San Francisco Night (8 page)

On the way back to his hotel, Nightingale spotted a jeweler’s shop, its window filled with old rings and necklaces. He parked the SUV and walked back to the store. A bell pinged as he pushed open the door and a balding man in a black suit looked up from a display of wedding rings. The man straightened up and held his hands together in front of his chest as if he was about to pray.

“I’m looking for a silver knife,” said Nightingale.

“What type?” asked the man. “I have carving knives, silverware, fruit knives.”

“It’s a gift, I was thinking a pen knife or something like that.”

The man nodded. “For a man or a woman?”

“My uncle,” lied Nightingale. “He used to have a penknife but he lost it a few years ago and it’s his sixtieth next month, so I thought…”

“You’d replace it? Wonderful idea. I might have just the thing.” He went along to a glass cabinet, opened it and took out a white penknife, four or five inches long. “Now, strictly speaking this is lady’s fruit knife, but it’s a penknife by any other name.” He handed it to Nightingale. “Sterling silver, hallmarked obviously, made in 1896 in Sheffield, England.”

Nightingale held the knife in the palm of his hand. The handle was mother-of-pearl that glistened under the overhead lights.

“It was manufactured by William Needham, a very respected silver-maker. And that is genuine mother-of-pearl.”

Nightingale pulled open the blade. There was no locking mechanism but the blade looked strong. He pressed his thumb against the blade and could feel its sharpness.

“It’s larger than the normal pocket fruit knife,” said the salesman. “And as you can see, it’s in pristine condition.”

“Perfect,” said Nightingale. He looked at the price tag. It wasn’t cheap but he’d be using one of Wainwright’s credit cards and it was a valid expense. “I’d also like a silver cross on a chain, the bigger the better.”

“Another gift?”

“For my aunt,” lied Nightingale.

The salesman rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to say that most people prefer their crosses to be made of gold,” he said.

“My aunt has always preferred silver,” said Nightingale.

The salesman went over to another display case and peered into it. “I have several small ones,” he said.  He took out a cross and held it up. Nightingale wrinkled his nose. “I was hoping for something bigger,” he said.

The man straightened up. “Let me check out the back,” he said. “We had some items in from an estate sale last week, I seem to remember there was a large cross but I’m not sure what it was made of.”  He disappeared through a door leaving Nightingale alone in the shop. Nightingale was surprised at being left alone but then realized that the shop was covered with three CCTV cameras.

The man was only away for a minute and he reappeared with a red velvet box. “I was right,” he said, opening the box and holding it out. Inside was a large silver cross, about three inches long and two inches across. There was a ring at the top through which was threaded a thick silver chain.. “It’s quite heavy, but not hallmarked,” said the salesman. “Central European, we think. Probably mid-nineteenth century, I’m guessing once owned by a high-ranking church official.”

Nightingale picked up the cross. It had a rough texture, like wood, and seemed to have been cast in one piece. The chain was almost three feet long so it would have hung down almost to the wearer’s waist.

“It’s an unusual piece,” said the salesman. “Probably too large for your aunt.”

“No, I think it’ll be perfect,” said Nightingale. He gave it back to the salesman along with a Visa card that Wainwright had given him. “I’ll take them both.”

“I haven’t put a price on the cross yet,” said the salesman, frowning.

“Whatever you think is fair will be fine with me,” said Nightingale.

“Excellent,” said the salesman. “Would you like them gift-wrapped?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I’ll do that at home,” he said.

Five minutes later he was back in his SUV. He slipped the penknife into his right pocket and the cross and chain in his left.  He hoped that he wouldn’t have to face an Elemental again but if he did at least this time he’d be prepared.

Nightingale woke early and after showering and shaving he went out to buy a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. Lee Mitchell’s murder was on the third page, including a photograph of the man standing next to his Porsche that appeared to have been lifted from a Facebook page.  Nightingale went to a nearby diner, ordered coffee, toast, scrambled eggs and bacon and read the article as he waited for his food to arrive. The headline was ‛Mutilated Body Of Young Banker Found On Alcatraz’ which summed it up, pretty much. Twenty-two year old Lee Charles Mitchell’s body had been found washed up on San Francisco’s famous prison island. The young man had worked for the Bay Banking Corporation in their securities department, where he was described as a ‛rapidly rising star’, but hadn’t shown up to work for two days. A security guard making her rounds of the island had found the body in the small hours, and it had been identified by the credit cards and driver’s license in the billfold. The body had severe injuries, leading police to suspect Mitchell had fallen from a boat, been hit by the propeller, then carried by the fierce currents onto the island.

Nightingale wasn’t convinced. He was pretty sure that Mitchell had suffered most of those injuries before they put him in the water. And the fact that the body had been found so quickly indicated that the killers wanted to send a message.

Nightingale’s phone rang as he stepped out of the diner. It was Mrs Steadman. “I haven’t called at a bad time, have I?” she asked. “I can never get the hang of time differences.”

“It’s fine,” said Nightingale, shutting the door.

“I do have someone you can talk to there, though he now lives outside San Francisco. It’s been a few years since I spoke to Father Benedict but I’ve spoken to him and he’s happy to help if he can.”

“Brilliant,” said Nightingale, reaching for a sheet of hotel stationery and a pen.

“He’s the abbot of Our Lady Of Spring Bank Cistercian Monastery out near Santa Teresa, which is about sixty miles from San Francisco. But he lived in the city for many years and is very familiar with it.”

Nightingale frowned. “Now that’s one heck of a coincidence,” he said.

“What is?”

“A monk from that monastery went missing about five months ago.”

“Do you think that is connected to the Satanic group you were talking about?”

“I hope not,” said Nightingale.

“You can tell Father Benedict everything,” said Mrs Steadman. “I’ve known him a long time.”

“Do you know if he reads Latin?”

“I would be very surprised if he didn’t.”

“You’re an angel,” said Nightingale.

Mrs Steadman chuckled. “Now we both know that’s not true,” she said. “But I do appreciate the flattery. And remember what I said, Jack. Be careful.”

“I will be,” said Nightingale. “Cross my heart.”

She paused and for a moment Nightingale thought he had lost the connection. He moved the phone to his other ear and was just about to speak when she continued. “Something happened, didn’t it, Jack? You were in danger.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I crossed paths with something that didn’t appear to have my best interests at heart,” he said.

“Tell me.”

Nightingale grimaced. After all her warnings, he was reluctant to tell her what had happened in Mitchell’s house, but he had the feeling that she already knew.  He told her, but kept the details to a minimum.

“It was a Water Elemental, Jack,” she said. “Do you realize how much danger you were in?”

“Of course. But all’s well that ends well. Really.”

“Only the most powerful Satanists are capable of summoning and controlling a Water Elemental. You were lucky. They’re creatures born from filth and putrescence. Pure metals like gold and silver are about the only weakness they have.”

“Yeah, I was lucky.”

“I’ll say you were. But if they can summon one, they can summon more. And next time you might not be so lucky.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“I’m serious, Jack. This Elemental was guarding a house, you say?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what happened, yes. I went in and then it just sort of materialized.”

“Then hopefully that will be the end of it,” she said. “But from now on you must be very careful. The people you are dealing with are capable of summoning other Elementals to pursue you.”

“How exactly?”

“If they get a lock of your hair, for instance. Or something very personal to you. They can summon an Elemental and send it after you. It will appear wherever you are. There would be no escape. Wherever you are in the world, it would appear.”

Nightingale flashed back to the hellish cloud and he shuddered. “I’ll be careful, Mrs Steadman.”

“There are four types. Earth, Fire, Water and Air. All are deadly.”

“That’s what Joshua said,” began Nightingale, then he screwed up his face. Mrs Steadman didn’t have a high opinion of Joshua Wainwright.

“I’m not surprised he is aware of Elementals,” she said frostily.

“He said fire would kill an Earth Elemental, is that right?”

“I believe so. And Fire Elementals can be killed with water. Pure water. The purer the better. Base metals can kill an Air Elemental. But Jack, you don’t want to go anywhere near an Elemental.”

“I’ll do my best to avoid them,” said Nightingale.

“I’m serious, Jack.” She sighed.  “I wish there was something else I could to help,” she said. “But my best advice would be for you to leave town right now. But even as I say that I know it’s not going to happen.”

It took the SatNav just over an hour to guide Nightingale to the Our Lady Of Spring Bank Monastery. He drove up the tree lined main entrance and parked in front of the ‛Welcome Center’. The place looked more like a modern school than any monastery he’d ever seen before, though the chapter house and church looked more like Nightingale’s idea of traditional religious buildings. Everything was bare stone, no paint to be seen. Nightingale walked through some tall arches and followed the sign for reception.

The man in the office wore a dark suit and heavy black-framed glasses. Nightingale asked to speak to Father Benedict and explained that they had a mutual friend, Mrs Steadman of London. The man asked Nightingale to take a seat and picked up a phone. After a few minutes the man called over to Nightingale and pointed off to the left. “The abbot can see you now, his office is just across the cloister, through that door.”

Nightingale thanked the man and walked across the courtyard, along an arch-framed corridor, knocked on the door where the sign said “FATHER BENEDICT” and opened it. Behind a medium-sized desk sat a monk wearing a black habit with a white hooded robe over it and a plain metal crucifix on a chain round his neck. Father Benedict had a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Nightingale’s image of a monk had been Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood stories, fat and jovial, but father Benedict was tall and very thin. He looked around sixty and had gold half-moon glasses perched halfway down his nose.

“Welcome, welcome,” said Father Benedict, getting to his feet and walking across to greet Nightingale, his sandals whispering on the tiled floor. “Mrs Steadman told me all about you,” he said. “She’s quite a fan.”

“That’s good to know,” said Nightingale.

The Abbot waved Nightingale to four chairs around a glass-topped wooden table. “Please sit,” he said. “So tell me, how do you know the lovely Mrs Steadman?”

“We met in her shop in London, not that long ago,” he said, sitting down.

“She’s a sweetheart, an absolute sweetheart,” said the Abbot, sitting down opposite him. “Now would you like tea or coffee, or I can offer you iced water.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“So what is it you want?” he asked, sitting back on his chair and interlinking his fingers.

“To pick your brains, really.”

The Abbot spread his hands wide. “Pick away,” he said.

“I know I’m going to sound crazy, but have you had much experience with Satanists?”

“Satanists? Devil worshipers?” He squinted at Nightingale. “You are joking, right?”

“I wish I was, but no, it’s a serious question. I think there might be a coven of Satanists active in San Francisco.”

“Doing what exactly?”

Nightingale shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Human sacrifice,” he said.

The Abbot frowned. “And why on earth would you think that? There’s been nothing on TV or in the papers.”

“You watch TV?” asked Nightingale.

“We’re a commercial monastery, Jack. We’re not sealed off from the outside world. Our wines win awards, you know. Though I have to say I prefer reality shows to the news. The news is always so depressing these days.”

“Tell me about it,” agreed Nightingale. “But to get back to your question. I’ve spoken to a man who was part of the group, and he told me what was going on.”

“Human sacrifice in the twenty-first century, it hardly seems likely, does it?”

“I’m fairly sure that’s what’s happening, Father Benedict. Though to be honest I don’t have much in the way of proof.”

The Abbot nodded thoughtfully. “You know of course that Satanism started here in San Francisco?”

Nightingale frowned. “That’s news to me.”

The Abbot nodded. “Organized Satanism was born in San Francisco on April 30, 1966.”

“That can’t be right,” said Nightingale. “Surely devil worship has been around for centuries? Since the dawn of time.”

“On an individual basis, that’s true. But the organized ceremonies, the rituals and so on, they are a much more modern phenomena. That all started in 1966, at 6114 California Street to be precise. The Black House.”

“I’m stunned,” said Nightingale. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”

“So you’ve never heard of Anton LaVey?”

“No. Who was he?”

“The founder of the Church of Satan, author of The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals and the Satanic Witch. Inventor of modern Satanism.”

“Maybe he’d know what this is about. Would he talk to me?” asked Nightingale.

“I doubt this would be his scene, one of his main precepts was never to harm little children. Besides, he hasn’t been talking to anyone since 1997. He died. His daughter is still alive, but I don’t think she has anything to do with the church any more.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“I don’t, I’m sorry. But I do know that the Church of Satan wouldn’t have anything to do with human sacrifice.”

Nightingale nodded. “This is a bit of a change of subject, but what can you tell me about Brother Gregory’s disappearance?”

“It’s very much a mystery,” said the Abbot. “He simply vanished. And no one has any idea where he might have gone.”

Nightingale leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me about him.”

“I knew him ever since he came to us as a novice, some thirty years ago. He was nearly fifty when he disappeared. A quiet man, even by the standards of a monastery, he seldom spoke other than at services, though he was no fool. A very gifted viticulturist.”

“Sorry?” said Nightingale.

“Wine grower, he had a caring touch with the plants. As I said we produce award-winning wine here. Oddly enough, he was quite happy to talk to the vines all day, and they seemed to respond.”

“What happened on the day he disappeared?” asked Nightingale.

“I wish I knew. The brothers had been working in the fields as usual, and walked back up to the monastery when the bell was tolled for Vespers. After that we took our evening meal in the refectory and it was noticed that Gregory was not there. It was dark by then, so a full search of the grounds wasn’t made until the next day, after which we called the police, but no trace of him was ever found.”

“Could he have got into a car?”

“Well, the road is quite near to where he was last seen working, but why should he do so?” The Abbot looked at him quizzically. “This isn’t a change of subject, is it? You think that Brother Gregory was taken by Satanists, don’t you?”

Nightingale shifted uncomfortably again. “It’s a possibility. I’m sorry.”

“But what would Satanists want with a monk?” His eyes widened as he answered his own question, and his hand went up to his mouth. “You think he has been murdered?”

Nightingale nodded. “I’m sorry.”

The Abbot swallowed nervously, clearly unsettled by what Nightingale had told him. “It’s a pleasant morning,” he said. “Would you care to take a stroll around the vineyard? I could show you where Gregory worked.”

“I’d like that,” said Nightingale.

They left the Abbot’s office and walked back across the courtyard and out of the main entrance, then down a gentle hill for a few hundred yards to the start of the vineyard. The vines were planted in rows, each one carefully pruned back to avoid overgrowth into the next. Nightingale knew almost nothing of viticulture, and had never been much of a wine drinker, preferring to stick to beer, or, when stronger measures were needed, brandy or malt whiskey. He asked a few questions, more from a desire to keep Father Benedict talking than through any genuine interest. They stopped at the bottom of the vineyard where they could see the main road some fifty yards away, and hear the traffic. The vineyard was full of other monks working. They had swapped their robes and habits for more practical blue overalls out in the fields. There was very little talking.

“Have you ever heard mention of a Satanic group who call themselves the Apostles?” Nightingale asked as they started to walk back to the monastery.

The Abbot shook his head. “I find it strange that devil-worshipers would take the name of Christ’s disciples. The first martyrs.”

 “Martyrs?”

“Well, yes,” said Father Benedict. “The first ones after Christ himself, of course. They all died for their faith. Rather nastily too, in most cases.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nightingale.

“Well, Christians weren’t popular in the early days, and were cruelly dealt with. St Peter was crucified upside down, St Andrew crucified on an X-shaped cross, St Bartholomew flayed alive, and St Thomas killed with a spear. The rest were also martyred, but I can’t recall the details. None died easy deaths, though, that much I can tell you.”

“I think the Apostles are a group of Devil-worshipers. Have you any experience of that sort of thing?”

“Very little, my path lay in the opposite direction, of course. But I know of Devil-worshipers and their beliefs.”

“They don’t believe in God?” asked Nightingale.

“Oh, quite the opposite, they believe He created the world and all that’s in it.”

“But then...”

“But then, He went away,” said the Abbott. “He left this world behind, to create others. And He left it in the care of Satan, ‛The Lord Of This World’ as they call him. So he is the one they worship, they seek to gain power from him.”

“I’ve heard it said that power is just like electricity,” said Nightingale. “Not good or bad in itself, it just depends how you use it.”

“Now there I’d disagree. Christians don’t seek to use that power, but to be guided by it. I don’t think we’d equate ourselves with White Witches, using power to do good.”

The Abbot started walking back to the main monastery building. Nightingale walked with him. “Do you have something that belonged to Brother Gregory?”

“We still have his possessions, yes.”

“Could I borrow something?”

“Do you mind telling me why?”

“It might help me find out if he’s…”  Nightingale looked away, unwilling to finish the sentence.

“If he’s dead?” the Abbot finished for him.

Nightingale nodded.

“Come with me,” said the Abbot. He led Nightingale back into the main building and along a corridor to a room marked ‘STORAGE’.  Inside were rows of metal shelving, filled with office and cleaning supplies. At the back of a room was a cardboard box, not much bigger than a microwave. “Brother Gregory wasn’t one for possessions,” said the Abbot, lifting the lid. “Mainly clothes and a few books.”

Nightingale peered inside. There were several habits, a dozen pairs of socks that had been rolled up and neatly-folded underwear. There was a well-thumbed Bible, a rosary and several dog-eared paperbacks, all of them religious works, including the Koran.

Nightingale picked up the Koran and flicked through it. “An interesting choice for a monk,” he said.

“He was always interested in other religions,” said the Abbot.

Nightingale put the Koran down and picked up the rosary. “Can I borrow this?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not.”

“I’ll bring it back in a day or two,” promised Nightingale. He reached into his raincoat pocket and took out the notebook that he had taken from Lee Mitchell’s freezer. He handed it to the Abbot. “What do you make of this, Father Benedict?”

The Abbot opened the book and immediately frowned.  He tilted his head on one side and flicked through several pages. “It appears to be gibberish, but why would someone go to so much trouble to write down nonsense?” He ran his finger down a page and a smile slowly spread across his face. “Ah, it’s mirror writing,” he said. “But not English.” His smile widened. “Latin. Goodness me, that is quite something. Where did you get it from?”

“It’s complicated,” said Nightingale. “But I’d be very interested to know what it says. Do you think you could translate it for me.”

“Do you think this book is connected in some way with Brother Gregory’s disappearance?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I will more than happily go through it.”

Nightingale gave the Abbot his cellphone number scribbled on a piece of paper. “Give me a call when you’re ready,” he said. He held up Brother Gregory’s rosary. “I’ll be back with this soon.”

The Abbot nodded and replaced the lid of the cardboard box. “I just hope you’re wrong,” he said. “I can’t bear to think of a good man like Brother Gregory dying at the hands of Godless Satanists.” He shuddered. “The world can be a terrible place at times.” He crossed himself and shuddered again.

“You’re telling me,” said Nightingale.