Do Not Go Gentle (18 page)

“It's not so far removed from your own religion, Jamie,” replied Ríordán. “The Tree of Life is mentioned in Genesis and the Book of Proverbs. In Kabbalistic terms, the ten spheres of the Sephirot are contemplated by adherents to develop an ethical process through which compassionate actions can be used to advance the soul and understand the revelations of God's will.” The
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paused a moment to let Jamie absorb what he just said. “Now, on the other side, stands the Qliphoth or Tree of Death. Just as the Sephirot contains ten spheres devoted to morality and understanding God's word, so the Qliphoth contains ten spheres. Some scholars, myself among them, believe that the spheres of the Qliphoth represent a path to evil, and an understanding of God's archenemy, Satan.”

“Whew.” exclaimed Jamie. “It's getting deep in here, no matter what I believe.”

Ríordán nodded. “These are indeed highly esoteric concepts, but believe me, I have simplified them for this discussion. Now, the last thing I want to discuss will lead us to what I believe is behind Sedecla's increased sacrifices.”

“Praise the Lord,” muttered Jamie.

Lucy fixed him with a flinty gaze. “Do not try me further, laddie. Ye are the one seeking my help.” Jamie nodded in apology.

“The students of the Sephirot,” continued Ríordán, “believe that there is an eleventh sphere, called ‘Da 'at'. If an adept can walk the twenty-two paths connecting the spheres, she will achieve Da ‘at, or mastery of the other spheres. By achieving Da ‘at, an adherent would be granted a glimpse into the process by which God creates both the physical and metaphysical worlds from an infinite number of possibilities. Further, mastery of Da'at would grant great power, so much so, according to some, that achieving Da'at might allow one to open the doors to these other worlds. In effect, the person can become almost godlike. On the other side of the coin, successfully walking the twenty-two paths of the Qliphoth would result in mastery over the Qliphotic spheres. This would lead to an evil unity, which some call Abaddon, or the Abyss. Certain obscure texts state that mastery of Abaddon would create an Abysm Stone, or Black Diamond. Whoever possesses it would command a black hole to another universe, which would allow her to become a dark god.” Ríordán paused and looked at Jamie. “So you can see how this would be very attractive to someone like Sedecla.”

Jamie nodded contemplatively. “Yes. I'm still reserving my right to healthy skepticism, but clearly, if Sedecla believes in this, then she must be increasing her ‘sacrifices' in order to build her power to the point where she can master this Qliphoth and create the Black Diamond. No matter what I believe, I still have an obligation to prevent her from taking human lives.”

“Agreed,” replied Ríordán. “That is the essence of it. Now, as to the curse she placed upon you, Lucy tells me that you have developed a chronic, debilitating illness.”

“Yes, but as I told Lucy the last time I was here, I was already sick before she cursed us.”

“As I told ye last time, ye might have been sick already, but whereas ye might have gotten better before being cursed, it may now be something that lingers.”

“Lucy is right,” added Ríordán. “I'm sure you're maintaining your precious skepticism about this curse as well, but I ask you—what harm is there in considering this aspect of your illness?”

Jamie said nothing for several moments. “So you are saying that you might be able to help me get better?”

“Not me,” Ríordán replied, “but I do know of one who might have the ability to deal with this, if you would like me to speak with him.”

Jamie laughed. “Sure, why not? I've allowed the doctors to poke and prod me in a hundred different ways and I'm still no better. How can this hurt?”

“Very well. I'll contact him, and Lucy will call you when we have a meeting set up.”

“Agreed,” replied Jamie, standing up slowly. As he started to take his leave, his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said to Lucy and Ríordán. “Griffin.”

“Jamie?” Cal sounded upset. “Where are you?”

“I went back to see Lucy. I've got some more information that might be helpful.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” said Cal grimly. “This has just escalated.”

“What happened?”

“Ramirez was just run down on a routine call.”

“Jaysus.” Jamie swore. “Is he alright?”

“No,” replied Cal with a heavy breath. “He's dead, Jamie. Now we're dealing with a cop killer.”

* * * *

Tucked in beside the Boston Opera House, just blocks from Boston Common, FELT was not, despite its ultra-modern, eclectic décor, one of Boston's elite nightclubs. It was, however, a popular nightspot located in Downtown Crossing, attracting locals and tourists alike. The club also featured a third floor VIP level, which is what made it one of Cal's favorite places to shoot pool. He belonged to fancier clubs, but FELT's VIP level on the third floor allowed Cal to “slum in style.” It gave him a place not only to hustle pool games, but also to watch people, both on this level and from an overlook by the bar. The club also provided him with a perfect place to meet with confidential informants, undercover cops, or other shady characters without attracting unwanted attention.

At the moment, Cal was not working—he was just eyeballing a difficult shot. Cal Cushing was a passionate, but not a professional, pool player. Despite what the movies show, professionals never drank while playing. Cal always drank while playing. Cal drank Sam Adams if he was in a beer mood, or, like tonight, if he wanted something harder, he ordered his favorite cocktail, a Bombay Sapphire Martini, an expensive mixture of Blue Curacao, dry vermouth, and Bombay Sapphire Gin. There were two martini glasses at the far end of the table from Cal—one upright and empty, the other upside down and clean. The waitress, seeing that Cal was still considering his shot, picked up the empty. “Another one, Cal?”

Cal nodded. “Thanks, sweetheart.” He watched the curvaceous woman walk away, and then cleared his thoughts for his shot. He crouched, one knee bent, and carefully sighted down the length of the maple shaft of his custom designed Skull and Dragon Richmond cue. The cue and case had cost him the better part of a grand, but Cal felt they were worth every penny. After sliding and sighting a couple of times, Cal exhaled softly, then shot the cue ball. He watched with satisfaction as the ivory ball shot across the length of the table, hit the near side cushion, and spun neatly to the other side. It kissed the nine ball lightly into the corner pocket, then struck the twelve with the right angle and amount of spin to send the twelve out from pocket and leave the cue ball a couple of inches from the rail.

When he looked up, Cal saw that the waitress was back with another martini. She had waited to deliver it until he was finished with his shot. She was tall, five-ten, and had enough meat on her to avoid looking like an emaciated fashion model, with all the right curves in all the right places. Her long blonde hair was curled, and she smiled with a twinkle in her blue eyes and said, “Nice shot. Here's your drink, Cal.” She placed the refill right next to the upside down glass.

“Thanks, Sam,” Cal replied. She looked at him hopefully for a moment, and then turned away with a swish of her hair. Cal had taken Sam out a couple of times, but nothing serious. She reminded him too much of Franny. Sighing, Cal walked to the other end of the table and took a long pull on the martini. Cal had been married for three years, to Frances Endicott. Both of sets of parents had encouraged the match as “appropriate” for them. Fran's family was also wealthy, so money was not a problem in their marriage. Love was the problem. Cal and Fran had married after college, mostly out of a sense of duty. Cal had enrolled in Harvard Law, but quit after only a week, much to the chagrin of both his parents and his in-laws. He had always believed that he could make a difference by becoming a lawyer. However, as Cal went through college and became active in political affairs, he became disillusioned. He had drifted into Harvard Law School because he had no other idea about what to do with his life.

One day, after reading a feature story in the Globe about the successful conclusion of a huge undercover drug operation, Cal decided that he could make a difference in law enforcement, not law. Fran had initially supported his decision to withdraw from Harvard and enroll in the BPD Academy, even in the face of negative reactions from both sets of parents. While he had been an average student in college the courses on law, conflict resolution, driving skills, and firearms proficiency fascinated him. The physical training had been the most difficult part for Cal. He had never been athletic, but the academy training program had hardened him. Six months later, when he graduated with honors and received his first assignment, Cal knew that he had made the right choice.

However, the stress and hours that came with the job led to a divorce with Fran after three years of marriage. They had parted company by mutual agreement, and while they both still had feelings for each other, Cal and Fran had done their best to move on. Still, whenever Cal went out with someone like Sam, who resembled Fran Endicott, he had a hard time.

Just means I gotta stick to redheads and brunettes,
he thought.

Cal's musings were interrupted by someone picking up the inverted martini glass and setting it upright at the end of the table, a standing signal to anyone interested in playing. He preferred to put cash on the line, but Cal was always willing to play for drinks—any sort of stakes made the game more interesting. Cal looked up and was surprised to see that Timmy O'Neill had picked up the glass. “Timmy,” Cal said. “I haven't seen you here before. Out for a night on the town?”

O'Neill shrugged. He put the martini glass on a nearby table, and then selected a house pool cue. “I try to get out of Dorchester on occasion, just to break things up.” Finding one he liked, Timmy stopped at an empty table as he walked back to roll the cue across the bed to make sure it was true. Satisfied, he walked back to stand before Cal. “What are the stakes?”

“You tell me,” replied Cal, finishing his third martini. He was a heavy drinker, but not an alcoholic. He knew his limits and stayed just this side of being drunk, especially when playing pool.

Timmy paused, then said, “How about this? We'll play eight ball, and the loser buys drinks and has to answer one question from the winner.”

Cal looked sharply at O'Neill. “Works for me. You buying to start?”

“Sure.” O'Neill waved to Sam, and when she came by, he said, “Get another of whatever the hell it is that Cushing is drinking and have someone build me a Guinness please.” When done correctly, “building” a Guinness took just over two minutes, as it required the bartender to fill the glass in thirds, stopping in between each third to let the cascade stop, with the head being about the width of a dime, forming a dome-shape over the rim of the glass. “I'll rack.”

While Cal could have run the table from the break, O'Neill showing up here as well as the posed stakes intrigued him. He intentionally missed a shot after making his first two shots, but he wasn't obvious about it. Only someone who frequently played with Cal would have noticed that he had taken a dive. O'Neill was playing to win and ran the table after Cal's miss. “Not bad,” Cal observed, sipping his martini. “So I'll get the next round and answer a question. Fire away.”

O'Neill put his cue on the table and came over stand by Cushing. After taking a long drink of his Guinness, finishing about half of the remaining glass, he said, “Sure.” He put his drink down and pointed to Sam. “This round's on Cushing.” Then he looked back to Cal. “So, bring me up to speed on your murder investigation. I heard about Ramirez. Someone's not happy about something.”

Cal finished his martini as Sam came to get the empties. “Let's sit,” he gestured to the nearby chairs. As they seated themselves, Cal said, “We're making some progress. Got a few new leads.”

“We?” Timmy looked directly at Cal.

Cushing returned the gaze. “Yeah, Jamie's still putzing about on the case with me.”

O'Neill raised his eyebrows and thanked Sam when she came back with their drinks. “I thought he was on a leave of absence.”

“Ah, you know Griffin,” replied Cal. “He may be on leave, but he's got his teeth into this case and working it on his own. I've been keeping tabs with him. Why the interest?” Cal asked casually.

“Nothing special,” O'Neill replied in an equally casual tone, “but since it's now connected to a cop killing, I'm available to help in any way I can. The brass want an answer and quickly. I didn't know Mario all that well, but we don't let people get away with that.”

Cal reached inside his breast pocket and took out a South Beach Smoke electronic cigarette. While not a heavy smoker, Cal did not like to drink or play pool without smoking. He preferred John Player Gold Leaf cigarettes when he was somewhere he could smoke, which was getting scarcer every day. While the electronic cigarette was a poor substitute, the South Beach was the best of a bad lot in Cal's opinion. “So, you have any information about the case I could use?”

Timmy made a wry face. “Not really. I've heard some rumblings that you're poking a hornet's nest with a stick.”