The Camelot Code (5 page)

Irish sits alone at the bar drinking whisky.

He can’t be bothered to eat. Couldn’t care less about going home.

What he wants is to get blind drunk.

He needs the alcohol to flush the toxins of murder out of his body. Clear his head of the images of the old man with his staring eyes and his opened-up stomach twitching with maggots. And he needs it quickly, before the fragile dam walls in his memory break and the other horrors burst through.

The ones from the black day.

It’s eight years since he took a deep breath and lifted the lid of a crappy chest freezer in a suspect’s basement. He’d expected the worst. Knew it would be bad. But nothing had prepared him for what lay inside.

‘Again.’ He slams the shot glass down. ‘Double.’

The bartender knows better than to expect manners. Tomorrow or the next night, when Irish comes in sober, he’ll tip him big and apologize. Which is more than most people do.

The cop raises a hand to acknowledge the arrival of another pale amber vial of Slaney Malt.

Everything is still too clear.

He welcomes the tingle of the ten-year-old whisky against his lips. It goes down his throat like a trail of lit petrol then starts a comforting fire in his gut.

Sophie Hudson’s face swims to mind – the moment when she realized the cross was missing. How can a man get killed for a crucifix? How much could it possibly be worth? Who would buy such a thing and what would they do with it?

He feels the start of a sneeze and grabs a handkerchief from his pocket. The explosion is so hard it leaves blood on the dirty cotton. Must have picked up a cold from the damned store clerk. It’s the last thing he wants.

‘Again.’ Another bang of glass on wood.

The bartend gives him a dark look as he pours another.

‘Amir Emmanuel Goldman.’ Irish raises his refill high. ‘God bless you and’ – he grasps for something appropriate – ‘and may your fucking lousy killer rot in hell.’

He throws back the whisky and bangs the glass down.

Now he waits. The shot hits his stomach like gasoline in a volcano. His head rocks. Vision blurs. Tongue goes numb.

Drunkenness. At last, it is coming. Horribly late. But like a much-loved friend, always welcome.

Irish pulls out a wad of dollars and peels off too much. He slaps it down. Climbs unsteadily off the stool pushed up against the long brown bar and heads for the door. He’s going to make it.

The freezer lid has stayed closed. He’ll survive another night.

The pull of the moon is strong.

Ebb and flow. Like the rush of a tide hitting a shoreline, then creeping back out to sea.

Myrddin feels the elemental shift as he arthritically descends the stairs in the ancient tower. His bare feet slap cold well-worn slabs. His thin and mottled hands scratch cotton-candy hair that covers his head and face in almost equal measure.

Once more he’s been disturbed. Jarred from his sleep in the early hours. His mind filled with doubts and demons.

A rumbling cough breaks from his lungs and escapes as an echoing hack down the dark, stony passages.

He pushes open the heavy door to the Chamber of Prophecies and savours the oaky creak it makes and the clang of iron latch and lock as he closes it behind him.

This is his Chamber. Only he has ever come in here. Only he can divine the meaning of the visions that are channelled to this sacred spot. To the Font of Knowledge that stands on the tomb of the great one.

The musty midnight air is stirred by the swish of his long and lavishly decorated robe. His long fingers find the curved rim of the receptacle and he peers down into what seems an abyss.

The still liquid begins to tremble.

The augur sees shapes in the fractured surface, like clouds blowing in a stormy sky, swirling and spinning, spiralling and disappearing. Clouds torn and eaten by a monstrous black bird with a stomach full of flesh and bones.

Beneath the drifting grey islands, there is a woman with two faces. She is near a great lake, hiding in silence behind a giant shield of wood, wanting to be found by one but not another. She is full of love and confusion, the sun of the heart at odds with the moon of the mind.

The old mystic’s legs sag. He understands what the vision means. Knows who the woman is and whom she is going to betray. The consequences of the act are clear to him.

Darkness sucks oxygen from his lungs and starves his brain of thought. He slips shoulder first into the stone, then collapses onto the sacred tomb beneath it.

The world sways around him. He floats out into the blackness, like a small boat pulled from shore by the tides of an ocean.

Most of the city is still sleeping when Mitzi heads in to work.

She likes that she missed the rush hour. The great red bridge is almost empty and all the more magnificent for it.

Most of all, she likes that she’s not starting her day with an awkward face-off with Jack.

She spent most of the night wondering if she should tell her sister. But tell her what? That her husband was drunk and made a pass? That he said he’d always preferred her to Ruth? Either of those things was likely to end their marriage and create a rift between her and Ruth.

Hopefully, he got the message.

She takes a coffee to her desk and starts up the desktop PC. Her mailbox is jammed with spam and a couple of messages from ex-colleagues wishing her the best in the new job.

Before she starts work, she browses the
Huffington Post
. It has features on ‘Bondage for Beginners’, ‘Ten Reasons Why Women Like Bad Boys’ and ‘How Wearing Rubber Knickers Can Help You Lose Weight’. She works back to front, dismissing the pants story out of hand – she’d have to wear a truck tyre to lose the amount of weight she wants to. Bad boys are the last people she needs in her life. And she’s damned sure she doesn’t want her wrists wrapped up in cling film while some masked stranger spanks her with fifty-dollar paddles.

About an hour later, there are noises in the corridor.

Eleonora breezes in with wet hair and no make-up. She’s dressed head-to-toe in Fendi. A tailored military jacket in jade, and matching beltless pants cling to every perfect inch of her legs. A zesty yellow top is paired with a structured handbag in the same striking colour. She’s on her phone and drops a retro Diadora gym bag beside her desk while she talks intently.

Mitzi silently curses. It’s just not right that Eleonora looks that good.

The Italian finishes and glances across the desks. ‘
Buongiorno
, ’itzi. How are you?’

‘It’s Mitzi. M for motherfucker, then
itzi
. M-M-M-itzi.’

Eleonora laughs. ‘I am sorry. M for M-itzi. How are you?’

‘I’m good. Now let me guess, you’ve been to the gym and you’re feeling absolutely amazing.’

‘No, I feel like shit. I always do after gym. Did you know Michelle Obama goes at four-thirty a.m. every day?’

‘I don’t even want to think about four-thirty, let alone go anywhere at that time.’

Eleonora fingers her wet hair. ‘Guess I look a mess, yes?’

‘I wish I could say yes, but you look like you’re just about to strip off and model for
Sports Illustrated
.’

‘That’s a magazine?’

‘It’s a magazine. Guys say they buy it for the articles, but they’re not fooling anyone.’

A flash of mischief illuminates Eleonora’s face. ‘Aah, now I understand. Men, they are such simple animals.’ She grabs her purse. ‘I am going to the restroom, then maybe I buy coffee before I meet Bronty. You want to come with us?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Bronty called last night. He met a priest who introduced him to someone in the Church of Satan and he knows our dead woman, Rea Masters.’

‘Knows as in sexually?’

‘No. I don’t think so. Though of course it is possible. Bronty said Rea started in the Church of Satan then found herself at odds with the grotto she joined.’

‘Grotto? You make it sound like Santa Claus.’

Eleonora sits on the edge of her new colleague’s desk. ‘That is what they call the covens, or lodges. You know the Church of Satan’s founder lived not far from here. For maybe thirty years it was run from San Francisco.’

‘Anton LaVey. He wrote the Satanic Bible, right?’

‘
Si.
After he died the Church switched to New York.’

‘Hell’s Kitchen?’ jokes Mitzi.

Eleonora misses the pun. ‘You want to come with us?’

‘Yeah, thanks, I’d like to ride along.’

The office door opens and Donovan sticks her head in. ‘Got a job for you, Fallon.’

‘I thought I had a job – this witchcraft case?’

Her boss hands over a sheet of paper. ‘This has got your name all over it. Just in from Washington.’

Mitzi takes the paper and looks at it. ‘What is this? Some kind of cross?’

 

‘Congratulations. I see why you made lieutenant and why you’re so valuable to HRU. It’s a cross that has been linked to a murder. The detective in charge has asked for our help. I said you’d be on the redeye and arrive tomorrow.’

‘That could be a problem. I need to fix childcare.’ She nods to the two girls in the photo on her desk.

‘It
won’t
be a problem,’ says Donovan. ‘Life fits around the job, not the other way round. Fracci and Bronty are working Masters, so you had better be on that plane – or find yourself another squad.’

The stone of the chamber floor makes for a cold pillow, but Myrddin gladly endures it until he feels some strength creep back into his limbs.

The seer’s head throbs and his bones crackle with arthritis as he gets to his feet. He knows what has to be done. His task is far from finished.

Myrddin eyes the Font of Knowledge, aware of the dangers it contains. For many years, the ancient receptacle has drained his energy and spirit. It has taken from him and given to him in equal measures. Each experience has left him fuller in mind and less in body.

He grips the bowl of the font. Braces himself for what is to come, tilts his head back and closes his eyes. ‘I am here, old friend. Standing firm and tall, ready for you again. Write your page of history and leave me fit to carry it to the fingers of the world, that they may turn it and move on.’

The stone he holds trembles. A slight vibration at first, then a deep rumble. A growing thunder beneath Myrddin’s feet. Then the energy. Different this time: not slow and building. A sudden jolt. Electrifying. His mind fills with white. Snow white. Virgin white. Angelic white.

The vision comes.

A baby who becomes a man who becomes immortal. A child who grows faster and stronger than any human ever has. A young man who faces the world with the wisdom of a centenarian.

Myrddin knows this man.

He sees him surrounded by people but alone. He is caught in a moment of doubt. Trapped between the holiest and unholiest of men. He is troubled by two women. One very much known to him and one a complete stranger. Both are in danger; both will see death.

Death. This time the old foe comes with a long list. He seeks out brothers and sisters, men and women. Seeks them out randomly and specifically. Some for good reason, others just for the joy of seeing their blood in the snow.

The pure white snow.

It’s falling now. At first, just flakes on the seer’s flushed cheeks. Cool, like the kiss of a maiden. Now heavier. Splashes of icy rain, chilly enough to start the shivers.

An avalanche.

A deadly whiteout erupts inside the seer’s mind. Knocks him to the ground. Covers him. Buries him. Suffocates him. His hands slip from the font and he stumbles backward. This time he doesn’t fall. The vision is complete. He understands and knows what he must do.

A new phase of the Arthurian Cycle has begun.

Twenty-three-year-old Dwaine Velez wishes he’d taken a leak before he got in his Ford Wagon.

If that little bitch’s pops hadn’t turned up shouting the odds ’bout
the sanctity of his daughter
he’d have been able to use their goddamned bathroom. Instead, he ended up hopping down the drive with one leg in his pants and the rest of his clothes thrown all over the shrubs.

Un-fucking-dignified. That’s what it was.

Still, it had been worth it. She was a peach. These girls out in the sticks don’t get much action and when they do – man, they make the most of it.

He heads south down Connecticut Avenue, back towards the Capital Beltway, dark eyes scanning for a place to pull over. Jay-Z is rapping on the radio – ‘Bring it On’ from
Reasonable Doubt
, the album that propelled him from being a punk who’d put a cap in his brother, to one of the world’s most bankable music stars.

Dwaine drums fingersticks on the steering wheel and gets thinking. ‘Hey fella, I sure as hell would like to teach your lady some tricks. That Beyoncé has one fine booty.’

The song hits the chorus and the voice from the radio answers.

The young contractor laughs. ‘I can hang. Man, can I hang. And bro’, let me tell you, no way would she ever come back to you after she’s spent a night with me.’

Up on the left he spots some trees, and maybe the last chance to relieve himself before rolling out west to help fix some drains in McLean then on to a backed-up septic tank just north of Washington.

What a life. Eat your heart out, Jay-Z.

He parks on Beach Drive, crosses the near-deserted carriage to a clump of trees and a long track called Rock Creek Trail.

Dwaine is desperate. The burly six-footer is spraying overgrown grass within a split-second of getting his fly down. Every time he thinks he’s going to stop, another round of tequila shots and bottled water comes from somewhere.

Must be the sex. Sex always makes him pee like he’s a fire hose.

A thought hits him. A bad one. He hopes to hell that bitch hasn’t given him something
nasty
. Dwaine looks down at the boiling soil.

‘Fuck, man!’

The shock is so much he wets his legs. He stumbles backwards. Staring up, through a thin layer of puddled earth, is a man’s face.

He’s been pissing on a dead guy.