Faustus Resurrectus (7 page)

“That’s right.” Valdes passed over the shopping bags. “Have someone relieve you, and take these down to Bridget in the dining hall, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Officer Burt? Keeping us secure is important. You do a fine job of it.”

Officer Burt stood a little straighter as he shambled off. Valdes nodded, satisfied. In the past few months he’d been sorting through homeless men and women, selecting some to perform tasks mundane but necessary. By providing them with a marginally better existence than they’d known and a sense of belonging, Valdes had fostered fierce loyalty within them.

Loyalty
I
don’t betray
.

He entered the shell of the hospital and descended three flights of stairs, guided by a string of bulbs that George—the mousy former high school shop/English teacher with a penchant for molesting his students—had rigged. At the bottom he made his way along a stained, dripping corridor to a shadowy doorway. He gave a cursory glance around as he unlocked the door but was confident he was alone—everyone knew not to come to this part of the hospital’s labyrinthine sub-basements.

Inside, the room was paneled with grimy, chipped tiles and a three-by-three section of metal squares that had once held rolling morgue drawers. There were a few items of furniture: a table and valet chair reclaimed from the junk heap by Melvin, the carpenter on the run from Jamaican authorities for his enthusiastic use of a machete, a standing mirror fogged around the edges by time and moisture, and a battered meat freezer powered by cables coiled, snakelike, around the floor.

Stripping with unconscious efficiency, he walked naked to the valet chair. Gooseflesh rose on his skin but he knew it wasn’t from the cool damp. Draped over the chair back was the suit he wore whenever he went to make a sacrifice (murder was so judgmental a word). The dark cloth had a bit of a funk to it but he had come to accept it. According to the book the integrity of the ritual would be spoiled if he washed away any bodily fluids his efforts generated, either his own or those of his sacrifices. He dressed quickly, eager to go out and take another step closer to his ultimate goal.

Before he left the room, he did two things: flipping open the seat of the chair, he removed one of the two remaining black velvet sacks from inside. A blue design—two zigzagging lines resembling waves—was sewn onto it. He traced it with a finger, the material slick under his touch.

“The Water-Bearer,” he murmured.

He unhooked a professional’s messenger bag from the back of the chair and slipped the sack inside, next to the bone saws and two red candles. He touched everything in the bag, making certain nothing was missing, then turned to the table. On top of it sat the book. The title,
Vade Mecum Flagellum Dei
, had been embossed once but now was nearly invisible from wear. Its midnight purple cover had the texture and warmth of freshly flayed skin—the first time he’d touched it, Valdes had thought it was a living thing. Flipping a bulk of pages over, he revealed a cut-out section; inside was the Sigil of Baphomet he’d worn during each sacrifice. He removed it and looped its chain around his neck. A smile crept across his face.

He closed the cover and left.

SIX

GRASPING AT STRAWS

“O
dd.” Donovan glanced at his watch. “Conrad’s late.”

He and Joann sat on a plush orange couch at one of the tables in the lounge of
Daniel
, the epitome of French restaurants in Manhattan. Donovan preferred the bar but had chosen a table in the lounge because he knew Conrad didn’t like barstools—they made his feet dangle like a child’s.

“That’s not like him, but traffic is ridiculous today, with the UN conference.”

“He needs a motorcycle.” Donovan sipped from his neat Bushmill’s. A mental picture of Conrad Clery on a bike made him smile. “I always imagined he’d wear a leather helmet and those really big goggles if he ever got one.” She smiled, distracted. He put his hand on hers. “Nervous?”

“About this? No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Something is coming down soon at work.” She sipped her Chopin martini and shook her head. “Sorry. I promise I won’t let it drag us down tonight.”

“What kind of thing? With Fullam?”

“Fullam?”

“The zodiac murders thing. He found Capricorn hanging in the Dinkins Shelter.” She stared, confused. “You didn’t—? I figured because it was in the Dinkins Shelter you would have heard.”

“No, I didn’t. How do you know about it?”

“Last night, he called Father Carroll to see it and asked him to bring me. Since I had been, ah, celebrating our engagement with some people from work I was not in the best shape, but I went.” He explained about the body, the vicuna noose, and the wax at both murder sites. “Fullam thinks he might be able to get DNA samples from it. I’m thinking if the wax isn’t from cheap card store candles, it might be mixed with something that will tell Father Carroll and me its ritual use.” He cocked his head. “What?”

“I’m trying to grasp that you went to a crime scene high.”

“Sort of. But, in fairness, I had no way of knowing I was going to end up there. And it didn’t stop me from helping, anyway.”

“No, I suppose not.” Joann regarded him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “If he calls you back with something…you know this is serious, right? I mean, you get that, don’t you?”

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“You went to a crime scene
high
. It suggests a certain lack of perspective.”

He conceded her point. “I’ll try to limit doing that to my off hours.”

“This man,” she persisted, “whoever he is, has murdered people with scorpions, arrows and a noose made of goat hair, in addition to whatever else he came up with for other zodiac signs. That’s pretty sick. He also has a giant assistant who tried to kill you once already. You might be working with the police, but they have training and weapons. You don’t. I don’t want you to get hurt, Donovan.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“In a bar fight, yes. But this is barely the same
reality
as a bar fight.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve studied alternate realities.”

“Clever.” She squeezed his hand. “Don’t make me a widow before we’re married.”

“I promise I won’t.” He held her eyes and felt the bond between them. She did, too, and they said nothing for a moment.

The waiter brought another round of drinks, breaking the spell. “Anyway,” she went on when he’d gone, “whatever the big thing coming on my case, it can’t be that. I’ve been getting signals something’s coming for a few days now.” She sipped fresh vodka. “Which is why I don’t want to think about it tonight. Telling Dad about us is as dramatic as I want to get.”

Since Conrad was the most accessible of their parents they’d decided to break the engagement to him in person.
Daniel
was not cheap; Joann knew her father appreciated the luxury of the restaurant, and since it was a little out of Donovan’s price range she’d already made arrangements with the maitre d’ to pay the check. The gesture touched Donovan even though it made him feel a little odd. He glanced about the lounge, at the people and wealth he knew primarily from the outside looking in.

“Joann, sweetie! Sorry I’m late.” Conrad’s voice returned him to the present. He rose to meet his father-in-law to be.

“Hi, Dad.” Joann also got to her feet. “Don’t worry, we just got here ourselves.”

“Ah.” He embraced her warmly while Donovan stood by. Donovan had learned to extend a hand only at the exact moment Conrad would have no choice but to follow social niceties and shake it. He waited until Joann broke from her father. “Well, it’s wonderful to see you. And hello, Donovan.” He shook Donovan’s hand briefly. His face grew serious as he turned back to her. “I’m glad you asked me to dinner. I’ve heard one or two things lately, and maybe I can give you a head’s-up.”

“About Dinkins?” Joann asked as they sat.

“As a matter of fact—” Conrad raised his arm for the waiter. “I have a friend at the
Times
. He was told the mayor is going to offer his perspective on the issue. He told me the mayor’s perspective will be that the Brooklyn DA ought to press forward with the prosecutions of the homeless people you’ve got now. He feels time is being wasted by searching for this ‘Charming Man,’ if he even exists.”

Donovan felt Joann tense at his side. “How does Raphael feel about that?” she asked.

Raphael, Donovan knew, was Raphael Suarez, the Brooklyn District Attorney, Joann’s boss.

“He won’t have a choice—this is the mayor of New York City making the call.”

“This is what happens when rich people get into political office,” Donovan said. “They think they can play king and rule by decree.”

Conrad gave him a sideways glance. “As I understand it, he’s planning to mention it in his press conference about the new crime bill, next Thursday or Friday.”

“How am I supposed to find Charming Man before then?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie, I don’t know.” Conrad looked past them and nodded. A waiter approached, carrying a silver ice bucket with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grand Dame inside. “But let’s set all that aside for tonight. I think a little celebration is in order, no?”

Donovan’s eyebrows rose. “You know?”

“I’ve been an attorney for longer than you’ve been alive, Donovan.” Genuine happiness—an emotion Donovan had rarely seen from the man—lit his face. “I know how to read signs.”

With an effort Donovan noted, Joann put the Dinkins Shelter away, smiled and held out her ring for inspection. “Isn’t it beautiful? Donovan designed it himself.”

Conrad glanced at him with mild surprise before leaning in and raising his glasses to see it up close. “Very nice.”

“I have a friend in the jewelry business.”

The hostess approached and told them their table was ready. “Have the champagne brought over,” Conrad directed Donovan, putting an arm around Joann to guide her away. With a smile, she stood her ground until Donovan took care of it. Conrad’s smile never left his face as he went a few steps ahead, waving to a crony. Donovan would have hated to play poker against him.

“He seems to be taking it well,” he murmured in Joann’s ear as they wove through the dinner crowd to their table. “Is there another shoe to drop?”

She kissed his cheek. “You can handle him.”

And, at least for dinner, he did.

***

The mayor’s impending involvement in the Dinkins Shelter case had Joann spooked, and over the next few days she put in long hours at the DA’s office. Donovan saw little of her. Although he was also working, he felt her absence acutely when he had to settle for brief, longing phone calls stolen from her job. He hated the helplessness he felt for her situation and wished he could offer some kind of assistance. The only way he could think that would allow him to help, though, would have to involve Fullam. He’d heard nothing from the sergeant since they’d parted, leaving him at a dead end. It was a frustrating situation, but at least he was consoled by the prospect of their weekly date.

***

“But it’s Wednesday,” Donovan said into his cell. “Dance House, remember? Practice for the wedding? You still have time to get home and change.”

“
I know, baby, but I have to work. I’m sorry.
”

Damn.
“Don’t worry about it. I can reschedule the class.” Disappointed, he dropped down onto his couch.
Wonder what time the Mets are on?
“You sound exhausted.”

“
You have no idea.
”

“Maybe you could take a break? I could come by the office with some takeout.” He looked at the pile of menus near his door, menus he knew he’d better clean up soon if he didn’t want to see cockroaches. “I mean, you must get time for dinner, right?”

“
No, I…
” She sighed. “
I’m not at the office.
”

“Where are you?”

“
I can’t really talk about it. I’m sorry about Dance House. Whenever you reschedule will be fine. I’ll make sure I’m not working.
”

“All right.” He idly reached for the remote. “Call me if you can. I’ll get some takeout and be here.”

“
Okay, baby. I love you. I’m sorry. Have a good night.
”

“I love you, too. Bye.” He closed his cell. “Damn. That
sucks
.”

He put the phone on the table and went to see what takeout menus had been jammed under his door that day. On the coffee table, his phone buzzed. He took a pile of menus and went to get it, saw it was Joann’s cell and paused.
She changed her mind, I hope…?

“
Mister Graham?
” Fullam’s voice surprised him. “
I understand you’re free tonight?
”

***

The setting sun washed the sky red and purple, pollution from the rush-hour exodus making the colors extra vibrant. Donovan’s favorite thing about summer in New York was the sunsets. The gorgeous colors almost made up for the humidity that turned the city to soup until October.

Beneath this picturesque canopy he guided his Vulcan down the West Side Highway, through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and along the edge of Bay Ridge on the Belt Parkway. He was headed out to Coney Island, to the New York Aquarium, to join the lieutenant and Joann. As he rode, he thought about what Fullam had told him.

A man found drowned out in the swamps near JFK missing his lower legs—definitely Aquarius. Makes sense to look for Pisces out at the aquarium.

A tiny thrill tightened his stomach.

He called me to get involved. He must think I can do more. Or, he’s desperate. But why is Joann there? What does she know?

To avoid tipping their presence, Fullam asked that he not bring his bike near the aquarium. Instead, Donovan took the Stillwell exit to Neptune Avenue and parked on West 8th Street opposite the 60
^th
Precinct. In the near-distance KeySpan Park, stadium of the Brooklyn Cyclones, shone as a beacon of minor league baseball. Down the block and across Surf Avenue, crowds had shifted from the beach to the rides and eclectic attractions of Coney Island’s boardwalk. Donovan watched them and again felt the thrill, the secret thrill of having knowledge others didn’t. Tonight at the aquarium, he was looking for a murderer.