“Creating what you would call the next computer operating system, a universal operating system that will work with all that has come before it.”
“It’s backward compatible?” Elliot asked, a little awed. “Even with Mac and Unix?”
“With all of them,” Yunk’sh explained. “At a fraction of the size and requiring a fraction of the computing power to run. Vastly powerful yet simple to use. Its features will include all those ever desired by every computer user, and it will never crash.”
“What will it be called?” Elliot asked.
“It is your creation, Elliot,” Yunk’sh said. “You should be the one to name it.”
“EOS,” Elliot whispered. “The Elliot Operating System. No, GOS, the Grundy Operating System.”
“As you desire.”
“Can I try it now?”
“Restart your computer,” Yunk’sh said. “It will run one time only and only on this machine as a token of my good faith. You will see that your patience and your dedication to my cause will be well worth it. But wait till after I am gone to experiment with it.”
“Why?”
“Do you wish me to be found?”
“That’s right,” Elliot realized. “What’s to stop the cult from finding you when you manifest here, in my apartment?”
“Nothing,” the demon replied evenly. “Which is why I dare not stay long.”
“Then go hide wherever it is you go,” Elliot said, his gaze pulled hypnotically back to his computer screen. “I’ll find you your next victims. We’ll do this.”
“My re-spawning and your life depend on you finding them quickly.”
“Trust me, I know,” Elliot said. “When I need your face for the camera, I’ll call.”
“Call and I will come,” Yunk’sh said. “But do not dally too long with your creation. It is not over between us.”
Elliot nodded, hardly aware as the demon vanished. He rebooted the computer and laughed with joy as the new operating system came up in the blink of an eye. In a few flashing screens it learned everything attached to his system. It was graphical, but so quick he felt no lag at all, launching programs in an eye-blink, even the ponderous photo manipulation software that was usually so slow on his system. Little touches, grace notes, everywhere, had him practically cooing over his old computer. I love it, he thought. People will love GOS. Mr. Gates will be an obscure footnote in all the technical journals. Ha!
GOS cast its spell over him, but ten minutes after he began experimenting with it, a brownout hit his building. He screamed in frustration as the screen went black. His one-time trial over, the computer system rebooted normally and GOS was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
With Detective Kate Lockley standing nearby, Angel knelt beside the body of nineteen-year-old Dora Epstein. The medical examiner had found severe trauma to the body and head with massive internal bleeding. Angel was making his own assessment. The damage had been caused by her impact with the wall. Whatever had thrown her was too powerful to be human. Kate, of course, would not see that. Almost commenting to himself, Angel said, “To inflict this much damage required incredible strength.”
“Or access to PCP,” Kate responded.
Well, there you go, Angel thought. The situation was easier for her to grasp at a rational if no less violent level.
“How do you see this playing out?” Kate asked.
Simple, Angel thought. The demon was taking his tenth victim when the cult arrived and attempted to bind him, whereupon the demon inflicted grievous bodily injuries upon one cult member, either to scare the others off or merely to open an avenue of escape. “A division in the cult, maybe,” Angel said. “A struggle for power, and Miss Epstein was on the losing side.”
“Or she had a change of heart and tried to stop them before they killed victim number ten,” Kate suggested.
“Possibly,” Angel conceded, strictly for her benefit.
Bitterly, Kate said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll all kill one another. Or become a suicide cult. Spiked punch for everyone.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
Kate flashed a wry smile. “You’re just trying to cheer me up. I don’t suppose you’ve heard any other whispers on your mysterious grapevine?”
“Not yet,” Angel said. At least nothing I can reveal. “I suppose division in the ranks of the cult would be an improvement.”
Kate pursed her lips, thoughtful. “That would explain the truck’s reckless driving along Sunset—it was rushing to get here, not rushing to get away. While one faction of the cult is making this sacrifice, the other rushes to stop them.” Kate looked from the shed human skin to the pulped body. “It’s a theory,” she said. “But still not an improvement.”
Doyle and Cordelia had spread the case folders on the floor in the reception area. Not the height of professional methodology, Doyle realized, but he wasn’t about to complain about any time spent in close quarters with the young and fetching Ms. Chase. Now and again, as he leaned near her to read something in one of the files, he caught a fleeting whiff of her perfume. “Multiple Fridays and Saturdays,” Doyle said in as professional a manner as he could manage while sitting on the floor beside her. “So we can rule out a days-of-the-week pattern for the killing cycle.”
“Ditto on phases of the moon,” Cordelia said. “Our demon is nowhere near that patient. Also, he’s basically an equal-opportunity slayer.”
“Geographical location scattered, but some overlap,” Doyle said, then sighed. “There’s gotta be a pattern staring us in the face, you know?”
Cordelia shook her head in frustration and ran her hands back through her hair. Captivated by the simple gesture, Doyle realized he was staring at her. “I don’t see one,” Cordelia said. “None of these people even have the same sign.”
The line of her neck is so . . . Doyle shook his head. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. Just that none of them have the same—”
“Zodiac sign!” Doyle finished. “He’s completing the zodiac wheel!”
Cordelia was excited at her indirect discovery. She grabbed Doyle’s forearm. “Astrology, not astronomy. That means ten down, two to go.”
“The zodiac,” Doyle whispered. He grabbed Cordelia by the shoulders. “I could kiss you, darlin’.”
She placed a hand on his chest. “Think better of it.”
“Right,” Doyle said, looking down. “Got a little carried away there.”
“Okay, maybe a hug.” She grabbed him in a quick hug that thrilled him. It ended before he had time to react. From a distance she smiled and said, “I did good?”
“You certainly did,” Doyle replied. Maybe he was even talking about the zodiac business.
At that moment, Angel stepped through the door, stopped, and looked down at them. “New filing system?”
Doyle wore a broad grin. “Then I say we keep it. Cordelia figured out the demon’s cycle.”
“She did?” Angel frowned at his own incredulity. “I mean, that’s great.”
Doyle nodded. “Our demon uses astrology to pick his victims.”
Cordelia shuddered. “Talk about a horrorscope.”
Angel helped them gather up the scattered folders. “That means he needs two more victims to be re-spawned. And we have no idea how he finds them.”
Cordelia frowned. “We’ve narrowed it down to the two remaining zodiac signs.”
“That’s what? Eight percent of the population?” Angel commented. “We need to know how he’s contacting victims to set up the meetings.”
Doyle decided to attack the problem from a different angle. “What did you find at the murder scene?”
“Another human skin, belonging to Christine Foust. And a nineteen-year-old female cult member, bones crushed, internal organs ruptured. The demon’s handiwork.”
“So the cult members found the demon while he was still in his borrowed physical form,” Doyle surmised. “Probably right after he finished vacuuming the c
ontents of the young lady’s body.”
Cordelia glared at him. “Was it really necessary to paint that picture?”
“Sorry,” Doyle said. So much for the precious moments together. “But what if they completed the binding?”
Angel shook his head. “This had all the markings of a botched effort. But I don’t doubt they’ll try again.”
“So we not only have to stop the demon,” Doyle commented. “We have to stop the cult from stopping the demon.”
Cordelia frowned. “One tall order coming up.”
Angel took word of their discovery to Kate. She was quick to latch on to the astrological pattern, but not too optimistic about their chances of using the information effectively. “Any suggestions on how to proceed with this knowledge?” she asked.
“We know they contact the victims beforehand to set up meetings. Now we need to talk to the friends, family, and neighbors of the victims to find another pattern.”
Kate nodded. “To tell us how they all managed to hook up with the killer—or killers, if we assume the whole cult takes part in the murders. Generally, our victims are young single people looking for love, or at least companionship.”
“In a bar, a club, a community, or a singles group.”
Kate sat up straighter. “What about on-line? I’ve been in the homes of all the victims. They all had computers, some of them pretty elaborate setups with scanners and those little round cameras.”
Angel had a vision of Arnold Pipich helping Cordelia set up a Web page for the business. While Cordelia knew it could be done, she lacked some of the requisite skills to get the site up and running. The human servant, Angel thought. He or she is locating suitable victims on-line and sending the demon out to meet and kill them. With the demon’s power of glamour, they would basically be going to meet the man or woman of their dreams. Angel said, “That would certainly be an efficient way to find victims. With millions on-line, just keep looking for the right sign for your sacrifice.”
“Let’s assume the initial contact is made on-line,” Kate said. “The Internet is vast.”
“Look for common sites that all of the victims visited.”
“I can check their computers,” Kate said. “And talk to the aforementioned neighbors, friends, and family, just in case they talked about any budding on-line relationships.”
“How can I help?”
“Leave this part to the professionals,” Kate said. “I can’t have you running around the city impersonating a police officer.”
“That thought only crosses my mind when you bring it up.”
Kate smiled. “Good-bye, Angel.” As he stood up to leave, she added, “And, thanks.”
“Glad I could help.”
The next day, Angel and Doyle were searching again through the old volumes of demon lore. Since they now had the Vishrak name to go with Angel’s sketch, they hoped to find a scrap of information that might help them defeat and ultimately destroy the demon, either before or after the completion of the ritual cycle.
Cordelia focused on astrology texts, seeking a celestial clue as to how and when the demon chose its victims. “We might have a lunar cycle after all,” Cordelia told them. “This says the moon takes about two and half days to move through each astrological sign. And the demon is averaging one murder every two to three days.”
Angel looked up from an oversize leather-bound volume about obscure demons. “It’s possible the demon has to complete its ritual cycle within one lunar cycle.”
“What about the order of the signs?” Doyle asked.
Cordelia flipped back and forth between several pages. “The order of the murder victims’ signs doesn’t match that of the moon’s passage through the constellations.”
“Let’s assume a twenty-eight-day time limit and start the lunar clock ticking with the first murder,” Angel said. “That leaves the demon about a week.”
“With the cult breathin’ down the demon’s neck,” Doyle said, “I doubt he’ll take the whole week to finish the ritual cycle.”
The telephone rang. Cordelia answered, then passed the handset to Angel. “It’s Kate,” she informed him.
At that moment, Arnold Pipich, Cordelia’s Web guru, arrived. Angel said, “I’ll take it in my office.”
Angel walked into his office, closed the door, then picked up the blinking line.
Ever direct, Kate said, “Chat rooms.”
“Chat rooms?”
“I concentrated on the last couple of victims. What I’m hearing from their nearest and dearest is that these people talked about spending evenings in computer chat rooms. One of our techies will look through the computers and see if they had any particular chat rooms in common.”
“Chat rooms provide immediate information. A few casual questions and the killers know if they have a potential sacrifice.” Angel mused aloud. “This has possibilities.”
“Angel, don’t get any ideas. This is a courtesy call, not a cry for help.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Angel replied before hanging up.
Angel had faith that Kate could put the pieces together. Yet she would never suspect a demonic killer. And that blind spot in her logic could get her killed. Besides, they couldn’t afford to delay. The demon only needed two more victims to become re-spawned. Doyle was right: following the close call with the cult, the demon would probably accelerate his schedule to deny them another chance at binding him.
Then Angel had an idea: If we can’t find the demon in time, maybe we can arrange for the demon to find us.
Beaming, Arnold carried an accordion folder tucked under his arm. He wore an olive-green T-shirt with a stereotypical almond-eyed alien head silk-screened in white on it, threadbare jeans, and battered sneakers. “Ask me what I’m so happy about.”
Doyle guessed, “CompAmerica is giving away free mouse pads with every purchase?”
“That was last week,” Arnold said dismissively. “This is way better.”
“You asked a hacker girl to the prom and she said yes?” Cordelia guessed, the tease almost completely hidden behind the smile.
“No,” he said, blushing a bit. “I can’t dance.”
“Color me unsurprised.”
Arnold giggled. “I bet you could teach me a few moves.”
“Not even for an audition with Steven Spielberg.”
Arnold turned to Doyle for support. “Won’t she give a guy a break?”
“You’re askin’ the wrong man, Arnold.”
“Enough,” Cordelia said. “You’d better be here about our Web page.”
“Prepare to be dazzled.”
“Just show me what you’ve got, Pipich.”
Arnold dropped his folder on her desk, then stood near Cordelia, who promptly rolled her chair back to put some distance between them. Geek boy’s a little too aggressive with those sweaty mitts.
Dramatically cracking his knuckles before placing his hands on the keyboard, Arnold typed with the speed if not the grace of a touch typist. The modem squawked, squealed, and pinged. “Okay, we’re connected. Now I’m accessing the new, improved, and I must say awe-inspiring Angel Investigations Web site, designed by yours truly.”
Cordelia planted her elbows on her knees and leaned forward to see the screen. From the computer speakers came the pattering sound of steady rain. Cordelia’s eyebrows rose. “Doyle, come see this.” Doyle came around the desk, sandwiching Arnold between him and Cordelia, who asked, “What is it?”
“Flash animation,” Arnold said, arms crossed. “You really need a killer image to get attention. Watch this!”
The computer screen was black until a jagged fork of lightning flashed, revealing black buildings in silhouette against a dark, stormy sky. A rumble of thunder spilled out of the computer speakers. Atop the leftmost building, the dark shape of a man stood braced against the night. Although he was still, a long coat billowed around him with each gust of the wind. After another flash of lightning, the word “Angel” faded in, a ghost ima
ge of fractured letters. Another bolt of lightning, a sharp crack of thunder, and the word “Investigations” appeared, almost like an afterimage on the retina. A deep voice said, “We help the helpless.” Finally, contact information appeared on the bottom of the screen, resolving out of mist into block letters.
“Whose voice is that?” Cordelia asked.
“Mine,” Arnold replied proudly. Cordelia frowned. “You can do some amazing things with software.”
“Apparently,” Doyle quipped.
“So that’s it?” Cordelia asked.
“Tell me that’s not cool.”
“It’s great, Arnold. But it doesn’t do much. It’s a . . . mini-movie business card.”
“That’s just the front door,” Arnold replied. “Click the logo in the center and you’re into the belly of the beast.”
Interesting choice of metaphors, Cordelia thought. “Show me.”
Arnold clicked on the logo and the next page loaded: black background, silver buttons, white text. “Basically dark, monochromatic,” Arnold explained. “I noticed your boss favors dark clothes, so I figured the stark look would appeal to him. I used the content you gave me.”
“Content?”
“Text,” Arnold explained. “I put in an e-mail link, but you should probably put in some related links—LAPD and whatnot. It’s customary. And look, down here you’ve got the link to subscribe to your demonology database. The rest is self-explanatory.”
“What’s that number at the bottom?”
Arnold seemed embarrassed all of a sudden. “Garden-variety hit counter. Tells you how many visits the page has had. You’ll eventually want some hidden tallies that only you can access, but expect to pay a small fee.”
“Doyle, look!” Cordelia exclaimed. “Seventy-five hits already.” When Arnold cleared his throat, however, she smelled a rat. “What?”
“The seventy-five are, um, just from me testing the site.”
“What about all those millions of Web surfers out there?” Cordelia asked. “I thought this was like, build it and they will come. Where are they?”
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