Tales From the Black Chamber (20 page)

“Laugh it up, fuzzball,” said Mike. “When's the last time
you
ran into a demon?”

“Let's think this through,” said Rafe. “Assuming that this guy wants to summon a demon, even one with a less impressive business card than Mr. Dü, why do you summon a demon in the first place?”

“Power,” said Mike. “You make it do stuff for you. Kill your enemies, grant you special favors.”

“Knowledge,” said Joe. “Like Faust.”

“Illusions and sex are big in medieval necromancy too,” said Anne.

“Sex?” asked Wilhelmina, speaking up for the first time. “Who wants to get down with a demon?”

“Well,” conceded Anne, “you weren't necessarily getting down with the demon—although you might send a succubus or incubus to beset your enemy, who'd then be getting down with a demon. You were usually using their power to let you have sex with some woman you wanted to do—sometimes magically. Sort of a magical rape that made her fall in love with you or whatever. I mean, it's all crackpot, infantile fantasy stuff.”

“And yet,” said Mike. “Demons exist.”

“Even if they didn't,” said John, “we'd still be dealing with a guy who's willing to send hit teams to get ahold of mere books.”

“
Mere
books?” objected Anne.

Steve cleared his throat and, from the corner in the back of the room where he'd been standing, said, “Does any of this help us actually find the guy? Or do we just now have a faint inkling of what he's up to?”

The various members of the Black Chamber looked at each other.

Anne spoke first. “I don't think it helps us find him at all. We know it's some sort of book of secret knowledge, and we know how to break the code. That's it.”

Mike Himmelberg said, “It invokes a very scary demon by two cross-cultural titles. But no.”

Joe McManus just shook his head and said, “Nope.”

The rest of the crew were silent. John asked, “Any ideas on next steps?”

“I've got a French facsimile edition of the Voynich Manuscript,” said Anne. “Maybe we could find a clue by translating more of it?”

“No!” said virtually everyone in the room simultaneously.

Rafe explained, “We're better off not knowing.”

Wilhelmina said, “Plus, it's against the rules.”

“Yeah, Anne, we really don't need to know what horrible stuff may be in there. We just need to stop the bad guy from doing whatever he wants to do.”

“We've got a suspect. We've just got to bird-dog the guy,” said Mike. When no one objected, Mike said, “Okay, let's go. Property-search records, cell phone records, whatever we can do.”

Everyone rose and left except Claire, who remained in her seat, torqueing her watch around her wrist. Anne noticed, and walked the length of the conference room to sit next to her.

“Are you ok?” Anne asked.

“I'm fine, thanks,” said Claire. “It's just … the last time we had something of this magnitude go down, I saw a couple friends die.”

“I'm sorry,” said Anne. “I mean, I don't even think I get the reality of all of this yet. Necromancers, secret books, all that. It was my harmless little academic sideline. And now, it's real? It's tough to believe.”

“It'll always be tough,” said Claire. “Even when it's staring you in the face. That's why it's so easy to get killed.”

“I have a more serious question, but I wanted to ask you about Rafe—is he okay? I mean, he seemed the worse for wear today.”

Claire sighed. “He drinks too much. Occupational hazard, I think. He works out a lot to compensate, I think, but sometimes it shows through.”

“Have you told him that you're worried about him? He might take it well from you.”

Claire ignored the implication. “I once alluded to it and got the impression that he's just not up to dealing with it at this point. Someday, maybe. But, I mean, we all have our problems. Lily doesn't sleep for days or weeks on end, I'm told. She uses some sort of uppers to keep going, but occasionally she'll crash. Literally. One time she fell down a flight of stairs here.”

“My God. Do you guys have any mental-health benefits?”

“Plenty. But it's hard when you can't tell your therapist what's happened.” Claire worried her ring violently. “But fuck psychology. This isn't rocket science. We're fucked up because we've seen, and occasionally done, some fucked-up shit. I mean, lately I've been—never mind. You had a question?”

“I didn't want to propose it in front of everyone else because I know it's
verboten
,” Anne said, “but that's why I think maybe we should have your friend translate more of the manuscript. If there are spells or rituals in there, there are probably counter-spells, too.”

“Let me stop you right there,” said Claire. “We don't do any of that stuff. Ever. By law. By rule. For our own good. First of all, it's a form of power, about which Acton was right. Second, it's evil. I don't use that word lightly, and it's not part of my natural vocabulary. But whatever your intentions are, however noble your use, it corrupts and weakens you. Look, I'm a Jew. I don't have the elaborate theology, metaphors, and explanations that our resident Catholics bring to the table on this stuff. But what is dead clear to me is that there are active, weird forces afoot in the world, and almost always, they're malevolent. I mean, they're intentionally, consciously evil. And if you draw on them, they taint you, infect you, seduce you.”

“Um, okay,” said Anne, drawing back a bit from the darkness in Claire's eyes. “And let me apologize for my ignorance, but what about ‘white magic?' Merlin, Gandalf, good-guy wizards? That kind of stuff?”

“Nope. Doesn't exist. At least not that I've seen. The closest thing seems to be things that call on God, rather than other powers. Mike has documented a couple exorcisms that worked. But really, we don't have a hell of a lot on our side, no pun intended.”

“So how do you go after someone like this?”

“We make it up as we go along. John will check the Chamber's History and see if there are any precedents and, if so, what worked and didn't, but almost everything we go up against is confusing, strange, and almost
sui generis
.”

“Well, say this book tells you how to summon this crazy apocalyptic demon, and this guy does it. What then?”

“A whole lot of people probably die. The end of the world. I don't know.”

“Don't you think that's worth having the insurance of knowing what's in the book?”

“No,” said Claire. “Sometimes just reading something is enough to make something happen. And as much as he'd readily give his life to save others, I'm not putting my friend Professor Geoffrey or anyone else in danger on the off chance the book can help.”

“So what do we do?”

“Find this guy. Stop him. And, in the meantime, pray.”

“I'm not religious,” said Anne.

Claire smiled for the first time, though there was little joy in it. “We'll see how long that lasts.”

10

A couple days later, Anne found herself on the doorstep of Monsignor Clairvaux's Manhattan brownstone with Steve McCormack and Joe McManus. They all had FBI identification in their pockets, pistols under their jackets, and a federal search warrant provided by Claire. Apparently it was a genuine warrant, but the means by which Claire had obtained it remained mysterious to Anne.

Joe and Steve were scanning the doors and windows for some sort of alarm system.

“How the heck does a priest afford this?” asked Anne.

“According to Mike, his foundation owns it, and they're rolling in dough,” explained Joe. “Also, he's apparently independently wealthy to begin with.”

Anne frowned. “I thought the wages of sin is death, not seven figures.”

“Ha,” said Steve. “I think it's clear, Joe. You?”

“Yep. Go ahead.”

Steve pulled a lock-pick gun out of his pocket and opened the front door's three locks. “Odds that the door is booby-trapped?” he asked.

“Low, I'd guess,” said Joe, but he put a hand on Anne's hip and guided her down the stairs. She held her breath, watching Steve open the door very slowly, peering intently at its sides. He eventually swung it all the way open and waved Joe and Anne in.

Inside, the house was a spacious, high-ceilinged relic of New York's golden age. Its furnishings, however, were much more recent and relatively Spartan. They walked through the downstairs living room, dining room, and kitchen, searching them methodically. Anne was left to go through the converted parlor, which was now a library or study. Joe and Steve went upstairs and searched the bedrooms and the priest's office. Steve came down, reporting that he'd left Joe trying to break into Clairvaux's computer.

“So, library?” he asked laconically.

“That it is, Steve,” said Anne. “It's a pretty good one. Mostly theology and history, though that shelf over there has a very nice collection of nineteenth-century literature, including a few first editions. Absolutely nothing about the occult. I've been moving books to see if there's anything hidden behind the rows off books, but so far, I'm just making myself sneeze from the dust.”

“Can I give you a hand?” Steve volunteered.

“Sure. Start with that shelf, take each book down and tell me what the title page says. If it's Latin or Greek, just show it to me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Steve said with a little salute.

They worked their way through the library methodically. Steve instructed her how to check the bookshelves for secret compartments. After three hours, they were confident that there wasn't anything to be found.

“It's possible we're missing something,” said Steve, “but I think we've done everything short of dismantling the place. Want to check the basement with me?”

“Sure, sounds more fun than going cross-eyed over more books,” said Anne.

“Oh, just wait,” Steve said. “There are more books upstairs.”

The two of them headed down into the basement, which seemed very seldom used. Most of the surfaces were covered in a fairly thick layer of undisturbed dust. There were several rooms in the basement, most dedicated to storage of furniture, old paintings and mirrors, and other household goods. There were modern heating, laundry, electrical, and telephone equipment, but nothing unusual or out of order. They checked the walls and doors and tried to find anything anomalous. After an hour or so, they gave up and headed upstairs to the office. They found Joe there, perched behind a computer, his mouth pursed to one side as he worked the keyboard deliberately.

“Anything?” asked Steve.

“Maybe,” said Joe. “I cloned the hard drive onto a portable drive, so I can analyze it when we get back, check for hidden files, that sort of thing. I also figured out how this connects to the non-profit's network, so it shouldn't be hard to wander around in there. Right now, I'm just working through a whole bunch of stuff, trying to see if there are any records of properties where the guy could be, mentions of beach houses or retreat centers or whatever. So far, no dice. Oh, I found a cell phone in the drawer here. It seems to be his phone. I cloned the SIM, but just flipping through the address book and call log, there's nothing obvious. And wherever he is, he doesn't have this phone. He could have a prepaid drop phone, though.”

“Untraceable. Lovely,” said Steve.

“Nobody said bad guys have to be dumb,” Joe said.

“It's just so much nicer when they are,” Steve countered.

“Amen to that,” said Joe. “Anne, what are you looking at?”

“This bookshelf of reference books,” Anne said. “This shelf is foreign-language dictionaries and grammars, and there's a big hole right where ‘Tibetan' would go alphabetically.”

“This is the guy,” said Steve.

“Circumstantial,” said Joe.

Anne said, “I think I'm with Joe. You know, it's very odd. I haven't seen much religious stuff around the house. Just the one crucifix over the fireplace in the library, and that could just be for show. Just seems weird for a priest, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Joe, “although there are all types of priests, and judging from this guy's day job, he's not exactly one of those old-fashioned priests with the giant rosary hanging from his cincture and saying Benediction every Wednesday night.”

“What's the deal with the mansion?” asked Anne. “Aren't priests supposed to take a vow of poverty?”

“Only priests in orders,” said Joe. “Ordinary, so-called secular priests don't. And even if you're a Jesuit or Benedictine or something and you've taken a vow of personal poverty, it doesn't mean your order can't put you up someplace nice. Okay,” he said, rising, “I think I'm done here. We can go.”

They let themselves out, and were sitting on the Metroliner heading back to D.C. when Steve's head jerked up from the
Wall Street Journal
he was reading. “Oh, hell,” he swore softly.

“What's wrong?” Anne asked.

“We're idiots,” said Steve. “Describe the house to me.”

“Inside or out?” asked Joe.

“Start with out,” said Steve.

“Okay, sort of a sandstone, three-sto—three-story. There was no third story inside. No stairs. What the heck?” Joe slammed his computer magazine against his thighs.

“How did we miss that?” asked Anne.

“There must be some high-quality carpentry in there,” said Steve, “to make a whole staircase disappear.”

“Or they took it out entirely and hid a dumbwaiter or an elevator in a wall somewhere,” said Joe.

“Maybe that was what was giving me that weird feeling the whole time,” said Anne.

It was between the walls dividing the bedroom and the office. In the hall, a picture hung between the doors on a wall that opened with a slight pressure, swinging out the whole wall face. There was no obvious light switch, so they proceeded up the stairs single-file by flashlight, guns drawn.