Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘Follow me, dearie. Brother Renfrow is in the Cosmologia.’ He led us through to the very back of the temple.

  The Cosmologia was a large room, the walls covered in shelves full of bizarre and intricate statues from a thousand different times and places. Between the shelves hung strange and ancient pictures. I recognised one — it was a Tibetan mandala of the seven Hells.

  I checked again. Each of the wall hangings was an ancient map of some kind.

  A young priest sat at the long wooden trestle table running down the middle of the room. He was studying a medieval orrery, a three-dimensional model of a solar system.

  But the system he was checking didn’t resemble anything I’d ever seen before …

  At the centre of the model two suns revolved around a third, larger one and a spray of planets stretched out in the space beyond, revolving around the inner tri-sun centre.

  The priest was bent over a modern astronomical map, checking its dimensions against the medieval model.

  ‘Why is he studying an orrery?’ I asked the older priest.

  ‘My dear, you need the right maps to find the truly lost.’

  The young priest glanced up at our voices.

  ‘Brother Simon,’ said our guide gently, ‘I have a visitor for you.’ He gestured towards me.

  Simon stood. ‘How may I help you?’

  The older priest bowed and left.

  Carole had said Simon Renfrow was Lewis’ adopted brother and physically they were complete opposites. Simon was short and fair and, despite the prison pallor, had an innocent and open expression.

  ‘We need to talk to you urgently,’ I said.

  ‘Certainly, my dear. Please sit down.’ His words dripped with compassion and a desire to lift my burden.

  What’d happened to this man to take him from being Lewis Renfrow’s junior goon to this?

  We all took a seat.

  Simon bent forward solicitously. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I need to ask you some questions about your brother, Lewis Renfrow,’ I said, prepared for resistance.

  His face hardened for a moment, then softened through a conscious act of will. ‘No, no … I’m sorry, I can’t help you. My brother’s life is his own business now …’

  ‘I thought your mission was to save those on their way to Hell, as well as those actually in it!’ I snapped. I was running out of time and patience.

  Simon reacted as though I’d slapped him. He flushed bright red.

  It had to be a sore point for him to have a known killer as a brother, especially one with his feet set well and truly on the slippery slope.

  I was relying on that.

  ‘Still, I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ he insisted.

  ‘Your brother may be about to kill someone I know. I have to find out if that is a possibility.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator and my client has been receiving death threats!’ I snapped. ‘There’s already been an attempt on his life and I think your brother is behind it.’

  Simon flinched. ‘If Lewis wanted someone dead — they’d be dead already,’ he replied grudgingly.

  ‘Even if he wanted to torture them … drive them mad with fear first?’

  He hesitated. That’d caught his attention.

  I glanced over at Honeycutt. He nodded. We didn’t have time to waste. ‘What if your brother knew that my client was having an affair with his wife?’

  ‘With Ruby?’ Simon was stunned. ‘I don’t —’

  ‘Would your brother be able to wait … would he rather savour his victim’s fear?’

  ‘If Ruby has been unfaithful …’ He shuddered. ‘I don’t know what Lewis would be capable of in that case. The one thing he can’t stand, above all others, is disloyalty.’

  ‘Do you know if he suspects Ruby of having an affair?’

  ‘Lewis hasn’t spoken to me since I converted in prison.’ Simon nervously smoothed his hands over the star map he’d been studying. ‘I wish I could help you …’ Then he brightened. ‘There’s one way you could find out more. I’ve heard Lewis is going to the Guild séance tonight. He’s going to contact our mother for advice. He may say something there that answers your question.’

  I shot a terse glance at Honeycutt. Here we were back to the damned séance!

  ‘Since Mama died, Ruby has become the most important person in Lewis’ world. He could be waiting to ask Mama’s advice about what to do with her.’ Simon shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I can suggest.’

  Honeycutt leant into me and whispered, ‘Check out his neck.’

  Rising just above Simon’s brown tunic was the top of a white tattoo.

  I looked closer, my excitement on the boil. ‘Is that a tattoo of a white jaguar?’

  Simon was surprised that I recognised it. He self-consciously cupped his chest with one hand. ‘I need it for my work.’

  Honeycutt and I exchanged a glance.

  ‘What do you use it for?’ said Honeycutt.

  ‘I need it to create another universal Emancipator,’ answered Simon, as though it was obvious. ‘One who can help all humans.’

  ‘An Emancipator like Horus and the Archangel Gabriel?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but I’m working on a Mayan one this time.’

  Mayan …

  I felt a shiver of excitement. Surely this had to be the link we’d been looking for?

  ‘What’s an Emancipator?’ asked Honeycutt.

  ‘That’s what Jubal Pierce called the beings that aid the passage of souls from one realm of reality to another. Every culture, every religion, has at least one entity they believe can cross worlds. So that means they can also free souls from Hell.’

  ‘How will you use that jaguar tattoo to create one?’ I asked.

  Simon Renfrow strode over to a brightly painted model of a stylised tree that was sitting on one of the wall shelves. He carefully slid it out and placed it on the table in front of us.

  Growing out of the thick central trunk were just two sets of horizontal branches. All sorts of beings, human, animal and otherwise, were sitting, climbing and hanging from the two levels. The tree was literally crawling with life.

  ‘This is the Tree of Life. It grows through the centre of the Mayan universe,’ explained Simon, pleased by our interest … and no doubt by the change in topic.

  ‘Is that a ceiba tree?’ I asked, excited. It certainly resembled the stylised tree Earl had carved all over Ceiba House.

  ‘Same thing. To the Mayans, the ceiba is the Tree of Life. It grows through the centre of their universe, connecting the three realms of existence: the Underworld, the Earth and the Sky.’

  ‘And the realms are divided by each of these two main branches?’ asked Honeycutt, tapping them.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The three realms are linked by the ceiba tree and beings climb or descend the tree to get from one realm to another.’

  The model reminded me of something I’d seen earlier tonight.

  I touched the silver amulet under my blouse, there were leaves growing out of the cross bars …

  So the double-barred cross on top of the Church of the Queen of the Yucatan symbolised the Tree of Life.

  I scanned around. ‘What is this room?’

  ‘It’s our cosmic map room. The models in those shelves are representations of the axis mundi from hundreds of different cultures.’

  ‘The axis mundi being the centre of the universe,’ I said.

  Simon nodded. ‘Each of these models is a three-dimensional map of a culture’s cosmos. In some cultures the axis mundi is a mountain, in others a body of water. It can be anything that can be used to travel from one realm of reality to the next.’

  ‘Like climbing the ceiba tree,’ said Honeycutt.

  ‘Yes. We use the axis mundi to locate lost souls and free them. Each culture has an underworld and each Hell has a way out.’

  ‘So you believe there’s more than one Hell,’ I said dryly.


  I didn’t believe in any!

  ‘Oh, there are as many as humans can possibly invent,’ replied Simon with absolute certainty. ‘At Fort Case, the dead revealed to Jubal Pierce that when humans die a door opens in their mind … the door to the next dimension. There, the mind can shape reality as it wills. Most young souls just recreate what they’re expecting, what their culture’s taught them to expect in the afterlife —’

  ‘So Jubal is saying that in the next level of existence the cosmos becomes whatever the mind is projecting. And that people with a guilty conscience sentence themselves to their own culture’s version of Hell.’ I was not impressed. ‘So that also means a sadistic murderer who believes they deserve Heaven goes to their version of paradise.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. A mind poisoned by hate cannot sustain a stable paradise …’ Simon hesitated, unsure of his words. ‘The bottom line is that our journey ultimately leads us back to the Creator, to the Source. We all manufacture the twists and turns on that journey home ourselves.’

  I eyed him wearily.

  I just couldn’t believe in a Creator that had less compassion than most human beings. Hell, however you justified it, didn’t fit with Divinity in my book.

  How could it?

  But this was getting us nowhere fast. I studied the Mayan Tree of Life. ‘Who’s that creature sitting on the top branch?’

  There’d been one just like it on the big Queen of the Yucatan cross.

  She could’ve been a human but for the sleek white fur on her body and the green cat’s eyes. She seemed fierce but also kind of sexy.

  Seductive even.

  ‘That’s Matz, the Mayan goddess of soldiers. She sits and watches for the brave — to take them to Sky-Heaven … Actually that’s why I thought you’d come to see me … Hitler, Mussolini and Franco have brought many bereaved to my door in recent years. I’m trying to convince her to let one of her servants assist the dead combatants. She’s the reason I need the tattoo. I’m going to try a new summoning tonight so …’

  I studied the seated figure. ‘Are you saying you want to use Matz as an Emancipator?’

  She didn’t look like anyone’s guardian angel to me.

  ‘Not Matz, she’s too powerful and too stubborn. I want one of her favourites — a Te-Matz. They’re male warriors she’s taken as consorts, made divine, which means they can move between the three realms.’ He frowned. ‘She could help us if I could just find the right way to do the rituals.’ Then he muttered, ‘If it suited her anyway.’

  ‘Who’s that tiny figure sitting on the branch next to her?’ I asked.

  ‘A Te-Matz … That’s Obsidian Shield, he became a Te-Matz after his father had him killed.’

  The hair on the back of my neck rose. ‘I thought it was the other way round. That Obsidian Shield took his father’s place as king?’

  ‘No,’ said Simon with complete certainty. ‘Obsidian Shield never actually took the throne. He was only called king as an honorary title.’

  ‘What?’ Was anything that Susan told me true? ‘I thought the story was that Obsidian Shield saved his kingdom from ruin?’

  ‘He did, but through his brave death. Obsidian Shield’s father, Death Mouth, was ruled by the priests who demanded a royal sacrifice to appease the gods. When Death Mouth captured his cousin and his family the priests demanded that Obsidian Shield personally perform the ritual. Obsidian Shield refused and the high priest sacrificed him instead. He died imploring Matz to reinvigorate his kingdom … That night a great white jaguar killed Death Mouth and the high priest in front of the whole court.’ He gave an earnest sigh. ‘Matz does take her worshippers seriously.’

  ‘So you use the white jaguar because it’s sacred to Matz?’ I asked.

  ‘Matz is so powerful only her own symbols can check her.’ Simon wrinkled his forehead. ‘But how did you know about my tattoo? You could only see the top of the jaguar’s head.’

  ‘My client has one exactly like it.’

  Simon’s alarm deepened. ‘The jaguar tattoo is meant to protect me from Matz; she’s too dangerous to communicate with otherwise. But why would your client need one?’

  ‘Could your tattoo be used as protection against a human enemy?’ asked Honeycutt, determined to get to the punch line.

  ‘Possibly …’ said Simon. He thought for a moment. ‘But I don’t think so.’

  ‘Who did yours?’ I asked eagerly. This all fitted together somehow, I just knew it.

  ‘A shamaness called Juanita Carranza. You must’ve heard of her. She’s a big deal in this town because of the accuracy of her prophecies.’

  Juanita … the Latino man had called out that name.

  The name of the dead woman lying in a pool of blood outside the Church of the Queen of the Yucatan …

  ‘Is she blonde?’ I asked.

  Simon nodded.

  So the LAPD must’ve been there because the mayor was her client.

  This web was drawing tighter and tighter — but who was at the centre of it?

  ‘This is so strange. Last week someone else asked me about Obsidian Shield,’ muttered Simon. ‘They also asked me about the jaguar tattoo.’

  ‘And the address of the shamaness?’ asked Honeycutt.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Who was it?’ I asked.

  ‘Dr Constance Murchison.’

  39

  DR M

  We stood outside the temple on Mount Warning, staring down at the lights of Los Angeles. Honeycutt had withdrawn inside himself again. I really regretted throwing his brother’s death at him …

  And Simon’s talk of Hell and dead soldiers hadn’t helped.

  I had to find a way to get him back on track.

  ‘Honeycutt, one of us has to get into that séance and one of us has to have a talk to Constance Murchison. I want to know if she arranged for Earl to get that tattoo. She may know who’s after him.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Honeycutt, stirring back to life. ‘Okay, Kannon, you find Dr Murchison, I’ll find Bumstead. From what Carole’s been saying I should just get the cheque book out and convince him that way.’

  ‘As a last resort you may want to ask Bumstead how he intends to use the high voltage cable running into the tomb.’ I explained what I’d found.

  Honeycutt checked his watch. ‘The séance starts in an hour so meet me at the cemetery gates no later than fifty minutes from now. If you’re not there by then I’ll go in without you.’ His tone was all business, no emotion.

  Then Honeycutt turned his back on me and left.

  I watched him go …

  Yes, now he hated me.

  I caught sight of Dada, standing morosely in the line-up to the grotto. Carole was nowhere to be seen.

  Hmm. I had a sneaking suspicion that Alphonse Dada knew more about Earl’s trip to Paris than I could leave alone.

  I came up to the queue. Now Dada was scowling at the long line ahead of him.

  Dada saw me and expostulated, ‘They are savages. They won’t permit me to go to the front of the line!’ He scanned past me. ‘Where has your rich boyfriend gone?’

  ‘Oh, he’s just going to have a talk with the Guild president.’ I smiled. ‘But he wanted me to give you a message.’

  ‘Oh?’ Dada puffed up with consequence, like a pastry full of hot air.

  ‘Mr Devereaux wants to commission a painting …’

  ‘Of course he does.’ His face lit up with greed. ‘Who would not?’

  ‘But he also is thinking of investing in a project Earl Curtis told him about.’

  Dada sniffed. ‘That moronic idiot, how could anyone …’

  I pre-empted the complaints. ‘It must be hard for an artist like yourself to have to cater to the whims of a wealthy patron like Earl Curtis.’

  ‘Patron? That fool? He wants a Dada masterpiece to match his little red room …’

  ‘Yes. The very idea! And no one has appreciated your fine costume yet tonight either.’

&
nbsp; Dada stroked the map of the British Empire on his generous false bosom. ‘No one here has any sense of irony. For them it is all about the banal, the obvious. My presence is entirely wasted on them … When I return to Paris I will regale them with stories of this folly.’ He swept his arms around to signify MacVille Park. ‘This monstrosity could only happen in America. I had come prepared to dazzle with my wit but it is not possible for me to add anything to this … this … circus!’

  He’d worked himself up into quite a little tornado of resentment.

  ‘So you were going to dazzle people with your wit,’ I said. ‘I’d hate to miss that. What did you have in mind?’

  Dada eyed me sharply for a moment then decided he couldn’t forsake the opportunity. ‘I had come fully prepared to reveal that Curtis buffoon for the deluded fool that he is.’

  ‘Ah.’ So there was a punch line after all.

  ‘I told my friends that I would do it tonight at the ball.’ Dada snapped his fingers. ‘It would’ve been the climax of the evening too! You must tell your Mr Daniel Devereaux that he should not invest in anything that idiot Curtis has to offer.’

  ‘But how can I convince him?’

  Dada scanned around, checking for listeners. ‘When that buffoon was in Paris I played a magnificent joke on him.’

  ‘Of course you did. What was it?’

  ‘I introduced him to LeFage — a performance artist.’

  ‘You introduced Earl to another artist … How generous,’ I said dryly.

  Maybe I’d been wrong and this pompous cretin was just a waste of precious time.

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand!’ My lack of interest had penetrated his elephantine hide. ‘LeFage is a special artist. His chosen medium is the fleshy palette of human interaction. He is the official, how you say …? Con-Artist of Paris.’ The capitals were implied.

  ‘Oh?’ Now we were getting somewhere.

  ‘LeFage prepared Earl Curtis like a tethered goat …’ Dada twirled his ratty moustache.

  ‘For whom?’ I prompted.

  ‘For another con-artist, of course,’ said Dada, indignant that I was having such trouble keeping up. ‘But a real one this time.’ His chest swelled with self-congratulation. ‘It was such a brilliant twist …’