Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

by Frank Lauria

  Then he extended his arm and pointed the first and second fingers of his right hand. He traced the outline of the five-pointed star, the pentagram, in the air. At each point he invoked the names of Ra, Anubis, Osiris, Isis, and Rama. This was the second phase of the Formulary of Protection according to the alchemist Agrippa.

  Immediately the dense aura pressing on his chest and limbs dispersed, leaving him free. The weariness fell away and a fresh breeze seemed to enter the room, washing out his congested lungs. He stretched his arms and yawned. He felt almost normal. He could sense the presence somewhere nearby but it was at a distance, not inside his body consuming him. At least he was able to think clearly again.

  He moved easily to the bedroom, somewhat surprised at the quick recovery of his faculties.

  As he dressed, his thoughts whirled around one certainty. If he didn’t find the nature of Pia’s force, it would kill Julian and him too. He opened the dresser and looked for a clean shirt. He had to find the key to stop her.

  He noticed the cameras in the drawer and something jumped in the corner of his memory. He recalled that Presto had tried to say something. The XXX message he had written. He stared at the cameras as he buttoned his shirt. One was a Nikon, the other a Pentax. He speculated as to whether Presto was delirious or had somehow realized what was happening to him.

  He picked up each camera and examined it closely. Presto may have had some intuition and tried to write it down. He opened the backs of the cameras. There was a roll of film still inside the Pentax. He put the cameras down and wondered what had happened to the rest of Presto’s equipment. Then he saw something that rushed through his mind, pushing all his questions aside.

  The film in the camera was Kodak Tri-X Black and White. That was what he had meant by XXX. Whatever Presto was trying to say before he died was on that roll of film.

  CHAPTER 24

  It was mid afternoon and the Roman streets were almost empty. All the store windows were covered with iron grille gates. The only activity outside was the occasional cluster of workmen sitting at the small fountains in the sun, eating sandwiches, and drinking wine.

  Orient walked quickly through the cobblestone alleyways, enjoying the renewed vigor of his physical energy as he checked the various photographic establishments on his list. Eventually he came to a shop that was open. There was a thin young man inside, sitting at the counter drinking espresso and reading a Mickey Mouse comic book.

  It took Orient some time to convince the man to give up his reading and develop the roll of film but he finally persuaded him by offering to pay triple for the service. The man took the money and the roll and told him to come back in an hour.

  Orient decided to take a stroll. His mind whirred with nervous anticipation as he wandered through the streets, waiting to see the positives of Presto’s undeveloped film. He didn’t have much time. Apparently Pia felt that he was coming too close and was directing the predatory force against him. He had blocked her with the Formulary of Protection but he knew it was merely a temporary measure. His only real chance was to find the key to the nature of her power. And the only clue he had right now was that roll of film.

  When he walked back to the shop, he found the man waiting for him with the developed film and a contact sheet of pictures. Orient scanned the uneven rows of small photographs. Most of them were shots of various sections of a boat. Orient recognized the superstructure of the Trabik. There was just one picture on the sheet that was different. The picture of a man. Orient looked closer. It was a photograph of himself. He asked the man behind the counter for a magnifying glass.

  The photograph showed Orient sitting in an armchair looking down at an empty chair next to him. He didn’t seem aware of the fact that Presto was taking his photograph.

  Orient left the shop and started walking slowly back to the hotel, pondering the possible significance of the roll of film. There was nothing interfering with his thoughts but he was unable to see anything in the photographs that made sense. Thirty-five scenes of a Yugoslavian freighter and one picture of himself. Looking at an empty chair.

  As he walked, his senses began to tingle with anxiety and his muscles tensed automatically. Suddenly his reflexes froze, like those of a man who unexpectedly meets a wild animal in the forest. His thoughts stood still, balanced on the knowledge that every move he made was important. The presence was circling and coming closer. He could feel the tainted scent of its vibration as it gathered itself for another assault. He realized that he had left one of his weapons, the absorbing salt, back in his room. He still had some resources available, but he had to act quickly and without error. He began walking faster. He felt the presence becoming denser, weighing down his arms and legs as it stalked him. He headed for a small fountain at the end of the street, forcing his will to move against the drowsiness that was coming over him. Then the vibration was inside his lungs, choking off his thoughts. Halfway to the fountain he became very tired, but he pushed through the numbness and fixed a picture of the Triangle of Imhotep in his mind.

  When he neared the fountain, he felt the hovering presence draw back from his mind and his lungs opened. The area just around the spraying water of the fountain was fresh and clear. Orient dipped his hand into the water and invoked the Formula of Imhotep, the great physician of Egypt’s Third Dynasty.

  He washed off his face. The moving water had the property of neutralizing psychic forces and he felt his limbs recovering their lightness and vitality. Right now the water was all he had to keep the relentless appearance of Pia’s attack at bay. Unless he found a way to stop her it would break through and consume him. And each time he invoked the basic Formulas of Practice the presence would become more adept at penetrating the defense. He had to keep varying his defenses. The most potent ritual, the one given him by Ahmehmet, was useless without the key to the number. The correct words of the object of his judgment. He felt the density swirling nearby. He had to keep his mind functioning while it was still at a distance. Unless he found the secret of the force while he was under the brief influence of his protection he would eventually succumb. He couldn’t keep it away indefinitely. He sat at the edge of the fountain and controlled his breathing. He relaxed his mind and went into a defensive meditation, concentrating his thoughts on the formula of Imhotep’s Triangle, the knowledge and forces tapped by the mystical physician and architect of the great Step Pyramid of Saqqara. Forces invoked three thousand years before the birth of Christ. The same forces understood by Moses, Pythagoras, and Rama. His mind drifted back and forth between the harmonies of that ancient force and the confusion of the present.

  The vibration of the presence drew back farther from the aura of the fountain.

  It seemed as though years had passed since he had boarded the Trabik. He looked at the contact sheet in his hand and tried to remember anything that was significant. He reconstructed the details of the voyage, searching for a connection to Presto’s photographs.

  Then he remembered someone. The man who shared Presto’s interest in photography. Lew Wallet. Wallet had said he was heading for Rome.

  When he first met Wallet and his family, his wife had told Orient that Wallet’s psychopictography exhibit contained unusual things that appeared when they were exposed to infrared processing—Wallet’s process. He also recalled that some people had claimed that they were photographs of supernatural forces. Perhaps Wallet could find something on film that he couldn’t see.

  Reluctant to move away from the protective influence, Orient nonetheless left the fountain and began walking to a public telephone. He found a coffee bar and after three attempts finally found an information operator who could give him Wallet’s telephone number.

  A girl’s voice answered the number and informed Orient that Wallet was still out. She gave him the address and told him to try again in half an hour.

  Orient walked slowly to the address the girl had given him, giving Wallet time to return and conserving his dwindling supply of strength. He kept hi
s senses alert for any sign of the presence, but the dense vibration was still far off.

  He found Wallet’s studio on the Piazza Navona. It was at one end of the plaza facing the three sculptured fountains that rose up from the center of the large, open square.

  Wallet’s place of business was a small, elegantly simple photograph gallery called POSITIVE ART. Through the window Orient could see framed studies on the wall ranging from the work of Lartigue to that of Stock and Capa. All of the photographs were poster-sized and were perfectly printed on heavy paper.

  As Orient entered, he immediately recognized the bearded, heavyset man with dark glasses who was standing in the rear of the gallery, deep in conversation with a young girl at the desk.

  "Well, look who’s here." Lew Wallet smiled and extended his hand as he crossed the room. "I didn’t know you’d be coming to Rome, Doc."

  Orient shook his hand. "I was just pondering a problem and decided to ask your advice." He found that it was an effort to keep his voice casual.

  Wallet scratched his beard. "Well, advice I’ve always got. And plenty of pictures."

  Orient hesitated. "This is a nice gallery," he said, looking around. He was stalling for time, trying to decide how to ask Wallet to use his process without going into an explanation.

  "Yeah, thanks." Wallet waved a hand toward the wall. "I felt more people could afford great photographs than could buy great paintings. So I made up some good reproductions and mounted them on custom paper. I had doubts at first but people seem to like the idea. And it gives me time to perfect my new developing process."

  "That’s what I came to ask you about. The infrared process."

  Wallet frowned above his dark glasses. "Sorry, Doc, but that’s all tied up right now. Still working out the patents. Just what did you want to know?"

  Orient decided to lie. "Presto asked me to take a set of photographs along to you for exposure to your process. He thought it would help his film. He’s in Morocco and mail service is slow."

  "Presto?" Wallet beamed. "Well, why the hell didn’t you say so? You saw him, eh, Doc? How’s the boy doing? You know, I see a great future for him in the business."

  "Well, his film is still being shot. I’m leaving Rome tomorrow so I thought I could drop the film off to him. He asked me to do him the favor."

  "That fast, huh?" Wallet shook his head. "I don’t know. I’ve got other film ready now."

  "Well, he seems to need the developing right away." Orient handed Wallet the negatives. "If you could do it for him, I’d be willing to wait."

  "Well, if Presto needs it—" Wallet opened the envelope and squinted at the negatives. "I guess I can run them through and see what happens."

  Orient was relieved. There wasn’t much time left to explore possibilities. Now that Pia knew he was fighting back, she would increase the force of her attack. And she would kill Julian.

  "I’ll go get a cup of coffee while I wait," Orient said. "Thanks for your help."

  Wallet grunted. "You tell Presto I was glad to help out. But you tell him I expect a letter once in a while." He turned toward his darkroom, then paused. "You better make that cup of coffee a gallon because it’s going to take a few hours."

  Orient walked slowly across the square to a bar and ordered a glass of mineral water. As he drank, he stared out through the glass doors at the magnificent trio of fountains on the plaza. The sunset pink and violet sky shaded the huge carved stone figures with deepening reflections.

  Then he felt the oppressiveness swirling around him. The air in the bar became stale and stuffy. He began moving quickly to the door.

  The drowsiness hit him before he had taken more than a few steps toward the fountain outside. He formed the images of protection in his mind and staggered across the square. As he neared the white, carved fountain, however, the cloying weight of the presence didn’t retreat as it had done before. It resisted.

  Traces of the vibration’s stench lingered stubbornly in his mind and surged angrily around his thoughts, threatening to collapse the neutralizing wall provided by the running water. Each image he invoked to protect himself from the numbness was tumbled by the pressing, unseen mist. He washed the water over his flushed face and continued to squeeze his will against the vibration.

  Time had run out. Orient realized that the sun was going down and the force was gathering strength. Unless he could find the key to its power, he wouldn’t last until morning. And Julian would be dead. Orient could feel the lust to consume driving the presence. If Julian was being kept alive for some ritual, the cycle was at hand. As the shadows settled over the plaza, Orient sensed the rabid urgency of the vibration hunting him. It had a need to kill.

  A whirling gust of dizziness shook his thoughts. He took a sip of water from his cupped hand and tried to control the pattern of his breathing. As his body eased into the calm pulse of the pattern, his mind slowly unclenched and opened to absorb pure energy. He concentrated on the word AIKN, using the invocation of Adb-el-Kadir, the servant of the powerful, the Babylonian formula for overcoming all enemies.

  He let all form drop away as he intensified the pattern, and just as he suspended thought at the formula of the word, he felt his body lighten and the presence draw back.

  He sat at the edge of the fountain for a long time, holding the balance of his meditation and remaining within the confines of its generating influence.

  When he opened his eyes, the drowsiness was gone and he felt physically alert again. But he also felt weak from the strain of fighting Pia. His alertness was dulled by fear. He didn’t know how long the invocation would keep the presence back. And it was very strong now, becoming more reckless as it sensed his helplessness.

  He waited another hour before leaving the fountain. As he walked away from the direct protection of the water, his mind sniffed for a scent of the presence. There was nothing. He knew it was only a temporary lull. He cut across the square to Wallet’s gallery.

  When he went inside, he saw that the girl was gone and Lew Wallet was sitting at the small desk. Wallet looked up as Orient opened the door, removed his sunglasses and began to wipe them with a tissue, his small eyes regarding Orient thoughtfully as he approached.

  "Any results?" Orient asked lightly. He noticed that Wallet wasn’t smiling.

  Wallet replaced the sunglasses over his eyes. "Maybe," he growled. He paused and looked at Orient. "Are you sure Presto wanted these things processed?"

  "That’s what he told me," Orient said.

  "Well, I don’t know what the hell to make of it." Wallet picked up the film and an enlargement and tossed them across the desk toward Orient. "Maybe you better tell me what you see there. It looks like something, but it could be a heat reaction."

  Orient reached for the photograph and felt the air in the gallery becoming stagnant. The presence was preparing for another attempt to smother his mind. He fought back the slight dizziness and tried to remain calm. He looked at the photograph and a careening glacier of shock froze the blood in his stomach and sent a chill stream of nausea spurting into his throat.

  "You can see a definite figure there. All the other shots of the boat were clear except that one," Wallet was saying. "Happens sometimes. But I don’t know why Presto would need that shot."

  The vibration pounded at his brain. Orient’s hand shook and his vision wavered as he stared at the pink-tinted photograph of himself.

  He wasn’t alone in the picture. He was seated, looking at a greenish, blurry figure on the chair next to him. The blur formed the swirling outline of an old, old woman. Her pinched features were gnarled with wrinkles and her thick, cracked mouth was distorted by two protruding, fanglike teeth. But even through the blurred, twisted teeth and the onrushing dizziness, he could recognize the outline of the mouth. It was the delicate line of Raga’s lips.

  CHAPTER 25

  He was struggling—trying to move against a swirling current of massed density—not able to make any progress against the liquidy fog—the increas
ing pressure was choking off his respiration—drowning out his thoughts...

  "Look here, Orient," Wallet was shouting. "What is this all about? Presto didn’t send you here. Are you sick or something?"

  Orient stumbled out of the gallery, unable to talk or think of anything except getting to the fountain far away, across the dusk-shadowed square. When he reached the street, he moved a few more feet, then paused as the drowsiness caressed the base of his brain, lulling him to rest. He stopped and let the pleasant lethargy massage his spine. He twisted his will and forced himself to take a step forward, then another, straining to make it through the stroking vibration that was sucking at his life.

  He was dimly aware that people were stopping to stare at him as he staggered drunkenly toward the protection of the water. He closed his eyes as a spurt of pure delight spattered against his mind. He blinked and pushed his pleasure-soaked eyelids open, moving blindly through the howling exhaustion. The howl rose to a piercing, mocking roar when he reached the edge of the fountain and realized that the water’s mild influence wasn’t enough against the reckless power of the force.

  His mind started drifting with the tumultuous flow instead of resisting it, floating away to accept the soothing embrace of the vibration.

  He groaned and opened his eyes. He pushed himself away from the rail and started weaving across the plaza to the street. As he reached the corner he saw a cab letring off passengers and lurched for the door. He crawled into the back and fell against the seat. He managed to give the driver his address before he gave himself over fully to the insistent pulse of the pressure—and drifted faster—farther out into the sweet, crooning current...

  "You’re here." Something was pulling at him. Orient tried to focus. The driver was shaking him. "You’re here. You’re here," he kept repeating.