The Witch of Babylon

by Dorothy J. Mcintosh

  Chapter Three

  3:1 Woe to the bloody city! It is all full of lies and rapine; the prey departeth not.

  3:2 Hark! the whip, and hark! the rattling of the wheels; and prancing horses, and bounding chariots;

  3:3 The horseman charging, and the flashing sword, and the glittering spear; and a multitude of slain, and a heap of carcases; and there is no end of the corpses, and they stumble upon their corpses;

  3:4 Because of the multitude of the harlotries of the well-favoured harlot, the mistress of witchcrafts, that selleth nations through her harlotries, and families through her witchcrafts.

  3:5 Behold, I am against thee, saith the Lord of hosts, and I will uncover thy skirts upon thy face, and I will shew the nations thy nakedness, and the kingdoms thy shame.

  3:6 And I will cast detestable things upon thee, and make thee vile, and will make thee as dung.

  3:7 And it shall come to pass, that all they that look upon thee shall flee from thee, and say, ‘Nineveh is laid waste; who will bemoan her? whence shall I seek comforters for thee?’

  3:8 Art thou better than No-amon, that was situate among the rivers, that had the waters round about her; whose rampart was the sea, and of the sea her wall?

  3:9 Ethiopia and Egypt were thy strength, and it was infinite; Put and Lubim were thy helpers.

  3:10 Yet she was carried away, she went into captivity; her young children also were dashed in pieces at the head of all the streets; and they cast lots for her honourable men, and all her great men were bound in chains.

  I put the book down, disappointed. The passages shed no light on the central question—what great secret had Samuel found in Nahum’s words?

  The last time I’d checked my email was before Hal’s party—far too long. I scrolled through the messages. After deleting all the spam and saving the nonurgent stuff, I was left with two, the first from Diane:

  “John, that problem you mentioned. How could you ask a friend to lie about something like that? A guy died! I told the truth.”

  Short and to the point; fair enough, I guess.

  The second message came from Eric Nolan. A Holbein was coming up for auction this week. The last time the piece sold it had broken the million-dollar mark. Eric wanted me to represent him; the commission would be mouthwatering. His last message, posted this morning, gave me until this afternoon to reply. It was 1:40 now. How could I take the time to research the work’s provenance and show up at an auction with this threat hanging over my head? I punched in a message to Eric giving my regrets and cursed my bad luck.

  Twelve

  Continuing to work on Hal’s mindbender was top priority, but I still felt sluggish from the drug and needed to find some space to think, breathe some decent air. I wanted to get away from the rumble of the city and the constant buzz of traffic. Feel the sun on my face.

  Leaving my building, I was struck by a wall of heat. It felt hot enough outside to grill burgers on the sidewalk. The air had a heavy quality as if it were pressing down on my shoulders; the sky was buff-colored at the horizon from the effluent of thousands of vehicles. A sulphurous odor rose through the sewer grates, reminding me that like an ancient city, another metropolis lay under Manhattan: a network of pipes, lost subway tunnels, ancient quarries, underground streams, all long buried.

  I got my car from the parking garage I used on Thompson and fought with morning traffic to reach Coney Island, mulling over Hal’s game as I drove.

  As I headed for a quiet square of lawn overlooking the beach, I saw a mermaid poised on the boardwalk handing out flyers. She wore a pale, flowing Lady Godiva wig that tumbled down her backside and accentuated thick black lashes as long as her baby finger. Her upper body was swathed in chiffon, showing off her breasts without laying bare the whole story. A long, sequined fish tail completed the outfit; green satin shoes peeped out from the bottom. The Coney Island Mermaid Parade took place in June. She was a little late.

  I found an unclaimed bench and sat down. Throngs of young women lay on beach mats, played volleyball, sauntered along the water’s edge. The scent of coconut oil and vanilla drifted on the breeze. One of the volleyball players wore only bright red bikini bottoms and a micro top with loosely knotted ties. Every time she jumped for the ball, her breasts popped out. She seemed quite skilled at hitting the ball and pulling back her top before her feet hit the ground again.

  Not a good location, I thought, for a guy who needs to concentrate.

  I’d turned my attention back to Hal’s game when my cell chirped.

  “Is this John Madison?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Who’s speaking?”

  “It’s Joseph Reznick. You talked to my secretary earlier. You said you wanted to speak with me urgently.”

  “Thanks for getting back to me. Andy Stein said I should get in touch.”

  “Right, I remember you now.”

  “Is there any way we can meet to talk about my situation?”

  “How about around five? Will that work?”

  Would I have solved the game by then? Could I afford even an hour away from it? No. I had to keep going. “Is there any chance we could do it tomorrow?” The guy had to be thinking I was a total ass, pleading for an urgent meeting and then putting it off. If so, he didn’t let on.

  “Well, that’s better for me actually. Around the same time?” “That sounds fine.”

  “Have you been interviewed by the police?”

  “Yes, it was pretty rough.”

  “No one represented you?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t volunteer if they want to interview you again. If they charge you, give them your name and nothing else. At some point they’ll have to let you call an attorney. You don’t want to say anything until we’ve had a chance to talk. No interrogation unless I’m sitting beside you.” He gave me the number of his personal line and said to call him immediately if I heard from the police again.

  “Thanks very much. By the way, Andy said you might check out my situation.”

  “I have some pretty good contacts, yes. There are two issues, your accident and Hal Vanderlin’s death. On the second, things are up in the air; they don’t have much, but it’s early days yet. About the crash, the police are feeling pretty pumped up. Only one thing is keeping them from charging you with reckless endangerment. But let’s save that for our meeting. You can reach me overnight if you need to.”

  I terminated the call, glad I had at least one person on my side. If they did charge me and made it stick I’d be seeing jail time. The thought of that made me sick.

  The news unsettled me to the point where I couldn’t concentrate on Hal’s game as I’d intended to do. I looked around at the sights and sounds, trying to get my mind off it. At a neighboring bench a man and two boys were eating their lunch, a jumble of fast-food containers piled around them. The kids, dressed identically in striped T-shirts, oversized blue shorts that just about reached their knees, and sandals, seemed around six years old. They sparred with each other throughout the meal. One would steal a fry, the other would throw ketchup packages at him. I assumed the man was their dad because he ordered them around with the kind of bossiness that’s the exclusive territory of fathers. Most of his remarks were aimed at the dark-haired boy, the thrower, who, I must admit, was more of a pest. Their bickering was annoying.

  I turned sideways and stretched my legs out, tipping my head back to soak in the rays. I thought about the many days in childhood I’d spent here with Samuel, and I wondered whether anything in the small chest he’d given me would have relevance to my quest. I was thoroughly familiar with its contents, having handled them many times over the years: the seven gold coins with their mysterious images, the copper medallion, the golden key. Nothing seemed to connect to the engraving.

  Yells broke through my reverie. The two boys had meandered away, their sparring escalating into all-out war. The light-haired kid was taking whacks at his brother with an orange plastic baseball bat. The dark-haired one would
duck and pull away and then rush back with a kick. One of his sandals had fallen off. Both of them were yelling at the top of their lungs. Dad had remained behind, mesmerized by the red bikini. The kids’ yells brought him back to the real world. He charged over like a bull aiming for a toreador. He grabbed the dark-haired boy and gave him a slap on the behind with enough force that I could hear the blow from where I was sitting. The boy howled and burst into tears. I cringed on behalf of the second kid, who had to know what was coming.

  But no. The man crouched down and gave him a hug, talking quietly to him. He picked up the baseball bat, held the kid’s hand, and walked him over to their car, putting him inside. The dark-haired child lingered.

  The guy just sat in the car, motor running. Finally, still crying but more quietly now, the boy made his way over to the car and got in. As they drove off, a breeze came up, scattering the fast-food containers and papers.

  That’s how it starts, I thought. Favoring one son over the other. That child will grow up with a hate-on for the whole world.

  I turned my attention back to the engraving and went over the facts again. Samuel had recognized Nahum’s text as a prophetic Old Testament book called the Burden of Nineveh. After someone had attempted to steal it, he refused to let anyone see it. He believed that not only was the text genuine but it contained a hidden message. Pointing to what? Something to do with alchemical processes to make gold. Was this just the product of an old man’s imagination, or could there be some truth to it?

  Another call cut into my train of thought.

  “I’m so glad I reached you,” Laurel said when I picked up.

  “Is everything okay?” Her voice sounded shaky, as though she’d been crying again.

  “No. That woman you described—Eris?”

  “That’s her name.”

  “She tried to get to me. I ran out of breakfast stuff. On my way back from Gristedes I had an odd sensation of being followed, and Gip just caught her trying to get upstairs, pretending she was a courier. She left when he confronted her.”

  “She probably searched the townhouse and came up with nothing, so now she wants to ransack your place.”

  “Good luck to her. I’ve spent the last couple of months sorting through Mina’s things, helping Hal decide what to sell. I think I’d know if he hid something here.”

  “He could have done it when you weren’t home.”

  “I suppose.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Listen, how about I come over? You shouldn’t be alone.” “Could you? I’d feel better.”

  I turned the radio on for the drive back. Dire Straits’ “Money for Nothing” came on. Whether the music helped to clarify my thoughts, I don’t know, but as I pondered what hidden meanings Nahum’s prophecy might have, the spark went off again and this time ignited a fire. I’d solved Hal’s puzzle.

  When I got upstairs Laurel greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. I can’t say I minded the role of savior.

  “What’s wrong with your lip?” She touched the swelling on my face.

  “It’s nothing. I’m more concerned about you. And some good news. I may have the answer to Hal’s game.”

  “Really?”

  We went into the study off the family room, where I drew a sketch for her.

  “Four letters are missing: r, a, n, s. Hal purposely didn’t use all the letters available. All the words on the board should be linked, but the groups on the left and right sides of the board aren’t joined. I needed to look for a connecting word. Putting the missing letters in between the t and the word mutation produced the correct word: transmutation, the one meaning to transform base metals into gold.”

  “Oh brother,” Laurel said. “I’m embarrassed I didn’t see that. That wasn’t very inspired. Hal was usually a bit more inventive.”

  I’d already saved the image of the second puzzle on my BlackBerry, so Laurel couldn’t see how I’d made the transition. I opened it and showed it to her. “Recognize it?” I asked.

  “Of course. Melencolia 1 by Albrecht Dürer. It’s hanging in Hal’s study.”

  Only two squares to be filled out this time. I tried the obvious answer, Dürer’s initials, A and D, and then the numeric equivalent of his initials, one and four, but neither worked.

  Melencolia 1 by Albrecht Dürer, 1514

  “Did Hal mention anything in particular he liked about the picture?”

  “I’m not sure. He loved Dürer and M.C. Escher because they understood the mathematics of space and the connection between numbers and visual art.” She thought for a few minutes. “Nothing comes to mind about anything specific he liked.”

  “What did he really intend?” I felt desperate. “I don’t have time to fool around with this. Is he just going to keep stringing me along?”

  “Knowing Hal, there’s more to come. He didn’t just pluck these puzzles out of thin air. They point to a meaning, some kind of underlying theme. How did you make the switch from the first puzzle to this one?”

  I sidestepped her question. “You’re giving him far too much credit. Hal was no better than a thief. Thanks to him my life is now pure hell.”

  Laurel bristled. “And all the money you made selling off his father’s collection, you conveniently forgot about that.”

  Her reaction caught me off guard. “All I got was 20 percent. That’s lower than a lot of dealers ask for. And I’m still owed money from the loan I gave him.”

  “You’re whining about the world not treating you right. That’s your problem, John. With Samuel or Hal, anyone who’s been good to you, you just take whatever is on offer. And when that stops you throw a tantrum.”

  I was on the verge of losing my temper big time when I remembered that as his legal wife, Laurel would have inherited his wealth. With Peter’s collection sold off and the properties in limbo, she’d have nothing left. Part-time teaching hours and grant money don’t stretch far in this city.

  She whipped around to face me. “Why are you doing this anyway? For the money, right? You said that thing was really valuable.”

  “It’s not about money. I want those people off my back. And yours too. I have to find it. When I do I’ll make a very public show about handing it over to the FBI. That’s the only way they’ll leave us alone.”

  “Someone will locate it eventually. Let them deal with it.”

  “I can’t. Eris attacked me last night. She’s convinced I know where the engraving is. She wants my scalp.”

  This shook her up a bit. “Tell the police then—they can take care of it.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? After what that detective already put me through? He won’t believe a thing I say.”

  Laurel slumped onto the couch, put her head in her hands, and drew her legs up. I sat down beside her. “Laurie, you’re going through a difficult time. I know that.”

  “How am I supposed to plan for a funeral, John? The police sent some things over they found on Hal and don’t need for forensics. I couldn’t bear to look at the stuff. They won’t even tell me when they’re releasing his body.” Tears filled her eyes.

  “Listen to me. You need to get out of here. Is there no one you can stay with? What about your parents? Where do they live?”

  “In North Dakota. They have a poultry farm outside Bismarck. But that’s not even a last resort. I’m not welcome there. You could say there’s a bit of a lifestyle clash.”

  “It would be a good place to stay, short term anyway. You’d be safe.”

  The look on her face told me what she thought of that idea. “Sure, trot home, hanging my head in shame. My mother was always on my case about Hal. I had to beg him to make even one trip to meet my parents. I shouldn’t have bothered because she couldn’t stand him. ‘Too many airs and graces,’ she said.

  “She never wanted me to come to New York in the first place. I can still hear her. ‘We have a decent university in our own state, why isn’t that good enough for you?’ She made some lame excuse for not showing up to the weddi
ng. When the marriage fell apart, do you know what Mom’s comment was? ‘Well, Loretta, at least he’s finally out of your life.’ She actually laughed. I can just imagine what she’d say, given how Hal died.”

  “You’re going to have to hang out with me then, until we can figure something else out.” I put my arm around her. “What’s with Loretta?”

  “I could never stand my name. I started using Laurel the minute I left home.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I’m mad at you.”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry for getting temperamental. I know you’re doing all you can. I’m just so stressed out. It’s bad enough with what happened to Hal and then coping with all the problems around the estate. Now I have to worry about some weird group of killers. It’s insane.”

  Teardrops clung to her long lashes. She reached for a tissue to pat them away. She had beautiful eyes, grayish hued indoors but green in the sunlight.

  “I woke up last night with the worst feeling,” she said.

  “I had a nightmare too.”

  “It wasn’t a nightmare. Just a sense that everything’s going seriously wrong, like I’m caught in a web and can’t break free.”

  “You should move out, for a while anyway. I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, let’s visit Reed at his office at NYU and see if he can tell us anything. After that we’ll stop by Phillip Anthony’s gallery. He’s an expert on Renaissance prints who can advise us about Dürer.”

  “All right. Can you wait while I shower and get some stuff together?”

  Laurel’s frame of mind wasn’t helped by her surroundings. She seemed lost in Mina’s place, swallowed up by it. It had a depressing, worn-out feeling in spite of its luxurious furnishings. Almost four thousand square feet on two floors and all of it unoccupied, except for her small domain in the family room.