Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Vulture cocked his head. "From Special Affairs?"

  "No," Bellamy said, mildly impressed that his companion had even heard of SAD, "V1CAP. Violent Criminals Apprehension Program. I work out of the district office in Baton Rouge, so as you might guess, until recently I was trying to catch the Atheist."

  "You aren't now?"

  "Not officially." Once again, Bellamy felt the weight of an onlooker's scrutiny. He looked casually around, but still didn't catch anyone staring. The sensation was beginning to remind him unpleasantly of his experience with Waxman, but he supposed it was just his imagination. Even if something supernatural had occurred that night, it was preposterous to imagine it happening again in the middle of a crowd on a bright spring day. Besides, nobody had known that he was coming here, and never mind that that was what he'd said the last time.

  As succinctly as possible, he told Vulture about his encounter with Waxman. Usually, doing so made him feel like an idiot, but this time, the other man's expression of grave interest somewhat alleviated his embarrassment.

  When he finished, Vulture said, "And your friend from SAD didn't take anything in your story seriously?"

  "No," Bellamy said.

  Vulture shook his head. "Extraordinary. They must be even more ignorant than we supposed." "'We'?"

  Vulture smiled. "Ah, yes. It's my turn to confide in you, isn't it? Either that or terminate the conversation, which is what some of my colleagues would recommend." Bellamy tensed. "After all, your story isn't all that illuminating. But it is information, and I am an activist in my small way. I believe that when it's feasible, somebody should stop the atrocities, and perhaps if we combine my esoteric knowledge with your police powers, we can. My name is Roscoe Jefferson Keene—R. J. to my friends— and I belong to an organization called the Arcanum."

  "What kind of organization is it?" Bellamy asked.

  "A lodge," said Keene. "A one hundred year-old brotherhood of scholars united to study the occult. Sort of a civilian counterpart to your Agent Dunn's organization, except that where SAD presumably exists to defend America from paranormal menaces, the Arcanum supposedly exists to further the cause of pure research."

  "You say, 'supposedly.'"

  "Many members pursue other agendas. We 'Templars.' for example, aspire to protect mankind from supernatural predators." He smiled wryly. "It could be argued that the vast majority of paranormal creatures fall into that category, so we have our work cut out for us."

  Yet again, Bellamy's skin crawled with the near certainty that he was being watched. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Unable to ignore his intuition any longer, he asked, "Do you mind if we walk as we talk? It'll help settle my lunch."

  "By all means," said Keene. Grunting, he stood up.

  The two men began to stroll around the square. Bellamy kept stopping and changing direction, seemingly to gawk at the shop windows, or to take a better look at a painting or a performer. In reality, he was putting his hunch to the test. If someone was following them, that person would stop and start and pivot with them, unless he was adept at the craft of shadowing others.

  "What do you know about Weiss and Waxman?" Bellamy asked.

  "That for all their greed and chicanery, they actually did cast out devils on occasion."

  Bellamy paused to watch a prestidigitator in a red silk top hat pluck a white paper rose from the air. "That's not what SAD thinks."

  "SAD also thinks you're insane, do they not? Do you share their opinion on that point?"

  "Only when I'm having a bad moment," Bellamy said, pretending to inspect a painting of a horse-drawn carriage on a benighted street. "Were Weiss and Waxman members of the Arcanum?"

  Keene snorted. "Lord, no! Weiss had a rather narrow perspective, metaphysically speaking. He would have regarded us as practitioners of black magic, or pawns of Lucifer at the very least."

  By now, Bellamy was all but certain that someone was tailing them. He felt a person behind him, that other's movements mirroring his own, as if the two of them were dancing. It would be awkward to accost the shadow in the middle of a crowd, but perhaps he could lead him into a more private place. Resisting the impulse to look back again and so risk spooking his quarry, he headed for the facade of St. Louis Cathedral, framed between the Cabildo and the Presbytere.

  "But you know something about the murders," Bellamy said. He felt torn between the urge to plunge into the heart of the matter and the wary reflection that it might be better to stall until he'd dealt with the spy at his back, even though the shadow quite possibly already knew more than either he or Keene did anyway.

  "Perhaps," Keene replied, sidestepping to avoid a giggling, staggering Japanese couple with cameras hanging around their necks and half-empty Hurricane glasses in their hands. "Right from the start, I've made it a point to read the newspaper accounts of the Atheist murders, because it was conceivable that a supernatural being might slaughter ministers and Sunday school teachers for ritual purposes. But until recently, I didn't pay all that much attention, because I was pursuing other studies, and it actually seemed more likely that the killer was just a cunning maniac with a gmdge against the clergy."

  "Let's step in here for a second," said Bellamy, leading Keene onto the covered ambulatory of the basilica. "It'll be cooler. I gather that something eventually convinced you that the murderer probably is connected to the paranormal."

  "First off, Weiss's death," said Keene, removing his hat and pulling open the church door. Bellamy pulled off his LSU Bengals cap and stuffed it in his pocket. "If you were a supernatural creature committing the crimes, you'd want to eliminate one of the few religious figures who might actually pose a threat to you, would you not?"

  It was cool inside the church. The air smelled of stone and incense, and after the brilliant sunlight outside, the interior of the building seemed shadowy and dim. Two old women sat motionless as waxworks in the pews. Bellamy moved past the font and a wrought-iron rack of votive candles toward a small chapel built into the right- hand wall. Once he and Keene were inside, they'd be out of sight of the worshippers in the nave.

  After a moment, the door whispered open and shut behind them, and a shoe scuffed faintly on the gleaming marble floor. The shadow was still skulking along behind them.

  "But you don't need an occult killer to explain Weiss's death," Bellamy said. "If the murderer craved notoriety, he could guarantee himself a lot of press by knocking off a televangelist. And even if he didn't, well, he's killing preachers, and Weiss was one. It could just be the luck of the draw."

  "You're playing devil's advocate," said Keene, fanning his flushed, sweaty face with his hat. "Good for you. Hardheaded critical thinking is crucial to the success of any investigation. But the rebuttal to your argument is that the Atheist killed Waxman, another individual with psychic abilities, immediately afterward, even though Waxman was neither a member of the clergy nor a figure in the public eye. Indeed, by killing one of his previous victim's close associates, he broke his pattern to do so."

  "My colleagues in the Bureau would point out that Waxman wasn't murdered," Bellamy said. "He died of a heart attack."

  "I think we can assume the Atheist would have killed him, if he hadn't saved him the trouble by dropping dead of terror. The puzzling thing is, why didn't he murder you as well?"

  The two men stepped under a basket-handle arch into the chapel, a small space dominated by a marble life-size statue of the Virgin standing, arms open, smiling sadly, in a niche in the back wall. As Bellamy had hoped, no one was praying here.

  "I've wondered the same thing," the FBI agent send. "All I can figure is, he was afraid of my gun. But look, R. J., so far, all you've given me is conjecture. Intelligent conjecture, assuming a person accepts the existence of the paranormal, but only speculation even so. Haven't you got any facts?"

  "A few," Keene said, "although I don't know if you'll regard them as such. My friends and I do our best to keep the various supernatural beings in New Orleans und
er surveillance."

  "Do you know who they are?" asked Bellamy. He strained his ears, listening to the background noise in the church. He could feel the eavesdropper, lurking outside the chapel, but he couldn't pinpoint the shadow's location.

  Keene sighed. "Not really, but we have intimations. We've devised techniques, mostly indirect measures, which allow us to monitor or at least infer their activities. We're fairly certain that the city has a large population of spirits."

  "You mean ghosts?"

  "That's what I believe, although others favor different hypotheses. I also think they have two rival kings or masters. There are indications that around the time of the first Atheist murder, open hostilities broke out between the factions."

  Abruptly, though he hadn't consciously registered a telltale sound, Bellamy felt certain that he knew precisely where the eavesdropper was standing. Just to the left of the arch. "What makes you think there's a connection?" he asked. Then, holding up his hand to caution his companion, he tiptoed toward the opening.

  Fortunately, Keene reacted to the signal appropriately. He didn't say or do anything that would have given Bellamy away. He simply pursued the thread of the conversation. "Just a hunch, I must admit, prompted by the knowledge that the Atheist has done some of his bloodiest work at this end of the Mississippi. Be that as it may, other odd things are happening hereabouts. There's a, well, call it a clan of peculiar people living over in Lafayette. The Arcanum doesn't know if they're diabolists, the descendants of people who interbred with something inhuman, or what, but we're virtually certain they're involved in the high rate of unexplained disappearances over there. Until recently, they rarely came into New Orleans, but now—"

  Bellamy lunged around the pier of the arch, grabbed the eavesdropper by the arm, and whirled the shadow inside, all in a single instant, moving so rapidly that he didn't really register that his captive was the girl with the magenta hair and the piercings until he'd already completed the maneuver.

  "My goodness," Keene exclaimed.

  Bellamy pressed the girl back against the wall. "Who are you?"

  For a moment, she looked flustered, and then her black-painted lips grimaced. "Nice," she said. "Go ahead, FBI man, rough me up. Rodney King me. I'll scream my head off. I'll put your ass in prison."

  Bellamy realized that whoever she was, she wasn't the towering figure that had risen from behind his rental car in East St. Louis, nor did she appear to pose a threat. Technically speaking, he probably hadn't had the right to put his hands on her. Reflecting that he could always grab her again should she try to run, he released his grip on her fragrant black leather jacket. "I don't want to hurt you," he said "But I am here pursuing an official investigation—"

  "Bullshit. I've been listening to you, remember? I know there's nothing official about this."

  "Trust me," said Bellamy, giving her his best intimidating stare, "I can make it as official as it needs to be."

  Keene stepped forward. "Miss, as you've evidently heard, we're trying to stop a series of murders. If you have information that could help us, simple human decency demands that you disclose it."

  The girl sighed. "You're barking up the wrong tree. I didn't even have any idea who Waxman was until a few minutes ago. I asked two nights ago, but you jerks ignored me."

  Bellamy gaped at her. Though he knew he shouldn't feel so astonished, considering that he hadn't anything to base it on, but he could help marveling that his mental picture had been so far off the mark. "Astarte?" he asked.

  "Of course," she said. "Who else was in the Circle of Discourse when you arranged your little party? I hitchhiked all the way from Ohio to crash it."

  Bellamy's shoulders slumped as the tension flowed out of his muscles. "You're lucky I didn't bounce you around a lot harder than I did. For all I knew, you were somebody who came here to kill us."

  "But why are you here?" asked Keene.

  "So you could tell her where to go to meet Count Dracula," said Bellamy. He looked back at the girl. "Isn't that about the size of it?"

  "Basically," she replied. "And so far, you're a big disappointment to me, Vulture. I hope you've got more to say."

  "Me, too," said Bellamy. "But you're not going to be around to hear it. Take a hike."

  "Screw you," she replied.

  "Believe me," said Keene, "I understand your fascination with the paranormal. But we're not obligated to help you pursue it."

  Astarte scowled at Bellamy. "What if I phone the FBI and tell them what you've been up to? They'll kick you out. They might even lock you in a rubber room."

  Bellamy's instincts assured him that the chances of Astarte following through on her threat were minute. She wasn't the kind of kid who'd rat out anybody to heavy- duty authority figures like the Feds. "Do what you want. We're still not going to talk to you anymore."

  Astarte's large blue eyes, rather pretty ones despite rings of eye shadow so heavy and black they made her resemble a raccoon, glared at him. "Then I'll go to Lafayette and ask questions there!"

  "I wish you wouldn't," said Keene. "But tens of thousands of people live their whole lives there without ever running up against the paranormal. I doubt that you could ferret it out in the course of the next few days."

  "You are two of the—" Astarte began. Then her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and her body jerked in surprise. A faint rasping sound whispered through the chapel.

  Keene and Bellamy spun around. At first the FBI agent didn't see anything strange. Then he realized that the statue of Mary was very slowly twisting its head, apparently in order to aim its blank white eyes directly at them. Crunching and popping, tiny cracks appeared in the marble.

  Bellamy felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. A terrible fear gripped him. Not so much of the statue itself—though he was afraid of it—as of the possibility that his mind was about to shut down again. He struggled to get past the shock, to hang on, and after a moment, his head cleared somewhat. He reached for his Browning.

  "Everyone take it easy," said Keene, a slight quaver in his voice. "Whatever it is, it may not means us any harm."

  Crackling, the statue's lips tore apart, creating a space where none had existed before. Bits of broken stone fell from the opening to rattle on its pedestal, as if it were vomiting. Evidently it was clearing an area inside itself, manufacturing a mouth and throat where none had existed before.

  When the cascade of pebbles stopped, the statue's lips worked stiffly. The motion reminded Bellamy of a stroke victim straining to speak. And a sort of grinding whisper did emerge from the figure's mouth, but too faintly for him to make out any words. Evidently realizing that the humans hadn't understood, the statue beckoned for them to come closer.

  And Astarte did.

  Keene shouted, "No!" He lunged after her, an action that carried him within the statue's reach as well.

  Keene grabbed Astarte and started to pull her back. Suddenly moving as fast as a human being, fresh cracks zigzagging through its arms, the statue struck him a backhanded blow. The occultist reeled into the wall. The figure pivoted toward Astarte, raising one hand high as if for a karate chop.

  Gripping his gun in both hands, feet spread wide in one of the marksman stances the Bureau had taught him, Bellamy began to shoot. The bullets hammered pockmarks in the statue's beatific face and the graceful folds of its mantle.

  Astarte scrambled backward, but too slowly, The marble hand whipped down, striking her shoulder and dropping her to the floor. Then the figure's feet separated from their base, and a vertical fissure split the skirt of its robe. With a rumble, chunks of stone fell away from it, sculpting the lower half of its body into two crudely formed legs. It sprang off its pedestal and charged at Bellamy.

  The FBI agent got off two more shots before the statue plowed into him. As he stumbled backward, his assailant hit him in the head, a jolt of raw sensation that he knew would turn to a blast of pain in a moment. But before it could, he blacked out.

  The bark of a gun recalle
d him to his senses. Dazed, his head aching, sprawled on his side, he pried his. eyes open. Every inch of its pale white form now webbed with cracks, the statue stood over Keene with Bellamy's smoking Browning in its hand. The occultist had a splash of red in the center of his chest.

  Still pointing the automatic, the stone figure turned toward Bellamy. The FBI man lurched up off the floor and threw himself at it.

  It sidestepped, and he only struck it a glancing blow. It stumbled backward, but stayed on its feet and kept its grip on the automatic. His own balance equally impaired, the agent fell back onto the floor, certain that he'd only succeeded in winning himself one more moment of life.

  Then Astarte rushed at the statue, still tottering from Bellamy's assault, and shoved it with all her might. The image's feet flew out from under it. When it crashed to the floor, its overstressed stonework body shattered into a hundred pieces.

  Panting and trembling, Bellamy struggled to his feet. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "I don't think it broke my shoulder," Astarte Said. "How's your head?"

  Bellamy gingerly touched the sore spot on his scalp. His fingers came away tacky with blood. "I don't think I've got a concussion. We were both lucky."

  She abruptly pivoted toward the man on the floor, as if she'd just remembered him. Quite possibly she had. Violence could jumble anyone's thoughts. "We have to. help Vulture!"

  Bellamy looked at Keene. The hole in his chest was directly above the heart, and the fecal Stench of death mingled with smells of gore, gun smoke, and marble dust hanging in the air. Nevertheless, kneeling beside the: occultist, the agent held his hand in front of the other man's nose and mouth, hoping to discover a whisper of exhalation, and pressed his fingertips against his carotid artery, checking for a pulse. He didn't find either. "I'm afraid it's too late to help him," he said. "Let's find a phone. We have to.call the police."