Ghosts of Karnak

by George Mann

  He looked up at the goon staring in through the car window. “Hello,” he said. “We’re here for a little chat with Mr. Abbadelli.”

  They were parked outside the gates to the Reaper’s mansion. It was surprisingly tasteful, unlike some of the more ostentatious houses they’d passed on the drive over. Modern, but built in a classic, timeless style, with sweeping lawns to the front, and a long gravel driveway leading up to the porch. It reminded him of Gabriel’s place in Long Island.

  “Mr. Abbadelli regrets he’s not seeing anyone today,” said the goon. He put his hand on the car roof and leaned in. Donovan saw his jacket flutter open and the butt of the handgun jutting out from its leather holster. It was clearly intended to intimidate him.

  “Oh, he’ll want to see us,” said Donovan. “I think you should open the gates before you upset him.”

  The goon frowned for a moment and glanced at his colleague, clearly not used to receiving backchat. “And you are?” he said, after a moment. Donovan could hear the hint of hesitation in his voice now. He’d learned long ago how to deal with this sort of bull-headed idiot—to show him you had bigger balls.

  “Inspector Donovan and Sergeant Mullins from the New York Police Department.” Donovan opened his own jacket, flashing his badge, and ensuring that the goon caught an eyeful of his weapon, too.

  “Wait here. Turn your engine off,” said the goon.

  “It’s already off,” said Donovan, before winding up the window.

  They watched through the windshield as the two goons held a brief conference, and then one of them—the one who’d been talking to Donovan—opened the side gate and marched off up to the house.

  Mullins finally let out his breath with a long whistle. “I’m impressed, sir. The way you handled him then. You didn’t bat an eyelid.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mullins. I was bloody terrified. I learned a long time ago, though, that people like that, they’re just putting on an act. Beneath all that bullshit they’re just as scared and insecure as the rest of us. Probably more so.” He paused to light a cigarette. “So the only thing to do is put up your own front. Pretend like you’re the bigger animal. Puff up your chest and don’t back down. Sadly, it seems to be the only thing they respect.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Mullins.

  “See that you do,” said Donovan. “It’ll save your life, one day.” He waved his cigarette in the direction of the gate. “Seems like it worked, too. He’s waving us through.”

  The second goon, at a signal from the house, was opening the main gates and beckoning them to drive through. Mullins fired the ignition, and the engine rumbled, the furnace belching thick black soot into the atmosphere behind them. He teased the accelerator, and they purred through the gates, churning the gravel as they rode on up to the house.

  The first goon was waiting for them at the top. Mullins pulled the car to a stop, and opened his door, clambering out. The goon put his hand out for the keys. “Here. I’ll park it for you.”

  “No need,” said Donovan. “We won’t be staying long.” He slammed the car door and pointed up at the house. The main entrance was open, the door ajar at the foot of a small flight of stone steps. “In there?”

  The goon nodded, and Mullins slipped the keys into his pocket.

  “Remember,” whispered Donovan, as the two of them walked up into the house, the goon behind them, “don’t let them separate us. Stick together, and we’ll be fine.”

  Mullins nodded.

  The hallway was spacious, but with a minimalist, understated look. The walls were white and pristine, save for a large, gilt-framed mirror on the left, and a small portrait on the right, depicting a man—Abbadelli, suspected Donovan—standing in the grounds of his house, posing with an elderly pair, who must have been his parents. The floors had been laid in glistening white marble, and Donovan noted that the stone was shot through with traceries of deep red veins. They looked to him like tributaries of spilled blood that someone had tried, and failed, to remove.

  There wasn’t much furniture to speak of—a small holotube table beneath the mirror, a potted aspidistra, and a hat stand, bearing only a single trilby. At the end of the hall, a carpeted staircase led directly up to the second floor, while a series of doorways on the right and the left led deeper into the opposing wings of the house.

  “Wait here,” said the goon. He crossed the hall and rapped precisely on one of the doors. Donovan heard a muffled voice call out from the other side, and the goon opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. Moments later he emerged, and with a look that could only be described as distaste, walked directly past Donovan and Mullins, and out of the main entrance again.

  “Someone’s not happy,” said Mullins quietly.

  Left to his own devices, Donovan decided to make himself at home. He shrugged off his overcoat, folding it over his arm, and then crossed to the holotube table. The place seemed almost too clean—somewhat clinical—and the lack of personal effects told a story of its own. There were no photographs, no heaps of unopened letters, nothing to suggest that a person really lived here. Everything seemed so cold and clean, even the sole family portrait; as if the Reaper ran his life in the same way he ran his organization—with a cruel efficiency.

  Donovan turned at the sound of footsteps on the marble. A man had emerged from the same doorway as the goon. He was dressed in a sharp gray suit, his collar open casually at the neck. He had a tanned complexion, a prominent nose, and a thick head of oily black curls. He was clean-shaven, and shorter than Donovan had expected, perhaps only reaching as high as Donovan’s shoulder. He was wearing a broad grin.

  “Inspector Donovan! Felix, if I may?”

  Donovan didn’t dignify that with a response. It was a good opening salvo, however—the man had clearly done his research. Abbadelli was letting him know that he understood precisely who Donovan was, and probably that he knew all about his family, his colleagues, and his personal habits, too.

  “And Sergeant Mullins. It’s a real pleasure to see you.” Abbadelli crossed the hallway with his hand outstretched in greeting. Donovan took it, feeling as if he was somehow betraying himself just by accepting the clammy embrace. This, he decided, must be what it would feel like to do a deal with the Devil.

  “Now listen, you’ve driven all the way out here to see me. Let me have one of the guys fix you a drink.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Abbadelli, but there’s really no need. We won’t be keeping you for long,” said Donovan.

  “No, no, it’s the least I can do. I absolutely insist. Hell, if I’d known you were coming I’d have laid out a spread. Now, what’ll you have?”

  The man painted a good picture of the gregarious host, but the vaguely threatening undercurrent was hard to miss. Donovan decided he’d better have a drink. He had every intention of nailing this bastard to the wall, just as soon as he got the chance, but for now, it would be easier to cooperate, to play along. “I’ll take a whisky,” he said. “Straight.”

  “And you, Sergeant?”

  Mullins glanced at Donovan, who inclined his head. “The same,” he said. “Thank you.” Donovan thought it would do the poor guy some good, maybe steady his nerves a bit. Hell, he could do with it himself.

  “Carlos, see to that,” said Abbadelli, snapping out an order to a young valet, who stood at the foot of the stairs, clearly awaiting their order. Donovan hadn’t even noticed him there. He must have sneaked up behind Abbadelli as soon as he heard the man’s voice. He scuttled off in a hurry with his orders.

  “Through here, Felix. Come and talk to me in my study.” Abbadelli pushed on the door and strolled back into the room. “Carlos will have those drinks for us in just a moment.”

  Donovan followed him through, trying to keep his wits about him.

  The study was just like the hallway, devoid of anything resembling a real life. It was well appointed—the fixtures and fittings were all tastefully arranged, and had probably cost the e
arth—a leather-topped desk, rows of walnut bookcases, a Turkish rug. The books looked unread, however, and again, it lacked the personal touches. This was a room where business was done.

  “Please, take a seat,” said Abbadelli, indicating two chairs before his desk. He walked around behind it and dropped into his own. It was set higher than the others, allowing him to maintain eye contact on a level with Donovan.

  “Now, tell me how I can be of assistance. I do so much like assisting the New York Police Department. I have so many friends in the force, I feel like I’m part of the family.” He grinned, but there was no humor in his eyes.

  Donovan tried not to rise to the bait. The thing was, the man was telling the truth. He’d already bought off half the police force, especially in the outlying precincts, and Donovan and Mullins were probably the only two homicide detectives who hadn’t already had one of these “meetings” with the man to discuss their fee. It occurred to Donovan that Abbadelli might have even thought that was the reason for their visit. It would certainly explain why he was so keen to play the illustrious host.

  “A woman’s been murdered,” said Donovan. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Abbadelli frowned. “I’m very sorry to hear this,” he said. “But it puzzles me you’d bring this to my door. I am, as you know, a simple businessman.”

  Donovan had expected this. Abbadelli was going to claim ignorance, attempt to whitewash the whole thing. Well, Donovan wasn’t going to let him get away with that. He decided to play it hard and straight. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he said, reaching inside his jacket pocket.

  “Be my guest,” said Abbadelli, amused. He pushed a cut-glass ashtray across the desk toward Donovan.

  Donovan withdrew his packet of cigarettes, along with the locket, which he’d secreted there earlier. He placed it on the desk beside the ashtray while he lit his cigarette. “Do you recognize this?” he said a moment later.

  Abbadelli shrugged. “It’s a woman’s locket. I must have seen hundreds of them in my time.”

  “This particular one,” said Donovan. “Does it mean anything to you?” He expelled smoke from the corner of his mouth.

  “I can’t say that it does,” said Abbadelli, clearly growing impatient.

  It was a dangerous game Donovan was playing, agitating the man in this way, but it was the only way he could see of getting past the smooth, implacable façade. He pushed the locket across the desk with his forefinger. “Take a closer look.”

  Abbadelli picked it up, turned it over in his palm, and then clicked the release. The door hinged open, revealing a picture of Autumn Allen’s mother. He held it up, so that both Donovan and Mullins could see. “I’ve never met this woman in my life,” he said, snapping it shut.

  “The other side,” said Donovan, twirling his finger in the air. “It’s got two catches.”

  With a sigh, Abbadelli did as Donovan directed. The other door popped open. He stared at the photograph for a moment in silence.

  “That is you, isn’t it, Mr. Abbadelli, with your arm around the woman?”

  Abbadelli closed the locket and handed it back to Donovan. He slipped it back into his pocket. “Yes, that’s me,” he said. “I must have met her at a party, something like that. I can’t say I knew her well. What was her name?”

  “Autumn,” said Donovan. “Autumn Allen.” He took another draw on his cigarette. “The thing is, Mr. Abbadelli, she obviously knew you. She kept a picture of you in her locket, along with one of her mother. I can’t imagine she’d have done that for a passing acquaintance.”

  “You can imagine what you like,” said Abbadelli. He looked up as Carlos rapped on the door, and beckoned him in. The valet set the drinks down before them—including a brandy for Abbadelli—and then made a swift exit, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “She was wearing a lot of diamonds, this woman, when we found her,” said Donovan. “Hundreds of dollars’ worth. I’m sure if Mullins here had our uniformed boys visit all of the local jewelers we’d be able to turn up some receipts.”

  “Is that a threat, Felix?” said Abbadelli.

  Donovan tried to keep his cool. “Not at all. I work for the police department, Mr. Abbadelli. We’re not interested in threats. Only in establishing the truth. Let me tell you a little story.”

  “If you must,” said Abbadelli, leaning back in his chair.

  “You see, this woman,” said Donovan, “she died in the most brutal way possible. The men who did this to her, they took their time. They held her still, her face pressed against the wet sidewalk, while they carefully selected each and every spot, running their hands over her body like artists preparing a canvas. Then, taking a sharp ceremonial knife, they used the tip of the blade to—very slowly and precisely—slice icons into her flesh.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Can you imagine how that must have felt? That poor woman, lying there, whimpering, crying out for help, calling for her loved ones, as these men slowly cut her flesh to ribbons, all for the glorification of some ancient god.”

  He could see Abbadelli’s hands had become bunched fists on his desk. His jaw was working back and forth as he ground his teeth.

  “It was a hell of an end to a young life. She’d been out for dinner, eaten pasta and drunk fine wine. She’d enjoyed a tumble between the sheets with her male admirer, and she was probably floating on cloud nine as she made her way home. Maybe if she’d had one fewer glass of wine, she’d have heard them coming, been able to get away. But she didn’t. They did catch her, and they did torture her, with no one coming to her aid.”

  Donovan crushed the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray, then dusted his fingers. “After they’d finished, they choked her to death like an unwanted puppy, carved a final symbol on her back, and abandoned her there on the street. A pair of drunks, stumbling home from a jazz club, found her a few hours later when they nearly tripped over her body. They probably thought about leaving her there, but in the end their consciences got the better of them, and they called it through to the precinct. Not until they’d already got home, mind. They weren’t in that much of a hurry. After all, she was already dead.”

  Abbadelli’s fist suddenly struck the top of his desk. “All right! That’s enough.”

  He gave his drink a violent shove, and the glass tumbled off the edge of the desk, smashing on the floor before Donovan. He watched the amber liquid ooze across the tiles, and carefully adjusted his posture, moving his boots out of the way.

  “Enough,” said Abbadelli, again.

  “You see, all I’m looking for here is justice, Mr. Abbadelli,” said Donovan. “Justice for Autumn Allen. I’m sure you can appreciate that. I want to know who carved those symbols into her body, and I want to know why.”

  Abbadelli had risen from his chair and was pacing the room now, tapping his finger against his chin, clearly wrestling with something. He stopped after a moment, seeming to make up his mind. “Say that I did know her. What would that mean?”

  “It would simply mean that you were able to help us with our enquiries,” said Donovan. He reached for his cigarette packet and withdrew another, offering one to Abbadelli, who took it with an appreciative nod.

  “You’d keep me out of it?”

  “That depends,” said Donovan. “Did you kill her?”

  “Of course I didn’t kill her!” snapped Abbadelli.

  “Then in this matter, yes, I see no reason for you to concern yourself with talk of courts, or trials, or anything of that nature. So I’ll ask you again—in what capacity did you know Autumn Allen?”

  “She was my lover,” said Abbadelli. “I intended for her to become my wife.”

  “You loved her, then,” said Donovan.

  Abbadelli nodded. For the first time since they’d met, the mob boss looked vulnerable. Whoever killed this woman had struck a very hard blow against a very powerful enemy.

  “And what I said, about the events that night—I was right? You had dinner, you made love, and then she left
for home by herself?”

  Abbadelli slumped back into his chair, and Mullins slid his untouched whisky across to him. Abbadelli eyed him appreciatively, and then downed it in one. “I was asleep. I’d never have let her walk the streets alone at night. It’s too dangerous. You know that. Especially to… to…”

  “I think we understand,” said Donovan. “To someone so connected to a businessman like you.”

  “What we don’t understand is why,” said Mullins, finally plucking up the courage to chip in. “Someone was trying to send you a message, weren’t they? That’s what those Ancient Egyptian symbols were all about. They wanted you to know who was responsible.”

  “The Circle of Thoth,” said Abbadelli. He practically spat the words.

  Donovan glanced at Mullins. Now they were finally getting somewhere. “Some silly little cult. That’s all they are. Fools who think their old gods are going to protect them.”

  “Protect them from what, Mr. Abbadelli?” said Donovan.

  “It’s just some crackpot religion. Who knows what they believe? Look, they’re the ones who killed Autumn. That’s what those marks were all about. They were placing a curse on her, or some kind of curse on me. That’s the last thing they said to me. That I’d be cursed for what I’d done to them.”

  “And what had you done to them?”

  “Nothing! Not really. Look, there’s a scrap of land on the Upper East Side. It’s been sitting derelict for years. Land is a precious commodity on Manhattan; you know that, so does everyone. I wanted to buy it, that’s all. Build a new hotel, maybe a bar. I did a bit of digging, found out who owned it. Turned out to be this ‘Circle of Thoth’. I thought it would be an easy transaction—take a bit of useless land off their hands, fill their coffers.”

  “But they didn’t want to sell,” said Mullins.

  Abbadelli nodded. “I might have leaned on them a little too hard. I tried to persuade them into letting it go. It was nothing more than that—just a little pressure in the right places. Or so I thought.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It was after that they started talking about all this apocalyptic stuff. The End of Days, how the earth would soon resemble the heavens, and how my soul was going to be cursed through all eternity for the things I’d done.”