“Gone where?”
“To the other side. Where I hope it’s still burning shit down.”
DuQuette laughed. “It was probably best that it came to you, after all. Catherine knew that. What Ramirez could have done with it…I’m not sure it would have been enough.”
“He knew so much more than me,” Becca said. “Maybe she should have entrusted it to him.”
“You were younger, and saner.”
“I don’t know about that second one.”
“You did well.”
“Yeah, well…it was close. Moe didn’t live long enough to guide me much. He found out I had the scarab too late. I figured out the mantra for it almost by chance. If Catherine hadn’t impressed it on me a long time ago… If I hadn’t remembered it at the right time…”
“She impressed it on you for a reason. She knew you were the right person to bear the task, and she gave you the tools to stand in her place when the time came.”
“I doubt she was as wise or far-seeing as that. She made mistakes. People paid for them.”
DuQuette interlaced his fingers and moved them through a series of small gestures that Becca sensed held some symbolic value to him. “I’ve taken vows to the order. It would forfeit my life to break them. But I regret that I couldn’t guide you then. Perhaps I can now, with caution. If I’d known what you were embarking on, I would have been at Catherine’s funeral. I would have reached out.”
“Reached out and claimed the scarab?”
“I hope I would have been wiser than that.” He tipped his bearded chin at the journal and pen she’d placed on the table beside the box of books and papers. “What did you hope to find in the book?”
“Do your vows allow you to talk about it?”
“To a degree. But it’s useless without a certain artifact. A dagger forged of meteoric iron. Church records claim three of these daggers were made and lost throughout history. There’s a consensus that the first—from the time of Dionysus—was destroyed, and the most recent was made from a meteor that landed on a farm, not far from here, a century ago. That one may be only a legend. Most scholars believe the meteor dissolved.”
“What do you believe?”
“Solve et coagula, as the alchemists used to say. Dissolve and recombine. In the right hands, the meteor may indeed have been reconstituted into a powerful weapon.”
“I’ve seen one. It was used by Reverend John Proctor of the Boston Starry Wisdom Church. He used it to banish something that came through from the other side.”
“You witnessed this?”
“Yes.”
“Proctor did have a reputation for caution where letting the Great Old Ones into our world was concerned. He would have protected such a relic.” DuQuette squinted at Becca. “Are you working with him? Is that why you’re looking for the Foní tou Kenoú?”
“He’s dead,” Becca said. “The dagger was lost with him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Rumor was, he’d been recruited by the government to fight an invisible war.”
“There’s some truth to that.”
DuQuette raised an eyebrow.
“What did you call the book?” Becca asked.
“I Foní tou Kenoú is the Greek title. But translations have appeared in other lands and languages. It was circulated wider than one would expect for a grimoire that required a rare weapon to be employed. At one point, Catherine had access to a Latin copy of the text: Vox in Vacuum. She claimed it went missing from her office along with her notes and the English edition I’d given her. That never sat well with the head librarian, who thought she might have ‘removed it from circulation’ to her private library. Of course, her private library is here in these boxes now and, I assure you, the book of mantras is not.”
“Any idea where it ended up?”
“No. But I’ve often wondered if she may have passed it to Frater Ramirez.”
“Was Catherine a member of the Golden Bough as well?”
“For a time, yes. She left the order shortly after Ramirez did. The way she talked about him, I think she saw him as the most capable among us. He was a talented magician, even after he started losing his mind.” DuQuette expelled a sharp nasal laugh. “Maybe more so after. Of course, I see now that you were Catherine’s true last hope. I have to admit, it’s unnerving to find you looking for the book rather than hiding it somewhere. And you tell me the dagger may have passed out of this world, like the Fire of Cairo before it. That would put us in a dire position if we had reason to fear another breach. Do we, Ms. Philips?”
“It’s possible. Do you think Maurice hid the book somewhere?”
“She would have given it to him if she thought he could track down the dagger and unite it with the book, but from what you’ve told me, that never happened. So he would have concealed it, kept it safe.”
“If you were trying to think like Maurice,” Becca said, “where might he hide a book like that for safekeeping?”
“I don’t know if anyone ever thought like him.”
Becca was reminded of how Moe had once hidden a literal key to the adjacent dimension under a horseshoe crab on the shore of that strange world. “So there’s no place you can think of? Maybe a place that only members of the order would know about? Or someplace with personal significance to him?”
“I’m afraid the possibilities are endless.”
“Why?”
“You must remember that to a mystic like Maurice, every gesture of daily life—never mind an act of such cosmic significance as protecting a book of power—was imbued with potential symbolic associations. The state he functioned in wasn’t all that different from that of a schizophrenic. It wouldn’t sit right with him to just put the book somewhere safe, he would be compelled to hide it in a place that referenced its nature.”
“So someplace that has to do with…voices?”
“Possibly.” DuQuette stood up and went to the white board. “Are you familiar with Gematria at all?”
“It’s like numerology, right? Where you add up the numeric value of a Greek or Hebrew word or sentence? Catherine was always scribbling calculations on the back of the grocery list.”
DuQuette nodded as he uncapped the marker. He wrote two lines on the board:
הריק של קול = 781
781 = אשפת
“For the sake of example, let’s say he had the Hebrew translation of the title in mind when choosing a hiding place.”
“But she would have given him the Latin version.”
“Yes, but the Latin alphabet doesn’t really have numeric equivalents. He may have chosen to work his associations in Greek, so already we have no idea if we’re even barking up the right tree. But just to illustrate one scenario: He calculates the number of the Hebrew title, which is seven-hundred-eighty-one. Then he chooses another word or phrase, equal to the same value, probably from the Bible. It could be anything, and you can’t add up all possibilities for your scavenger hunt. If you get lucky, maybe you find one in a notebook of his that you at least know was on his radar.”
Becca felt a tingle in her stomach at the memory of the Hebrew words Maurice had scribbled in chalk all over the ceiling of his makeshift monk’s cell in the abandoned textile factory where she’d first encountered him.
“But say he chose this word,” DuQuette said, underlining the second line. “It means dung or refuse and comes from a reference to one of the nine gates of Jerusalem, outside of which there was probably a garbage heap. Which is interesting to us because your scarab—the only other weapon we know of proven to banish these entities—is a dung beetle.”
“So what does that mean?”
“My point is that it could mean anything when you try to convert it into the practical actions of a mad man. It could mean he hid the book under a garbage heap. And that’s just one possibility.”
Becca drummed her fingers against the cover of her notebook.
“You lo
ok crestfallen,” DuQuette said. “You came here hoping that Catherine might have left you the answers, or at least a clear path to them. But you’re not telling me everything. Why are these arcane books and weapons urgently needed now?”
She took a breath and dived in, told him about her recurring dreams, but kept her newfound vocal abilities to herself for the time being. She also neglected to mention the dagger in the bag beside her chair. If the information frightened him, he didn’t show it.
“You believe Cthulhu is waking and reaching out in dreams to sensitives like yourself.”
“Am I wrong? Has anyone in the order experienced the dreams? Have you?”
“No one in the order would be vulnerable to telepathic dreams.”
“And why is that?”
DuQuette took his wallet from the breast pocket of his jacket and removed a card from the fold before tucking it away. He took Becca’s pen and wrote on the front of the card where his office hours were listed. But this wasn’t more cabalistic calculation; it was a phone number.
“That’s my cell,” he said. “I trust you’ll call me if you need anything. Perhaps when you’re ready to be less guarded about your objective.” He held up a hand as if to ward off some protest. “I quite understand your reasons for caution.”
He flipped the card over and drew a symbol on the blank side: a curved pentagram with an eye in the center, its pupil a pillar of flame. When he’d recapped the pen, he held the card up for her to see.
“Visualize this symbol before sleep. Hold it in your mind’s eye. It’s a variant of the elder sign, which is graven upon the crypt of Cthulhu. The mark of the Elder Gods who imprisoned the Great Old Ones. Sleep with the glyph under your pillow.”
Becca stood up, placed her notebook in her bag, and took the card from him. “Thank you, Professor. You’ve been more helpful than a box of books, but I should be getting back to my dog.”
“Where will you begin your search?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll have an idea after a full night’s sleep.”
But she had one already.
Chapter 9
Brooks listened to an audio book on the flight to Arizona so he wouldn’t have to talk to Nico Merrit. They flew into Flagstaff Airport, rented a compact car, and drove forty minutes through Oak Creek Canyon to Sedona. Merrit drove. Brooks rolled his window down to bask in the warm, sage scented breeze and admire the scenery; the contrast of red rock against a cerulean sky dotted with white clouds. It had snowed recently in the valley. Most of it had melted already, but the buttes were capped and dusted with white on their western slopes, creating a surreal juxtaposition of desert with the last throes of a winter he’d hoped they were leaving behind when they flew out of Boston.
The agents checked into separate rooms in the economy Kokopelli Motel, where the VACANCY sign above the parking lot depicted the hump-backed fertility deity playing his flute in silhouette.
The Malik family had relocated to Arizona from Massachusetts with their son, Phineas, three years after the Equinox event. Brooks and Merrit hadn’t given them any advance notice of the visit, but satellite and signal surveillance indicated they would be at home on Saturday if there was no deviation from their usual routine.
Brooks spent Friday night in the motel reading the files for the families they were assigned to interview. There wasn’t much about Tom’s family and Brooks was tempted to indulge a sense of relief reading through the scant information SPECTRA had compiled. An agent could never be sure the powers that be weren’t testing him, but maybe his cautious and minimal contact with the family had gone undetected. He only hoped Becca had been able to tip them off without exposing the connection. For all he knew, she was being followed now.
When he caught himself nodding off from jet lag, he tucked his ammo magazine under the mattress, set his alarm, and turned in early to make up for the sleep he knew he would lose later.
From what Brooks could tell, Merrit spent most of the night at a local bar. Walking past his room at 1:30 A.M. while taking in the mild night air during the dreaming hour, Brooks heard him getting laid. But in the morning, Merrit was no worse for wear; clear-eyed, clean shaven, and waiting for Brooks in the continental breakfast lounge.
They passed the Red Planet Diner and an assortment of New Age crystal shops advertising vision quests and “Vortex Tours” until Highway 179 took them over the town line into Oak Creek, winding up into the hills.
Merrit caught Brooks staring at his wallet where he’d stuffed it into the cup holder after filling the gas tank.
“What? Need a loan for a lottery ticket?”
“Just wondering if it’s true,” Brooks said, “that you carry a newspaper clipping about what happened in Iraq.”
Merrit took his eyes off the road long enough to fix Brooks with an icy stare. Looking ahead again, he said, “If you want something to gossip about, why don’t you check?”
“You blame me for being curious when we’re headed to a house where a child is involved?”
Merrit’s jaw clenched. A vein throbbed at his temple.
“Did the Times get the facts right?”
“That’s classified. Just do your job and I’ll do mine.”
“Keep your safety on.”
“I’m not repeating myself.”
The Malik house was a single-story pueblo revival design with a front yard of crushed stone. What it lacked in square footage, it made up for with a stunning view of the Bell Rock butte through the wide living room windows.
A short-haired woman with olive skin answered the doorbell, dressed in yoga pants and a lavender jersey—Demi Malik, judging by the file photo. Merrit held up his ID. Mrs. Malik reluctantly let them in and called for her husband.
Brooks scanned the room. Standard southwestern style decor and a scattering of kid’s toys, mostly Legos and art supplies. A few family photos, but no mirrors. Of course, that didn’t mean anything in a living room, but he decided to ask to use the bathroom at some point to see if they were absent there as well.
Five-year-old Phineas sat on the living room rug, clutching a gray Lego model that reminded Brooks of an Easter Island head, eyeing the strangers with a look that implied he’d be growling if he were a dog. Brooks found the vibe coming off the pale, hollow-eyed child unsettling. In his limited experience, most kids that age were pretty neutral toward strangers. Maybe Phineas was picking up on Mom’s nerves.
Cyrus Malik emerged from what looked like a home office, also dressed in Saturday morning casual: flannel bottoms, a college logo T-shirt, hair mussed up, and hands empty. “What’s this?” he said, then composed himself, stepping between his son and the agents in their dark suits. “How can I help you gentlemen?”
“They’re SPECTRA,” Demi said. “From Boston.”
“You came all the way from Boston,” Cyrus said, “but you didn’t call first?”
“We had other business in the region,” Merrit lied. “It’s been on the agency’s to do list for a while to check in with witnesses of the Equinox terror attack.”
“Phineas, go play in your room while Daddy talks with these men. Demi, please make some tea.”
“That’s okay,” Brooks said. “We already had coffee.”
“Tea, please,” Cyrus repeated and his wife left the room, escorting the boy down the hall.
“This is just a routine follow-up, Mr. Malik,” Merrit said, looking around the room with his thumbs hooked in his pockets.
Cyrus gestured at a pair of leather couches at right angles. “Please. Make yourselves comfortable.”
“Were sorry to intrude on a Saturday morning,” Brooks said.
“We realized on short notice that it was a convenient opportunity for us to check in,” Merrit said. “Most of the other families have remained in the greater Boston area.”
Cyrus took a seat on a bench facing the couches in front of an upright piano that looked like it was used as much for displaying small sculptures and candle sticks as for music. A storm gray
cat sat perched on the lid where a triangle of morning sun warmed the golden wood.
“You last saw us at Government Center for your second shot of Nepenthe in October of that year,” Merrit said.
“That’s right.”
“What prompted the move to Arizona?” Brooks asked.
“Demi was offered a good job with the Sedona-Oak Creek school district. Since I can work from anywhere, it was easy to let her take it. Also, we wanted a change of scenery.”
“The weather sure beats Beantown,” Brooks said. “Although, it looks like you didn’t entirely escape the snow.”
Demi returned with a silver tray bearing china teacups and a metal pitcher of milk. She set it on a wood and leather chest that served as a coffee table, and then perched at the edge of a rocking chair. Brooks noticed for the first time that there was no TV in the room. It brought to mind his own widescreen, currently draped with a bed sheet.
Merrit ignored the tea tray. Brooks flashed Demi a tight smile. The aroma of the tea was strange—exotic and not entirely unpleasant. He couldn’t place what it reminded him of. Something he’d smelled in a dream? He tried not to stare at the sea-green color in the gold-trimmed cups, and focused on what Merrit was saying.
“Your son was born after the event, correct?”
“Yes,” Cyrus said. “The following June.”
“In our effort to track you down for this follow-up, we looked at his school records.”
Cyrus shifted on the piano bench. “He hardly has any. Do they even keep preschool records?”
“They do,” Merrit said. “We were looking for a forwarding address, but I couldn’t help noticing that there was a record of disrupting incidents in the classroom. It looks like you pulled him out halfway through the year.”
Demi looked as pale as a woman of dark complexion could. Brooks thought ashen might be the right word.
“I thought you were here to find out how I’ve been since the Equinox attack,” Cyrus said. “What does that have to do with my son? He wasn’t even born yet.”
Spectra Files 03 Cthulhu Blues Page 9
