a lute. Noise was important. The Devil and his minions abhorred silence. Abaddon was holding a large bell in her left hand. The bell was more than a hundred years old, its oak handle blackened from years of use. She raised the bell and rang it hard. The Apostles joined in and soon the temple was echoing to a cacophony of random sounds. It went on for a full five minutes and then they stopped as one.

“It is time!” shouted Abaddon.

John and Thaddeus left the temple. They returned a few minutes later with Martha Hyde, stripped, bound and gagged and ready to be sacrificed. It had been easy to take Martha Hyde. She lived by herself in a rambling old house in an older part of town. Philip had been watching her for some time and had discovered that she’d been born in the house, and had lived there all her life, in later years sharing it with her sister, who had died the year before. She rarely left the house, except to shop and to toddle to the neighborhood church for Mass every Sunday. Promising, but The Apostles needed to be sure, so Simon had performed the Spell of Singularity to make sure she had never been with a man. He had sacrificed a virgin chick, smeared the blood on the woman’s photo and then set it on fire with a black candle while chanting a Greek sentence. The photo had burnt with white smoke, not black. Martha Hyde was a virgin.

Taking her had been simplicity itself, Simon had bumped against her in the street and spilled her shopping. As he apologized profusely and helped her pick it up, he had pushed the hypodermic into her and she had collapsed against him almost at once. By then John had parked the car next to him and the two men helped her inside. The limousine’s blacked-out rear windows meant nobody could see her, and the whole operation took less than a minute. John had driven her to his mansion home, where she still slept. There would be no need to wake her until just before the sacrifice. She had probably been missed at the previous day’s mass but that was of no importance.

Her eyes were wide and fearful as they carried her into the temple and strapped to the altar. Once the straps were in place, her arms and legs were untied, and she was left to writhe impotently against the strong leather that held her.

Bartholomew walked in an anticlockwise direction, sprinkling herbs on the candles. The flames hissed like angry snakes.

The apostles filed in, black candles were lit and herbs sprinkled into the burners. Abaddon rang the bell, then invoked the four crowned princes of Hell and rang the bell again. Then she spoke one word. “Simon.”

Simon stepped forward, picked up the equipment from the small table near the altar and walked slowly toward the sacrifice. He had thought of a chain saw at first, but rejected it as too noisy and impersonal.  He had settled on a bone saw, which he’d bought from a medical supplies company, along with the leather tourniquets. He slipped the first one over Martha Hyde’s left arm, just above the elbow and tightened it viciously. The old woman strained against the straps and screamed silently into the gag, but Simon was merciless.

He placed the saw just below her elbow, pressed down and began to cut.

The saw was of excellent quality, and the amputation was surprisingly quick. The severed arm fell to the floor, the tourniquet did its work of limiting the blood loss. Simon didn’t want the sacrifice to bleed out before he was ready. The old woman appeared to have fainted with the pain, at least she gave no reaction when Matthew placed a tourniquet just above her right elbow. The feet came next, but the tourniquets were less effective there, and blood loss was now a serious problem. Simon put down the saw and picked up the short copper knife and brass bowl. In one savage movement, he severed the old woman’s throat and filled the bowl with her blood. The rest of the dismemberment could take place later.

Abaddon spoke again.

“Simon, you are now fully initiated amongst us. Disrobe, and present yourself to us...”

When the presentation was over, Abaddon addressed them again.

“My followers, the first part of our ritual is now complete, after so many months. You have all sacrificed a virgin and drunk their blood. Our circle is complete, the power is complete within it, and you can now celebrate its completion. In the main dining room, as usual, you’ll find the banquet set out, and all you need to celebrate our final initiation. Enjoy yourselves and each other. I won’t be able to join you on this occasion, as I need to remain untouched until after the final ceremony, to preserve my power. The next time we meet, in just forty-eight hours, will see the culmination of everything we have worked for.  The final sacrifices of the white cock and the black hen will be enacted and then Bimoleth will join with us, bringing undreamed power, and bringing you your reward for such faithful service. Finally the work of my great-grandmother will be completed, and Bimoleth will be set free to claim his vengeance. When we next meet, it will be for the final time.”

The ritual answer came from twelve mouths at once.

“Thy Will be my Will, O Abaddon.”

“May Satan be with you all,” said Abaddon.  She rang the bell again and they began to file out of the temple.

Nightingale was startled from his sleep by the buzzing of the intercom. He padded over and pressed the button. “Yeah?” he said sleepily.

“It’s Dragan. I’ve got something for you.”

“A book?”

“No flies on you, Nightingale. Buzz me in.”

Nightingale pressed the button to open the door downstairs. Chen’s bedroom door opened and she ran a hand through her hair as she squinted at him. “Who is it?”

“Dragan. He has the book for me.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven.”

“How does a book get delivered at seven in the morning?”

“I’m guessing that Wainwright had it flown in.”

Chen rubbed her face. “I’ve got to be in the office at nine.”

“No problem, I can look after myself today.”

“I’m going to need the car.”

“I’ll use taxis.”

Chen nodded. “Cool. Make me coffee, will you, while I shower.” She closed the door. Nightingale pulled on his shirt and jeans before there was a knock on the door. He opened it and Dragan handed him a leather briefcase. “With Mr. Wainwright’s compliments,” he said. “You’re to call me and give me the money when you have it.”

Nightingale took the briefcase and thanked him.

“You planning on being busy today?” asked Dragan.

“Here and there, I’ll be using cabs. I’ll be up at Nob Hill later this morning.”

“Same places as yesterday? Steiner Street?’

“You were there?”

Dragan grinned. “Of course we were there. And up to the Carr place, too. That’s what surveillance means, Jack. We watch you, Like hawks.”

Nightingale nodded, impressed. “I didn’t see you.”

“We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if you did,” said Dragan. “Be lucky.” He waved and headed down the corridor.

Nightingale closed the door and made two coffees. He decided to have a go at breakfast and had managed to scramble half a dozen eggs by the time Chen reappeared, wearing a black pant suit and a dark blue shirt, her gun on her hip. “What are your plans for today?” she asked.

“I’ll take the book to Dukas and see what he gives me in exchange. I’ll probably pop over to see Gabriel Starr. And I’ll keep an eye on the tracking units.”

She nodded. “I’ll take one of the iPhones. But call me if anything happens, I’m not going to be able to sit glued to the screen.” She nodded at the eggs. “Are those all for you?”

Toast popped out of the toaster. “I wanted to make you breakfast. To show my appreciation and all that.”

He put the toast on a plate, divided the eggs in half and sat down at the breakfast bar with her. “You’ll make someone a wonderful wife,” she said.

“Chance’ll be a fine thing.”

“Only two more days to go before the blue moon,” she said.

“I know.”

“You’re sure about this? You’re sure that this is all real, the whole human sacrifice thing?”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

She shrugged. “It’s just so fantastic,” she said.

Nightingale reached over for the iPad, switched it on and tapped on the tracker app. He cursed as he stared at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” asked Chen, a forkful of eggs frozen in the air.

He showed her the screen. The lines of the two cars had intersected. She put down her fork and took the iPad from her. “Two o’clock in the morning,” she said. “Stationary for two hours. Leaving at four. She was in the Mercedes.”

“The witching hour,” said Nightingale.

“I thought the witching hour was midnight?’ She used her fingers to home in on the place where the two vehicles had intersected.

“Three o’clock in the morning. They say that Jesus died at three o’clock in the afternoon so Satanists use three a.m. as their most potent time.”

“Oh my God,” said Chen, her eyes widening as she stared at the screen. “Take a wild guess where they went last night?”

“The Elms Mansion,” said Nightingale. “Home of Jerry King and Suzi Brook.”

“You got it in one.” She put down the iPad. “Does that mean the children are dead? Did it happen last night while we were asleep.”

“I’ll check with the crystal as soon as you go,” he said. “I’ll call you. There could have been another ceremony, Starr was sure that the day was the blue moon on Wednesday.”

Chen looked at her watch. “Damn, I’ve got to go. I’ve a case meeting at nine.” She bolted down the last of her eggs, drank her coffee and hurried out.