“Yeah, I know,” Angela patted his shoulder. “It’s a weird place. So what? What’s that got to do with Parker and the practice space?”
“He’s down there all the time now, his nose in that speaker grill, digging that Godawful feedback.”
Angela shrugged. “Hendrix was doing it thirty years ago.”
“Wait, Angela, there’s more,” Tim bored his gaze into her and the look must have done the trick because she got very still. “I found out something this morning,” Tim clucked his tongue, “something about that basement room.”
“Yeah?” A nearby gas-light flickered on and reflected in Angela’s eyes.
“Orvis McGee,” Tim said, “dude who works over in administration, he told me that Parker’s old man died in that basement.”
“Professor Heironymous Pivok.” Angela said it like a chant.
“The same.”
Angela thought about it. “I knew the old man had died, like, under mysterious circumstances.”
“Yeah, well, it happened down there, and it happened because the old fucker was decoding some kinda’ satanic score, I dunno, something about some lost culture, you know how Orvis get’s with all that occult history stuff.”
The pause seemed to stretch between them like poison taffy.
“Is Parker there now?” Angela finally said.
Tim nodded.
“I gotta drop these books off,” Angela said. “I’ll meet you over there in twenty.” The wall of sound was opening.
A crack in the dike of reality, fissuring wider, blooming with light and blasphemy.
Parker kept his face pressed against the Marshall stack, every gain control on TEN, the speaker cones long ago blown to shattered bits, the guitar like a blacksmith’s iron in his hand, the speaker grille engulfing his body with liquid noise, eardrum-perforating noise, noise of the gods, seeping into him through the micro-tributaries of limned flesh and horrible miracles stewing in his blood stream, and there was no turning it off now, his father’s breath, the horrible sugar-stench wafting out of the speaker grille, evoking stillborn memories of the dungeon, the horrors thrust into young Parker’s body, they were in the sound now, woven through the fabric of the noise like tendrils of radio static, transmissions from the other place, the hellish place, pulsing, tidal waves, surging, surging into Parker, the messages, coalescing crystal-filaments, otherworldly music, coalescing like kaleidoscopes turned out-side in, aspic-bright, gelid, cold and cruel, something slithering chrysalis-like through the sieve of speaker flesh, and Parker finding his voice, a shriek leaping up into the light, the last kernel of Parker’s humanity crying out for deliverance —
Parker suddenly whip-lashed twelve feet across the cellar floor, landing hard against the boiler. His back struck cement, a gasp leaping up from his lungs. He blinked, and he gasped, and he struggled to see in his horror stricken infant-state, pain shooting up his spine.
The shape emerged from the plane of speaker-grill, a hideous nymph from the dream pool, its hand coming first, birthing silently, as though through smoke. The fingers positively dripped in delicate cryptic markings.
“Father —?” The utterance fluttered out of Parker like a wounded bird, drowned in the noise.
“Yesss,” the thing replied from the bulging speaker, ‘its face pressing vacu-form through disintegrating fabric, penetrating the sound.
“Wha—? What’s happening?” Parker managed to stand, facing the dark visitor.
“You’ve punctured the veil, son,” the thing said, and urged itself further through the envelope of the speaker, reaching out to him.
“Oh my Gahhh —” Parker stood paralyzed.
The professor’s face was inside out, dangles of glistening sinew and cauliflowers of grey matter forming insect eyes, backward teeth as sharp as fractured diamonds. The thing was horribly beautiful. Its breath made hellish percussive music. “You’ve stumbled on to a portal, my darling boy,” the unearthly obscenity spoke in atonal harmonies like a broken wind chime. “You’ve translated the untranslatable.”
“I don’t — I — I don’t understand —” Parker’s soul was shriveling away.
“Your rage was your music, your hatred of me a doorway,” the thing explained, and it was reaching for Parker now with its backward hands, swimming through the air. “Now you’ve reached Valhalla,” it said, “where all the black sounds make sense.”
“No,” Parker objected softly.
It was too late.
The hands were embracing him, assimilating him, welcoming him to the void. “What the fuck was that?!” Angela was careening down the rickety, warped steps behind Tim, her heart a spastic skin-drum in her chest. The feedback had risen to a window shattering level, then dipped violently, like a plane lurching through turbulence.
“Stay back, Angie!” Tim had reached the base of the stairs, and was gazing into the hellish, dimly lit pit.
“What’s he doing?!” Angie’s cry was swallowed by feedback.
She tripped on the last step, and she went down in a heap, eating ancient stone and dust, and she yelped instinctively, the gloom pulsing organically in the cellar, the noise pouring over her. She rose to her knees, and she slammed her hands over her ears.
Tim was across the room, hands also plastered to his ears, watching the abomination.
“Stop it!” Angela screamed into the gusting sound and watched the miracle.
Parker’s face was almost absorbed.
It sank into the tattered grille of the speaker, a human soufflé, collapsing, writhing, its pain-rictus the most hideous expression of torment that Angela had ever — would ever — witness. And she watched it melt into the thunder, become one with electronic agony, one with the feedback.
Tim screamed.
The process ended.
The sudden silence crashed like a nuclear warhead — impassive, inanimate silence — its abruptness so violent and unexpected, that both Tim and Angela flinched against their respective corners of moist stone.
Then the stillness set in, and the founding members of Black Celebration sat gaping at the stone cold silent speaker stack that had eaten their friend.
The silence waited, patiently, for them to understand.
And the silence would wait as long as necessary.
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CHAPTER 1
Friday, April 10, 1992
8:50 A.M.
The steady ripples of the current collided with waves fanning from the bow of the tow and barge. About one hundred feet up the river Johnny, “The Mink,” Osmand stood by the metal railing of the Michigan Avenue Bridge and watched the boat’s progress. A cigar smoldered between his thick fingers as he leaned against the railing, seemingly unconcerned about the crowds of downtown workers who had to step around his jutting figure on the busy walkway.
The Mink was a stocky man in his mid-sixties; the silvery mane, which gave him his nickname, swept back from his forehead above eyes that looked as cold and unforgiving as the water far below. He looked down at the murky grayness and spat. The river slapped against the bow of the tug, and for a moment Osmand wondered what it would feel like to be swallowed by the dark wetness, his hands tied behind his back, concrete blocks wired to each ankle, and fighting the hopeless need to breathe as he sank. Would he have the strength to hold his breath until he passed out, or would he succumb to that dizzy panic and just open up, letting the icy, strangling flow wind its way into his lungs?
The Mink wasn’t anxious to find the answer, and he hoped the decision he’d made this morning wouldn’t cause him to end up beneath that gray-green water looking up.
He licked his lips and drew on the cigar, catching a glimpse of the big, round-faced clock on the Wrigley Building across the way.
Eight-fifty.
More people pushed past him, and Johnny glared at them. After checking his watch again, for the fourth time in the last five minutes, he looked up to see the
tall man’s head bobbling along above the rest of the pedestrians. The corners of Osmand’s mouth twisted downward into an ugly scowl.
“Fox,” he yelled.
The tall man turned, his brows furrowing slightly.
“Over here,” Osmand repeated with an undercurrent of impatience. Above the two men, carved into the limestone corner of the bridge, a colonial soldier grappled with a Blackhawk warrior in bas-relief. Neither combatant looked as angry as the Mink.
Reginald Fox strolled over, his topcoat slung over his left arm, a finely crafted leather briefcase dangling from his right. He was three decades younger than the Mink, and half a foot taller.
“You’re late, counselor,” Osmand grunted.
“Sorry,” Fox said. “But I didn’t get your message till this morning. Why all the secrecy?”
Instead of answering, Osmand cocked his head toward the cement steps that led down to the docks, where tourists could get boat rides up the river to the lake. They moved down the stairs, but at the midpoint, Osmand turned into the enclosed section that housed the gritty ambiance of Lower Wacker.
The lawyer sighed, but followed. The cement walls and ceilings of the enclosure amplified the sounds of the passing cars and trucks. A foul odor hung in the chilly air. When Osmand stopped, Fox set his briefcase down and began to put on his topcoat.
“Johnny, what the hell’s going on?” Fox asked, as the shorter man hailed a taxi stopped at the light.
“Making sure we ain’t tailed,” Osmand said.
“Tailed? Johnny, come on. We’re due in court at ten.”
But Osmand was already getting into the cab. Fox rolled his eyes. With some difficulty he folded his lanky frame into the rear seat.
“Where to, gentlemen?” the cabbie asked, a trace of New Delhi in his accent.
“Jewelers’ Row,” Osmand said, reaching over the seat and handing him a five. “And we’re in a hurry.”
The driver nodded and pulled out into traffic, cutting to make the Wabash street ramp. Fox gave Osmand an imploring look.
“Johnny, please. Tell me what’s going on?”
“Aww, shut up,” Osmand said. “Why do you think I pay you the big bucks?”
They took the cab over to Wabash, and Johnny told the driver to pull over by the El tracks.
“Come on,” Osmand said, starting toward the upper platforms.
“If you think I’m going on the El...” Fox protested weakly, but he went along.
“For a young guy, you sure ain’t in no kind of shape,” Osmand said, going up the stairs. “Shit, when I was your age, I was a rock.”
“I prefer to use my mind rather than my body,” Fox said. “Now where are we going? I told you, we’ve got to be in court at ten.”
“Then we better move our asses, right?” Osmand said. He stopped abruptly and surveyed the people coming up to the platform behind them. Fox stopped next to him, puffing slightly, and Osmand figured that the crack about not being in shape had stung the lawyer. “I thought you played basketball for that fancy college you went to? What was it? Harvard?”
“Princeton,” Fox said, his breathing slipping back to a semblance of regularity. “Look, Johnny—”
But Osmand appeared in no mood to listen. He continued to stare at the people ascending the stairs. After a few more minutes, he motioned for Fox to follow and they went to the stalls. Osmand shoved a bill under the window toward the attendant and got two tokens. He pressed one into Fox’s hand as they went through the gates. On the other side he paused again and looked back. Fox seemed to know better than to say anything. He followed as they went up the stairs to the third level. Out on the platform, they waited for the next southbound train. The outbound side was practically deserted. A few people joined them as the train began clattering into the station. The El darted in, slowing to a stop. Its doors popped open and disgorged groups of people. Osmand and Fox waited for a path to clear, then got on. So did the few others who’d been standing next to them. Osmand scrutinized the other passengers carefully, then, at the last second before the doors closed, he pulled Fox’s sleeve and they jumped off the train.
Fox sighed heavily as Osmand watched the El rumble off. The platform was now completely deserted, the last of the commuters having already hurried through the gates. Osmand nodded toward the exits.
When they reached street level, Osmand looked around one more time, then chuckled softly.
“Come on,” he said. “We got a stop to make, then we can go to court.” He inhaled deeply, then let out an expansive breath. “Ain’t nothing like the sweet smell of fresh, free air.”
“Laden with exhaust fumes,” Fox said.
They walked up the block past the jewelry shops that lined both sides of the street
“You talk to them about the deal?” Osmand asked.
“I told them that we’d consider it,” Fox said.
Osmand frowned. The lawyer had an irritating way of sounding condescending whenever he spoke. Like everybody else was just a cut below him. Johnny turned into the Wabash entrance to the Pittsfield Building and Fox followed him through the ornate revolving doors. Inside the lobby Osmand walked over to the tobacco shop and bought three cigars. The two men exited on the Washington Street side and went the half-a-block east to Michigan Avenue. Johnny stopped again, making a show of leaning into one of the crevices of entrance to light his cigar.
“We’re gonna go into the bank two doors down,” Osmand said in a hoarse whisper. “Capisce?”
“Is that where we’re going?” Fox said, his tone lapsing into petulance.
It was an expansive building, full of Plexiglas stands and shiny silver pillars. Inside, a young black man in a security-guard uniform eyed them and pointed to the No Smoking sign. Johnny reluctantly stuck the smoldering cigar into the white sand of a standing gold ashtray. For an older bank, it was exquisitely furnished. The tellers were lined up like a picket fence behind a chest-high counter fashioned from black marble. Beyond that, a dozen or so secretaries were seated at expensive desks on the perimeter of a series of glass-walled offices. Osmand steered Fox to the down escalator. The lower section was equally sumptuous, with miniature Art-Deco statues standing sentry on ornate pedestals. Osmand went toward the west wall where a pretty girl of about twenty-five sat behind a partition, the flat, polished onyx top matching her ebony complexion. She stood and smiled as they approached and held out her hand. Behind her were rows of small steel drawers. Osmand showed her a flat, silver key. The woman looked at it and went to one of the drawers, flipping up a stack of cards that were filed in staggered succession. Leaving the cards flipped up to that spot, she returned to the counter and put a white slip of paper on the flat surface.
“Good morning, Mr. Orlando,” she said. The gold nametag above her left breast said DIANE. “How are you today, sir?”
“Fine, honey,” said Osmand, scrawling Joe Orlando on the line. She took the paper and went back to the card file to compare the signatures, made a quick notation on the card, and flipped it down again.
“Oh, Miss,” Osmand said. “I’d like to put my attorney on my card, if it’s all right.”
Diane smiled, running her polished red fingernail along the stack of cards again, and once more flipped them up. This time she removed a beige card.
“Certainly, Mr. Orlando,” she said. Then to Fox, “If I may see some identification, sir.”
Fox set his briefcase down and took out his wallet. He selected his driver’s license along with a business card and snapped them onto the counter top with a precise click.
“Co-renter or a deputy?” she asked Osmand.
“As a deputy I’ll have full privileges only if something happens to Mr. Orlando, correct?” Fox said quickly. Diane nodded and looked back at Osmand.
“I guess it don’t matter none, as long as he can get in it if I’m... indisposed.” He looked at Fox. “Co-renter’s fine.” Diane made the notations on the card then showed Fox where to sign. When he was done, she smiled at
him and replaced the card. After grabbing a ring of keys, she indicated that they should move around behind the counter and over to a large vault door. Both men watched her as she walked in front of them. She was dressed in a tight blue dress, and her nylon pantyhose swished slightly as she moved.
“Nice ass,” Osmand muttered to Fox.
The vault door was standing open, its huge, concentrically formed steel rings attesting to its thickness and solidarity. The back of the door was Plexiglas, so that the large steel rods of the locking mechanism were visible. On the lower portion of the right side a horizontal row of numbers were displayed down to the second, showing that the electronic time-lock had now been open for one hour and fifteen minutes. They passed through the row of vertical steel bars on the other side of the door. Inside the vault were rows and rows of safety deposit boxes of all sizes. All the doors were gold colored and numbered in vertical succession. Osmand and Fox followed Diane to the section of the largest boxes. She placed the key from the ring into the first lock. Osmand handed her his key and she inserted that one into the second lock. She gave both a half turn and the steel door opened. As she drew the black metal box from its resting place, the weight caused her arms to sag slightly. Osmand reached forward and grabbed it, smiling broadly.
“You know where the rooms are, don’t you, sir?” Diane asked. Osmand nodded. “Just call me when you’re ready, gentlemen.” She watched them carefully as they moved out of the vault toward the examination rooms.
Osmand set the box on the table.
“Shut the fucking door,” he said. Once it was closed, he reached in his coat pockets and removed two bricks of bills, which were rubber-banded together. He opened the lid of the box. Several more stacks of bills were visible. The top bill of each carried the picture of Benjamin Franklin.
“How much you got in there?” the lawyer asked, eying them.
“Never mind how fucking much I got in there,” Osmand said in a guttural whisper. “This is all I want you to be concerned about.” He reached in the box and took out a VHS cassette tape in a plain, white cardboard package.
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