by Layton Green
Viktor valued his work with the various police departments worldwide because it gave him insider access to extreme situations. One could never hope to fully explore the enormous number of cults in the world. Assisting the police gave him a shortcut, a built-in worldwide alarm system to cult behavior on the far end of the spectrum. The deep and frightening end.
Viktor sat in a leather chair in the study of his Prague town home and uncorked the bottle of Suisse-Couvet. Vintage absinthe was exceedingly rare and abominably expensive, but there was nothing quite like it. He performed La Louche and then crossed his legs, glass in hand, as he stared at the gaslit glow of the street outside his bay window.
Perhaps Al-Miri was a one-off, a quack, an eccentric. He’d checked his Interpol contacts, and found no information on criminal activity related to a cult of Nu, or any other cult, coming out of Egypt. Viktor also conducted his own research, and found no mention of a cult claiming allegiance to Nu.
Ever.
He considered the prospect of a revival cult. Revival cults can be intense, even violent, but they often involved adherents unconnected to the weight of history. And history held that which Viktor craved most. Knowledge. Secrets.
If there were a God, if there were powers at work in this universe above and beyond the human experience, then they had likely existed for a very long time. Cults and religions claimed inside knowledge of such powers, and Viktor had made it his life’s work to study as many of these claims as he could.
He’d seen more exorcisms than he could count, he’d seen Juju priests induce blindness and boils with a wave of the hand, he’d seen Tibetan monks melt snow ten feet from their bodies, he’d seen the drug-induced zombies of Vodun, he’d seen mind readers and levitators and necromancers and fire-walkers and telekinetics and balls of colored air floating through cemeteries.
He’d witnessed a great many things for which he, or science, had a potential alternative answer. He’d witnessed a select few for which mankind, at least in this stage of its development, had no answer. That, however, did not make them supernatural.
And Viktor wanted proof.
Perhaps, just perhaps, Al-Miri was not part of a revival cult. Maybe it was that rarest of cults, the one that had survived in the shadows since ancient times, the one which had no desire for infamy, no underlying collective psychological need for attention.
Ancient Egyptian religion: one of the eldritch ones, bearer of untold secrets lost for millennia. An originator of myth and legend. Viktor had investigated one or two of the mystery cults that had survived into modern times, but those were products of foreign invasions into Egypt. Bastardizations all. Then there were the starry-eyed New Age devotees of Ra, Osiris, Isis.
Fools.
The worship of the gods of ancient Egypt, in the original manifestations, was extinct.
Or was it?
His mind wandered to sights unseen. He thought of life, death, ancient gods and secrets, the evil deeds men do, of even darker things. He roamed further and further, until finally he let the arms of his muse flutter and wrap him in their familiar embrace.
The warmth of her touch tingled through him, and his eyes narrowed to a dull gleam, smoldering embers stoking the forge of deepest night.
– 38 –
I can’t believe I let this child come to my apartment for a drink, Veronica thought. What the hell am I supposed to do with him? Help him apply to grad school? Where’s my wine—I need to slow down, or something might happen I’ll regret in the morning.
Since when did I get so prudish? Because if nothing else, he’s hot. Oh God, now he’s taking his shirt off, what does he think’s going to happen? At least there’s a tee shirt underneath. Nice arms… this guy has a body. He’s blond, though. If only he didn’t talk so much. And was taller. And had darker hair. And green eyes. Stop it, Veronica! He said his name was Utah. Are you kidding me? Has he not seen Point Break? How can you say that name in public with a straight face?
Utah folded his arms and leaned against the wall of Veronica’s apartment. She thought he looked like a silly version of Marlon Brando, except for the white tee shirt and the biceps and the hair, which were all pretty right on. Fine. Maybe not so silly.
He grinned. “So you said something about a drink?”
“Yeah, sorry, just thinking about work.” Veronica stepped to the kitchen in her high heels. She really wanted to take them off, but then he might stop staring at her legs, which was unacceptable.
He followed her to the kitchen. “What kind of journalist are you? Like on the news?”
“That would be a reporter. I’m an investigative journalist.”
“Oh. Like undercover.”
“I take all sorts of assignments.”
“Who do you work for?”
“An arm of the WHO.” After a look of non-registration she said, “The WHO—the UN. The United Nations.”
“Gotcha.”
He did not look impressed. Big strike. Veronica uncorked a bottle of wine and didn’t even ask. She handed him a Red Stripe, and he grunted his approval. What happened to thank you?
“So what do you do? I mean other than wait tables. PhD student?” she said hopefully. “Actor? Model?”
“I’m a personal trainer. I just work the restaurant gig on the weekends, help out with the rent. I’m building my client base.”
She took refuge in her wine. Oh how the mighty have fallen.
Utah removed himself from the wall with a nonchalant twist of his torso and walked straight at Veronica. He bent to kiss her, and she put a finger on his lips. “Didn’t we just meet?”
Instead of backing away, he grinned and slid his free arm around her waist. He had confidence, she’d give him that. And really nice arms.
“I’m really attracted to you,” he said.
Thank you, she said to herself, thank you thank you thank you. You can go now.
• • •
Grey and Stefan stood outside the restaurant as the midtown traffic swished by. “I’m accustomed to a walk after dinner,” Stefan said. “Do you mind?”
“Lead the way.”
They crossed a few streets and then headed down Second. A carnival of bars and restaurants hovered on either side as they walked.
“I love New York,” Stefan said. “I was able to visit a few times while I was at Dartmouth. It was everything Sofia was not.”
“It’s a great city, but Midtown Manhattan isn’t exactly the status quo in the five boroughs.”
“If you scratch at New York you find many layers, da. But if you scratch at Sofia you find a medieval peasant underneath her skirt.”
Grey chuckled. “I’ll take your word on that one.” They turned a corner and admired the elegant spire of the Chrysler building. Grey said, “Is there any way you can start a research project from what you saw in the lab?”
“Now that I know it exists, I don’t know how I could continue with… lesser… projects. When I sleep the answers stare at me, when I wake they drift out of reach.”
“Maybe whoever discovered it will publish it.”
“I have to believe they cannot yet reproduce it. Perhaps it was an accident. An accident that could revolutionize the science of aging. All of humanity, my son—” Stefan stopped and grasped Grey by the arm. “My friend, what if I proposed something to you?”
“I don’t think I like where this is going.”
“Think of what—”
Grey cut him off with a whisper. “Quiet. Act like nothing’s wrong. Turn left at the next street.”
“What is—”
“Quiet and keep walking.”
They turned the corner. Grey’s eyes swiveled, then he pulled Stefan into a jog. “I don’t think they saw us.”
“Who?”
“You know our hotel’s a block away, right?”
“Yes.”
“There were two men watching it. One was on a bench with his legs crossed. One was standing across the street at a bus stop. The bus came and he
didn’t take it. Both looked Egyptian.”
Stefan’s face crumbled. “Why are we running? Why don’t you,” he waved his hands, “you know.”
“For one, we’re in the middle of Manhattan. But that’s not the main reason I’m running.”
“Then why? Where are we going?”
They reached the end of the block. Grey scanned the street again, then reached for his phone. “Veronica,” he said grimly.
• • •
Veronica finished her last sip of wine. “I’m sorry, but I’m really tired.”
Utah smiled. “I’m fine with going to bed. No strings attached.”
She rolled her eyes and moved to the door. “You’re very attractive, and you’re sweet, in a manly sort of way. But I think it’s time to say goodnight.”
He put his palms up and backed away. “No sweat. You know where to find me.”
She let him out, and closed the door behind him. She poured herself another glass of wine, kicked her heels off and flopped on the sofa.
A minute later her cell rang. She reached for it at the same time she heard a knock on the door. She frowned; she thought she’d made herself clear.
Maybe Utah had forgotten something. She ignored her cell for the moment and opened the door. Four men she’d never seen before stood in the doorway, one who was only as tall as her shoulder, but whose torso filled the doorway.
Then her eyes caught a glimpse of the floor of the hallway behind the men. Utah was sprawled on it, unconscious. At least she hoped he was just unconscious.
She got out half a scream before the short man rushed her and clamped a hand over her mouth.
– 39 –
Veronica tried to bite her attacker, and he pressed his thumb and forefinger into her cheeks until she stopped. Her knees buckled from the pain.
He shoved her into a chair. Three other men followed him in, dragging an unresponsive Utah behind them. One of the men ran his eyes across the room, spotted her camera, and smashed it.
The short man spoke in a rough whisper and very broken English. “You scream, I kill.”
“What do you want? The other cameras are in the closet, I swear.”
He came even closer, until his body was right in front of hers. He smelled unwashed. His loose-fitting dark clothing could have come from a thrift store. And what the hell was that thing on his back?
She repeated her first statement, and he took a fistful of her hair in his hand. He pulled until she whimpered. Veronica had taken a few self-defense classes, and knew a few places to hit a man that wouldn’t feel so good. But she also knew there were three more men in the room who would hurt her if she tried anything.
More importantly, she had the terrifying feeling that the deformed man standing in front of her with the smashed face and savage eyes was begging for her to strike back.
“Where is scientist?” he said.
She squirmed and he yanked her hair back further. She screamed and he struck her across the mouth. Her head rang and she thought for a moment she would pass out. A thin trail of blood trickled down her mouth, and she began to shake.
Veronica had seen many hard men in her career, especially the early years. And she knew without a doubt that if she did not play this situation exactly right, this man would kill her for sport. And maybe anyway.
He raised his hand again. “Wait,” she said. “Wait.” Her mind spun. Why hadn’t she listened to Grey? She knew no help was coming. She was alone for the evening, not counting poor Utah. It frightened her on so many levels she couldn’t comprehend it.
She knew they wanted Stefan, and she knew where he was staying. If she told them, they might let her live, and they might not. They would certainly incapacitate her while they went to Stefan’s hotel and killed him. She knew Grey could fend for himself, but there were four men here, and probably more elsewhere. And this man in front of her—this animal—he was different.
What she did know is that if she didn’t tell him where Stefan was, she was going to be tortured and killed.
He tightened his grip on her hair, then grunted something to one of the other men. A tall man with a purple birthmark splayed across his face handed him a long knife and called him by name. Nomti turned to Veronica and placed the tip of the knife against her cheekbone. He pressed down, breaking her skin. “Scientist,” he said.
“The Hilton,” she said. “I don’t know what room.”
Nomti flicked a hand at the same man, who pulled out a cell phone. Nomti said something in what Veronica thought sounded like Arabic, and the other man paused and held the phone in midair.
A third man, a man with a horribly cleft lip, reached inside his trench coat and pulled out a roll of duct tape. The tape screeched as he unrolled it. He pulled out a knife and cut the tape.
Veronica screamed, and Cleft Lip shoved the tape across her mouth. She fought to breathe through her nose. She screamed and screamed, more out of release than out of any hope the muffled sound would reach anyone.
Nomti nodded at the man with the phone, and he opened the phone and dialed. A moment later he said, “Hilton, Manhattan.”
As they waited Nomti wrapped a rough hand around Veronica’s throat. He squeezed until she began to choke, then released some of the pressure. She whimpered, and he stroked his thumb against the side of her neck. He raised the knife again with his other hand, and placed it on the thin fabric of her blouse, between her breasts. He sliced the blouse, and it fell away.
Tears rolled down Veronica’s face. She begged him to stop, even though the duct tape swallowed her words.
Nomti placed the knife on her left breast and ran the flat of the knife across it. An obscene glow of pleasure lit his eyes, and she felt the hand on her throat harden and constrict.
He moved even closer, straddling her, and shoved his face into hers. She felt the hotness of his breath and the coolness of the knife, and struggled in vain as his hand tightened around her throat.
“Nomti,” Birthmark Man said, and Nomti turned.
Birthmark Man held the phone up and shook his head in disgust.
Veronica trembled.
• • •
The taxi dropped Grey and Stefan in front of a ten-story brick building on the Lower East Side, at the address Veronica had given Grey. Grey rushed to the door and then slowed as he stepped inside. He nodded to a concierge and headed for the elevator at the other end of the lobby. Stefan followed.
The concierge called out. “Hey, I need some names. Elevators are locked.”
“Veronica Brown, 1010.”
“I’ll buzz her.”
Grey shifted from foot to foot as he waited.
“She’s not answering.”
Grey approached the desk. “Is she in?”
“Don’t know.”
Grey put his hands on the desk. “She’s a good friend. I appreciate you doing your job, but it’s very important we talk with her.”
“She went up with some guy about an hour ago. Can’t let you up unless she answers, though.”
“Did the guy look Arabic?”
“A white guy. Pretty buff. They looked—hey, I’m just the doorman. If she wants to answer she’ll answer.”
Grey relaxed a bit. “Could you try her again? We just need to talk to her for a minute. It’s very important.”
“Why don’t you call her?”
“She’s not answering.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“It’s not about that. I’m a private detective. She’s in danger, tonight, and I have to talk with her.”
He tried to buzz her again. Still no response.
“Has anyone been in tonight that looks Arabic?”
“There were these four guys about twenty minutes ago. I guess they could be Arabic, I don’t know. This is New York. They weren’t white.”
Grey’s stomach tightened. “Was one of them short?”
“Yeah, real short. Humongous, though, and with some weird thing on his back.”
The receptionist blanched. “But what—”
“Now!”
He pressed a button and reached for his phone at the same time. Grey ran to the elevator and jammed the button. It opened and Stefan crowded in behind him.
When the elevator opened the first thing Grey noticed was the smear of blood on the wall a short ways down the hallway. A few feet past the smear he saw a door with 1010 on the front.
Grey had no time for emotion, but it overwhelmed him anyway. He should have insisted. He shouldn’t have left her alone so soon.
He told Stefan to wait by the elevator and hold it open. Grey put an ear to Veronica’s door and heard muffled sounds, which told him nothing except that someone was in the apartment. He couldn’t wait. If Veronica was still alive, any second could change that fact.
He gently tried the doorknob. Unlocked. This was one of the few times in his life he wished he had a gun. His hands went up and he burst into the room.
The scene in the room hit him like a wrecking ball.
A man on the floor, unconscious. One man leaning against the far wall. Veronica sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, Al-Miri’s bodyguard straddling her, her face bruised and a knife pressed against her naked torso.
And two men a foot from Grey, beside the door.
The man on the far wall yelled Nomti’s name, at the same time Nomti turned, at the same time one of the men beside the door lunged for Grey.
Grey stepped into the man’s lunge, caught him behind the back with one arm, bumped his hips, and threw him into the wall ten feet away. The next man threw a wild swing. Grey stepped inside the roundhouse, and it fell harmlessly on Grey’s raised forearm as Grey struck the solar plexus with his other arm. He followed that blow with a rising elbow, then three quick open-palm strikes to the face, so fast the man had no time to react. Grey finished with a closed hook punch to the button-point on the side of the jaw, and the man was out before his head bounced off the floor.
