San Francisco Night (22 page)

Nightingale showered and put on the robe and used the crystal over the hairbrush and baseball cap. Ten minutes later he was satisfied that Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker were still alive. He phoned Chen and told her.

“There’s no doubt?”

“The crystal behaved exactly the same way as last time.”

“So what happened last night? What were Speckman and Carr doing?”

“Maybe another ritual,” said Nightingale. “A rehearsal. Who knows? Amy, we need to get inside The Elms.”

“That’s not going to happen without a warrant. And I doubt any judge will give us a warrant based on a crystal and illegally-planted trackers.”

“We got inside the homes of Speckman and Carr.”

“We got to see their cars. There’s a big difference between that and looking for a Satanic temple at The Elms. They’re not going to let us wander around opening doors, are they.”

“But what if the kids are being held there?”

“The only evidence we have for that is the crystal ball,” said Chen. “Do you think any judge is going to take that seriously? Look, that meeting is about to start. Let’s talk later.”

“Can we at least take a run up there after you’ve finished work?”

“Maybe,” she said. The line went dead.

Nightingale dressed and an hour later he stepped out of a taxi in front of Dukas’s house. He was carrying the  briefcase that Dragan had given him. He looked around but couldn’t see any sign of Dragan or his team. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, letting him know he’d received a text message. He fished out the phone. It was from Dragan. “
DON
’T WORRY, WE’RE HERE”. Nightingale smiled as he put the phone away. Damn, Dragan was good.

 The maid showed him into Dukas’s study again. Still the pretty young Latina didn’t speak, and Nightingale really was beginning to wonder whether she was dumb. Dukas greeted him and rubbed his hands together as Nightingale put the briefcase on the desk and opened it. The little man was again immaculately dressed, this time in a blue blazer and black slacks, a white shirt and a blue and red striped tie. He picked up the book reverently, sniffed it and then gently opened it as if he feared he might damage the spine. “You have no idea how long I have craved this volume, Mr. Nightingale,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing it to me.”

“Just so long as Mr. Wainwright gets his money and I get the information I need,” said Nightingale.

Dukas opened a drawer and took out a cashier’s check. “I’m assuming that Mr. Wainwright does not insist on cash,” he said.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy with a check,” said Nightingale. He took it from Dukas, put it in his raincoat pocket, and sat back on the sofa. Dukas reached forward and pressed an electric bell on his desk. Conchita opened the door almost at once. “Conchita, a hookah, if you please.” He looked over at Nightingale. “Will you take one sir?”

“I prefer cigarettes if that’s OK,” said Nightingale.

“As you please the smell does not offend me, and some brandy, Conchita.”

“Not for me,” said Nightingale. “It’s a little early.”

“Bring two glasses anyway, Conchita, you may well be needing one, sir when you have heard what I have to tell you.”

Neither of them spoke until Conchita had placed the hookah in front of Dukas, and a silver tray with a bottle and two glasses between them. Dukas filled both glasses, then took a long suck on the hookah. Nightingale lit a cigarette but ignored the brandy in front of him. Dukas took a drink, and puffed at his hookah again. Finally he broke the silence.

“Now, sir. Ordinarily I would never speak of this to anyone, but the circumstances are alarming, and I also wish to earn my prize. The Grimoire Of Hippolyta gives a description of just such a ritual and such sacrifices as you mention. It is a brutal and Godless process, yet it is just a beginning. A system for storing up power in a circle before the Adepts use that power to perform the final abomination. A ritual performed at least once before, in 1906. By my great great-aunt. The book also contained a letter, written by my great-grandfather, detailing the circumstances of her treachery. I mentioned to you yesterday that my great-grandfather’s book had been copied It was his sister who copied it, drew immense strength from it and dared to attempt the ritual.”

“Causing the earthquake?” asked Nightingale,

“Pure conjecture,” said Dukas. “The story told in the letter was that she tried to perform a forbidden ritual, though until I read the book last night I had no idea of the full extent of it. She and all her circle died in the earthquake, or subsequent fire, and her house was destroyed. Apparently her name was never to be mentioned in the family again. Her husband had killed himself a year before this, and only her daughter survived, and inherited enough to make her a rich woman at just two years old. Extremely rich by the time her trustees handed over her fortune on her twenty-first birthday. By my father’s time he had lost touch with that branch of the family. I have never bothered to try to find them, and I consider them lost. Unsurprisingly, no woman has ever wished to breed with me, and, in any event, I would not wish to risk passing on my deformity to a future generation. As far as I am concerned the Dukas line dies with me, and I wished to have no dealings with the descendants of the witch Agatha.”

“Tell me more about the ritual.”

“You know the first part, sir,” said Dukas. “The slaughter of twelve virgins within the circle in a hideous parody of the deaths of the apostles.”

“But why?” asked Nightingale.

“To draw down power for the final act.”

Nightingale looked at the man’s small hands which were shaking as he lifted his glass again. He was terrified, reluctant to give out any information, possibly regretting ever reading the Grimoire. Nightingale spoke softly, trying to persuade the man to take the final step and confide fully in him. “I need to know, Mr. Dukas, if I’m going to prevent it.”

“I doubt you, or anyone else could. It is the Rite of... Bimoleth.”

Dukas pronounced the name slowly and dramatically, as if expecting a reaction. Nightingale didn’t oblige.

“What’s a Bimoleth?” he asked eventually.

Dukas dropped his voice, until it was barely a whisper. He kept glancing around the room, as if he expected to be overheard by someone. “Be thankful you have never heard of it before,” he said. “Soon you will wish you never had. It is an ancient story, known to a few, and rarely spoken of. I had heard of it from my father, and he from his father. It is a story which came from the East, reached Europe, Greece and then traveled to the New World.”

Nightingale was beginning to lose patience, but kept quiet. Dukas seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to hurry him. Let the man tell it at his own pace.

“In ancient times, or so the story runs, Bimoleth was a demon. A Prince among demons. It sat at Satan’s right hand with the other Princes and ruled armies of minor demons elementals and abhumans. A trusted aide to the Lord Of This World, but an immensely powerful and ruthless creature. Equal in power to Astaroth, Beelzebub, Choronzon.”

“I’ve heard of the others, but not Bimoleth,” said Nightingale.

Dukas frowned in annoyance at the interruption, took another puff at his hookah, but continued.

“Quite. The legend says that Bimoleth was a creature of unbounded ambition and intense hatred. It rebelled against Satan himself, tried to lead a demon army against the Fallen Angel in an attempt to seize control of this world from him. A foolish endeavor, since Satan and his Princes were too strong, and its rebellion was crushed. Then there came a difficulty. Satan would have slain it, but none but God himself can destroy a Prince, so he was unable since he would not seek God’s help. Yet, he could not permit such a dangerous creature to continue to live. So, Bimoleth was placed in Limbo, for all eternity, only to be released at the End Of Days, when all will be judged. Its name was never to be spoken, and it should be as if it never existed.”

Nightingale took a long sip of the brandy, and lit another cigarette. Dukas went on with his story.

“For immeasurable time, Bimoleth has waited in Limbo, its hatred growing ever stronger, but it has been decreed that it shall never be released. Its name is all but forgotten, and I had thought never to hear it pronounced again in my lifetime.”

“You keep saying it,” said Nightingale. “Most of the demons I’ve heard spoken about were male or female.”

“I am not sure the concept applies, I have never met a demon and have no wish to. It is true, some have a gender ascribed to them, but never Bimoleth. Always ‛it’ for that creature.”

“OK, so it’s a nasty piece of work, but what’s it got to do with the Apostles sacrificing virgins and abducting kids?”

“It seems that the Apostles are trying to re-enact the ritual which Agatha Dukas failed to perform correctly all those years ago.”

“And caused the Earthquake?” said Nightingale. “I checked, there’s no proof of that.”

“That probably is just a rumor, though a credible one, great power would have been released. The location of the ritual is critical, as well as the timing, it must be performed where there is a fault in the earth, where power and energy can easily cross over.”

“The San Andreas Fault?” said Nightingale.

“Exactly,” said Dukas. “The very thing which renders the ritual possible also vastly increases the danger. So much energy in one place.”

“So what is this Ritual?” Nightingale needed an answer now. “Spit it out. What are they trying to achieve?”

“Quite simply, it is a ritual by which Bimoleth may be freed to walk the Earth once again, and take control of it. Or destroy it.”

“But why? Why would anyone want to free this thing, if it would lead to so much destruction?”

“The usual reason,” said Dukas. “The lust for power urged on by overweening, stupidity. Perhaps they imagine that if they could control Bimoleth, then they would rule the world. The arrogance. Impossible of course, no humans could control a demon, I doubt they would survive long enough to appreciate what they had done. And then, of course, there is the fact that Lucifer himself is the Lord Of Misrule, so creating chaos is an end in itself, and it is hard to imagine greater chaos than Bimoleth walking the Earth.”

“But if Bimoleth is an enemy of Satan, how can setting him free to wreak havoc serve Satan’s purpose?” asked Nightingale.

Dukas thought for a moment.

“It appears illogical,” he said. “Yet chaos is, as I said, an end in itself, and perhaps there can be no rules to it.”

“What has your family got to do with it all?” asked Nightingale.

“We are of Greek origin, said to be descendants of Hippolyta herself, and the book has been in the family for generations. It came with us when my ancestors came to America, and we have guarded it well. Always we were warned against its power. It was passed from father to son, though it came with a solemn warning against allowing the women of the family to study it, but those were less enlightened times. I heard rumors in my youth that an acquaintance of my great-grandfather took a copy of some parts of the book around the turn of the last century and attempted a ritual from it. Neither they nor the coven survived the attempt.”

Dukas drained his brandy glass, pushed away the hookah and rang the bell.

“What about stopping it? How can the ritual be stopped?’

“The Grimoire does not contain that information. But I shall look elsewhere in my collection. There may be a clue there. Can you come back tomorrow?”

“We’re running out of time,” said Nightingale. “The blue moon is just forty-eight hours away.”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Nightingale. Please come back tomorrow at the same hour, and I hope to have more information for you then. And I suggest you take great care, these are not people who will care to have their plans thwarted.”

Nightingale nodded. “I’d already reached that conclusion myself,” he said.

Nightingale stood outside Dukas’s house, a Marlboro between his fingers to settle his shaken nerves. The story of Bimoleth would have struck him as ludicrous a few years before; now it chilled him to his soul. He knew what even minor demons were capable of, but the concept of a Prince of Hell let loose on the earth was unimaginable. A black SUV drove by, slowly. Nightingale tensed then he saw that the driver was a young blonde woman and there were two young children in car seats sitting in the back and he forced himself to relax.  He called Wainwright. “Jack? You getting anywhere?”

“Maybe, this guy Dukas is well informed. A member of his family was involved in something similar a hundred years ago. The killings have all been part of a greater plan, Joshua. It’s about a Coven storing power, by human sacrifice. Murdering virgins in the manner of the deaths of the original Disciples. Then there’s apparently a final ritual which involves the sacrificing of two kids. That’ll be the two kids who’ve gone missing here.”

“But why? There’s no power to be gained from all that blood.”

“It’s not about power, it’s about freeing a demon. Bimoleth.”

There was a short pause. “He said that? He said Bimoleth.” Wainwright’s voice had gone down an octave.

“Yes, and it’s all going to happen on Wednesday, the night of the blue moon.”

“Can you stop it?”

“Maybe. I’m pretty sure I know where it’s going to happen. At the very least I can call the cops and get them to stop it.”

“I’d be happier if the cops were kept out of it, Jack.”

“Yeah, and I’d be happier if I was a couple of inches taller and a few million richer.”

“I’m just saying, the cops will ask questions.”

“If they get the two kids back alive, that’s all they’ll care about. They’ll put the Apostles down as serial-killing nutters and move on. Now what can you tell me about this Bimoleth?”

 “I can tell you that a Prince of Hell loose on Earth is bad news for everybody, Jack.”

 “I would have thought you’d have been in favor of it,” said Nightingale. “Don’t you serve the Lord Of Misrule? Wouldn’t chaos be right up your street?”

“You’re trying to simplify things you have no understanding of,” said Wainwright. “Those who serve The Lord Of This World would never want to bring about the End Of Days by themselves. It’s too much, too huge a catastrophe. It has to be stopped.”

“Look, Joshua, I’m just an ex-cop,” said Nightingale. “How about some help here, you know a lot more about this world than I ever will. What should I do?”

“Jack, I have no idea,” said Wainwright. “This is so far beyond anything I’ve even heard about, much less experienced. My best guess is that you need to stop this on the Earthly plane. Stop the Ritual before it’s complete, don’t try to deal with a demon once it’s been let loose. I’m going to ask a few questions, look at some books, but I’m not hopeful I’ll come up with much. This is something from the Old World, not the new.”

“So it looks like I’m on my own,” said Nightingale. “Surprise, surprise.”

Wainwright ended the call and Nightingale put his phone away. He walked down Nob Hill while he finished his cigarette and then flagged down a passing taxi and asked the driver to drop him at Haight Street. The Written In The Stars shop was shut. There was a sign in the window saying CLOSED. Nightingale peered through the window but there was no one inside. He pulled out his phone and called Starr’s number but it went straight through to voicemail. He put his phone away and lit a cigarette. He had a bad feeling about the shop being shut on a Monday afternoon.

The shop next door sold framed prints and maps. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bald middle-aged man with a spreading beard frowned at him over the top of pince-nez spectacles. “No smoking,” he snapped. “Absolutely no smoking.”

Nightingale stuttered an apology, threw his cigarette into the gutter and went back into the shop, holding his empty hands aloft. “Sorry,” he said.

“Disgusting habit,” said the man.

“Absolutely.”

“My mother died of lung cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And she wasn’t even a smoker,” said the man, pushing his spectacles higher up his nose.

“Right,” said Nightingale. “Sorry.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Can I help you?”

“The shop next door is closed. Written In The Stars.”

“Is it? That’s unusual.”

“He’s normally open on a Monday?”

The man nodded. “Regular as clockwork.”

“I saw Gabriel on Friday,” said Nightingale. “Is there any reason why he wouldn’t be here today?”

“It’s unusual,” said the man again. “Very unusual.”

“Has he been open at all today? Was he there when you opened up, for instance?”

The man put a hand up to his chin, then shook his head. “Now you mention it, no. He wasn’t. And usually he pops out for a coffee at least once each morning and asks me to keep an eye on his shop. He didn’t today.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a key have you?”

The man shook his head. “Do you think we should call the cops?”

The last thing Nightingale needed was a run-in with SFPD’s finest, especially if Starr was lying dead in his shop. He feigned indifference. “He’ll turn up, I’m sure,” he said. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Nightingale left the shop and phoned Chen. “I’ve just been around to see the astrology guy, Gabriel Starr, and he’s vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“Closed up his shop and he’d not answering his phone. I think something bad has happened to him.”

“Why were you going to speak to him?” asked Chen.

“I need help,” said Nightingale.

“With what?’

“With the Apostles, what else?”