by Layton Green
“That’s . . . remarkable.”
“The catch was that the boy had ridden—alone—half a dozen times from Damascus to Palmyra with the same driver, on the way to visit his grandparents in Arak. The boy denied talking to the driver, but the police believed the driver must have confessed to him. Or left a journal lying around. Or that he kidnapped and raped the boy and the boy escaped, then concocted his story for fear of being stigmatized.”
“None of those options make a ton of sense.”
Viktor turned towards him. “Neither does the alternative.”
Grey stepped out of the car. Despite the sunshine, a speck of rain spattered his forehead. A breeze picked up and stirred a discarded wrapper. Grey felt as if he were standing in the middle of a ghost town. Hand on his gun, he waded through knee-high grass to ring the front doorbell.
Nothing.
A rusty iron fence enclosed the rear of the property. With Viktor on his heels, Grey pushed through the unlocked gate to reach a side entrance flanked by banana trees.
Grey knocked again.
Still no response.
While Grey was scanning the windows for signs of life, he heard the side door open. Grey spun, hand reaching for his weapon.
“Can I help you?”
Grey slowly let his hand drop. A bearded, light-skinned Arabic man was standing in the doorway wearing a wrinkled dress shirt, wire-framed glasses, and a black fedora. His thick lips had cracked from dryness, and his eyes were small and red-rimmed.
Viktor introduced himself and Grey. “Do you have a minute? I understand you might be someone who is knowledgeable concerning certain . . . rituals.”
The corners of the man’s mouth lifted, as if amused by the strange statement. His beard was scraggly except for the moustache, which curved out to the edges of his cheeks. “You must have the wrong address. I’m a retired professor.”
He started to close the door. Viktor stepped forward and stopped it with a hand, displaying his Interpol badge in the other. “I’m a professor of religious phenomenology. I saw the five colors and know that you’re Druze. We need to speak with you, and I’d prefer to do it cordially.”
The Druze’s eyes flickered to life, dissecting Grey and Viktor. Finally he stepped aside. “Come in,” he said curtly, his guttural accent punctuating the hard c.
He led them through a mildewy foyer, down a short hallway, and into a sitting room with a faded oriental carpet covering the floor. Tapestries depicting medieval tableaus draped the walls and ceiling. There was no furniture except for a paraffin lamp in each corner, an ornate trunk by the window, and piles of books and ribbon-bound scrolls that rivaled the chaos of the occult bookstore. The faint, greasy odor of cooked lamb mingled with the aroma of incense.
A grimy curtain blocked most of the sunlight. The Druze lit the paraffin lamps with a match and sat sat cross-legged on the rug, next to a heavy white turban. “Yes?”
Viktor’s eyes seemed to be everywhere at once, scanning the tapestries and books, lingering on the turban and the scrolls. He sat across from their host. Grey stood by the door and kept his eyes on the Druze.
Viktor said, “You’re aware of who John Cowell Samuelson was? The Halloween Killer?”
The Druze’s expression didn’t change. “Of course.”
“We have reason to believe he sought your assistance.” Viktor clasped his hands. “With a ritual for soul transference.”
The Druze rasped a chuckle. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about—”
Viktor raised a hand, cutting him off. “I know you sell your knowledge. What ùqqal would live in such conditions? Talk to me, or I will inform the local police that you might possess material knowledge concerning the murder of the district attorney. Their discussion will be far less cordial, I can assure you.”
The Druze sniffed and rubbed at his nose, as if allergic to something. “Look around you. Do you think such threats are of any value?”
Viktor slowly bobbed his head, then said, more quietly, “After we talk to the police, I will tell your story to every reporter who will listen, and your identity will become common knowledge. Your mystique will evaporate. Yes, you could simply move on, but something tells me,” Viktor swept a hand across the room, “this is your last stop.”
A nasty grin slunk onto the Druze’s face, twisting his thick lips. “Your threats have a hollow ring. A professor of religious phenomenology, yes? Are you interested in helping Sebastian Gichaud—who is beyond help, by the way—or in learning what I know?”
“The only knowledge I’m concerned with is the ritual John Samuelson believed he was buying. And which Sebastian convinced himself was real.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Phenomenology. The pedestal of subjective belief.” He wagged a finger. “No no no, my friend. Do you not understand that you, too, have a lens? That the true nature of reality cares nothing about your reasoned opinions, your textbooks, your hallowed halls of pedagogy? Your intellectual perspective?”
“I’m not that sort of professor,” Viktor said evenly.
“Aren’t you?”
Grey looked back and forth between the two. It was as if the Druze were Professor Radek’s alter ego, a haunted true believer who had become a slave to his imagined secrets, instead of to the search itself.
“Tell me what happened with John Samuelson,” Viktor said.
The Druze rose and left the room without a word. Wary of a trick, Grey followed him to the kitchen, where he watched the man boil a kettle of water and pour it into a small gourd with a metal straw sticking out of it. A bombilla, Grey knew. Across the hall, Grey noticed a bedroom that contained a cot, a brass hookah atop a pile of clothes, and what looked like an opium pipe lying on a prayer rug.
The Druze returned to the sitting room without acknowledging Grey’s presence or offering refreshments to his guests. “He did as you said. He came for a ritual.”
“Soul transference,” Viktor said
“Yes, I believe that is the term he proffered. He knew as little as you.”
Viktor bristled. “I know that the earliest known manifestations of the concept derived from at least the sixth century BCE. The Pre-Socratics, the Śramaṇa and Vedic traditions out of India.”
“Bravo, Professor,” the Druze murmured. “You have succeeded in discovering the tip of the iceberg. Metempsychosis, transmigration, Palingenesis to the Greeks: the process has as many names as it has variations. It is the oldest ritual of mankind. Handed down by God or angels or maybe the daemons, who is to know?”
Viktor leaned forward. “Which one did you give to John Samuelson?”
The corners of the Druze’s lips turned upward, and he slurped mate through the metal straw. “Did you know that in ancient times, most cases of split personality—those not due to possession—were failed experiments in transmigration? Two souls inhabiting one body. Duality. What tethers a particular soul to a particular physical body, now that is an interesting question. Why can it not escape? It’s something I’ve been exploring for some time.”
“Which one did you give him?” Viktor repeated grimly.
“There are many rituals, developed by many, many cultures. I’m afraid most do not work, or are too theoretical for anyone other than a yogi or a sadhu.”
The Druze returned to his mate, until the snap of a camera broke the silence. Viktor held up his cell phone. “I will distribute this photo,” Viktor said, “along with a description of your activities, to the Druze elders in every country with a mazar.”
“They would spit at the image.” The Druze started to cackle, then coughed until flecks of blood appeared on his lips. He drew a hand across his mouth, and his eyes moved to the wooden trunk beside the window. Three bronze bands, etched with elaborate runes, wrapped around the trunk. It resembled something out of the Middle Ages.
“Yes,” the Druze whispered, as Viktor’s eyes latched onto the trunk. “To find a ritual of practical use, we must go back to the beginning. To the se
cret societies once formed to exploit the knowledge, the magi and scholars of Babylon who spent countless years perfecting their work.”
“How much do you charge?” Viktor asked, after a long moment.
“For something like that?” The Druze broke into a slow smile. “Everything you have.”
Viktor stared back at him. The Druze’s eyes brooded in the dim light of the oil lamps. Grey didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken.
“Why does it work?” Viktor asked, his voice husky.
“Why does it work? Why does anything work? Subatomic physics, the nature of space and time, the mind, the soul, we understand nothing. I’m not God, or even a man of faith. I am simply a purveyor of forbidden knowledge.”
The Druze’s gaze rested on Grey, then returned to Viktor. “He stays outside.”
Grey tensed. “Not a good idea, Viktor.”
The professor was still staring at the trunk. “Grey,” he said slowly, “wait outside, please.”
“We have no idea what’s inside that thing. There could be a weapon.”
“Grey.”
Grey locked eyes with the Druze, told Viktor to keep his distance, and slowly backed away. Just before Grey left the room, the Druze placed his turban on his head and adjusted it, then coughed again as he pushed to his feet.
As Grey stepped into the hallway, the sharp crack of gunfire exploded in his ears, along with the high-pitched pop of shattered glass. Grey dove on the floor and looked up in time to see the Druze pitching forward as if pole-axed, blood pouring from a head wound.
Viktor was prostrate on the floor, hands covering his head. The gunfire continued, shattering the paraffin lamps and spraying their flammable guts onto the tapestries.
The room burst into flame.
– 16 –
Grey belly-crawled on the floor to reach his employer. The shooting had stopped, but Grey couldn’t risk exposure to the window. A quick glance at the Druze told Grey he was already dead.
“Viktor,” Grey whispered, as loud as he dared, “stay low and move!”
Professor Radek lifted his head to look at Grey, then started crawling towards the bronze-banded trunk. Opposite the door.
Smoke filled the room, and Grey’s eyes were watering. “Viktor!” he said sharply. “There’s no time!”
Viktor reached the trunk and tried to open the metal latch. The professor tugged on it, over and over, but it wouldn’t budge.
Sweat poured down Grey’s face and back. The heat was becoming unbearable. The fire had started on the tapestries covering the walls, but it was rapidly spreading to the ceiling and along the thick carpet.
Grey reversed his grip on the weapon. “Don’t make me take you out of here the hard way.”
Viktor snarled and tried to move the trunk. It was far too heavy. “Help me!”
“There’s no time.”
“It’s Sebastian’s only chance.”
“Sebastian’s or yours?”
The smoke thickened, and Viktor started choking. He slammed his fist on the trunk in frustration, then scooped up a handful of the nearest scrolls and followed Grey out the door.
When they reached the hallway, Grey took off his shirt to beat the flames licking at Viktor’s back. Both men were coughing uncontrollably as they fled the house. Grey hit the backyard in a crouch with his gun raised, desperately wiping his eyes so he could see, keeping Viktor behind him. He hated to leave the house in such an exposed manner, but the alternative was burning alive.
No one was waiting on them. Grey scanned the yard and the neighboring structures. In the distance, he saw a blue truck careening around the corner, fleeing the scene. By its speed and the screech of its tires, he guessed it was the Ford Lightning.
Grey hustled Viktor to the car as his eyes darted over the street and then to the rooftops, wary of a sniper. It looked clear. Smoke poured skyward as they sped away in the Lincoln, flames leaping from the shattered window of the Druze’s study like a molten cat o’ nine tails.
Detective Sergeant Boudreaux cracked a Coke and leveled his gaze at Professor Radek. “Metem-what?”
“Metempsychosis,” Viktor said calmly. “A transmigration of a soul, usually during reincarnation, but also encompassing the concepts of possession and soul transference.”
The detective took a long drink and wiped his mouth. “A body and a burned-down house in the Bywater, and this is what you give me?”
Grey was watching the exchange with folded arms. After driving a safe distance away to make sure no one was following, Grey had called 911 and returned to meet the police and firefighters at the home of the Druze, which by that time was engulfed in flames.
Nothing had been salvageable.
“I gotta ask,” the detective said. “Do you actually believe this stuff?”
“That has no bearing on this conversation,” Viktor said coldly. He had insisted on changing into a fresh suit at the hotel before coming to the police station.
“Then what—I get that Scarecrow Redbone took out this Druze person, but I don’t understand why.”
“I don’t think Scarecrow was trying to kill the Druze,” Grey said, garnering a look of surprise from Viktor as well. “If Scarecrow and his people knew who the Druze was and thought he had something to hide, they could have killed him at anytime.” He turned to Professor Radek. “Just before the bullets came, what happened?”
Viktor’s brow furrowed. “The Druze stood and walked in front of the window.”
“What about right before that?”
“He put on his turban,” Viktor murmured.
“Making him appear about as tall as, say, you. The room was visible through the window, but barely so. They were trying to take you out.”
“Whoa, whoa,” the detective said. “Back it up. There’s way too much damage surrounding you two. I need to know how all of this relates.”
Grey and Viktor exchanged a glance, and Grey told him everything. He watched the detective’s expression turn from shocked to disbelieving to grimly amused.
“I hope Crazy Clay’s paying you a whole bunch of money. So what, you’re gonna tell the jury that? That Sebastian was possessed by the spirit of the Halloween Killer? Or that they . . . switched souls?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Professor Radek said.
“Then how do you plan to—never mind. I don’t care.” He checked his watch. “You said you had something to tell me about Scarecrow. I hope it’s not this.”
“Would you agree,” Viktor asked, “that it’s now obvious that Scarecrow is trying to silence me?”
“I think that’s a fair statement.”
“And given our recent arrival in town, that his behavior can only stem from my work on the Gichaud case?”
The detective’s eyes hardened.
“We admit we haven’t discovered the evidence linking it all together,” Viktor continued. “But we think we have a good theory.”
“Please.” The detective waved a hand. “Enlighten me.”
“John Samuelson hated the former district attorney. However, being in jail, he had limited avenues of revenge. He could have hired a contract killer, but that doesn’t seem personal enough for a mind as . . . deranged . . . as his. No, he wanted to leave this world with aplomb. He wanted a legacy.”
Viktor stood and began to pace with his hands clasped behind his back. “He identified a patsy—Sebastian Gichaud, a gullible and unbalanced young man who was part of the Reapers, a group who worshipped the Halloween Killer. Samuelson knew he could bend Sebastian to his will. He devised an ingenious scheme to convince Sebastian to carry out the murder on his behalf, using his methods, so the world would believe he reached out from beyond the grave. But Samuelson knew Sebastian would need help. He contacted someone who had as much to gain as he did: Scarecrow Redbone.”
The detective’s gruff expression had eased a fraction. “Scarecrow could have gotten Sebastian inside the Charnel House.”
“There’s still a missing piece to
the theory,” Viktor said. “Remember the call to the D.A.’s office on Scarecrow’s phone? You said yourself the crackdown on undesirable elements of Scarecrow’s variety had eased.”
The detective blanched and sat back. “Jarrod Trufant. Christ,” he muttered.
“It might be the link you need,” Viktor said. “The only link.”
The detective’s mouth tightened as he considered the implications. He sipped on the Coke, then shook his head. “Sebastian’s trial starts next week. Getting something on those two—if anything exists—before then would be a miracle. Oh, and good luck with your theory in court. I know Judge Newman. She’ll laugh her ass off.”
Viktor gave a thin smile in response. Grey knew that if anyone could convince a grand jury of something as incredible as what Clayton Gichaud wanted, it was Viktor.
Then again, with no evidence left of the ritual and all of the parties dead except for Sebastian, Viktor might never get a chance to prove his theory.
The ritual. Something clicked in Grey’s mind. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, just something that didn’t sit right about the whole scenario. A piece of the puzzle they were missing, the fact that Scarecrow was still afraid of something, evidence that was still out there . . . .
He started, realizing what it was. “The prison.”
Both professor and detective turned his way.
“How do you perform a ritual like that in prison? With someone on the outside? I have no idea how complicated a ritual like that is, but it seems like a stretch.”
Viktor was looking at Grey as if he had just discovered calculus. “Of course. There’s no record of a second visit—how did I miss that?” He turned to the detective. “What are the chances Samuelson would have been able to procure a visit alone with Sebastian, with no one watching?”
“A guy about to be executed? None.”
Viktor clasped Grey on the shoulder, his eyes sparking. “John Samuelson had help on the inside. Someone else might know about the ritual.”
