The 8th Circle

by Sarah Cain

  Danny shook his head. “According to myth, Avernus was believed to be a doorway to the underworld. But the third one down is Tophet.”

  “I know, and Teddy Powell is dead. This list gives me the goddamn willies.”

  The last name on the list was Inferno. Danny’s stomach twisted. He didn’t need to tell her about Michael’s last words. Whatever this list was, she didn’t need to be involved. For her own good.

  “Michael’s special places,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Maybe. Michael was into all that ‘end of days’ shit, but this is weird, even by his standards. Maybe he was into devil worship and it got out of hand.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Look, I don’t know what Michael was doing. But you take these notes, hide them good, and don’t tell anyone you got them. I don’t want any more accidents happening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She gave him a look of pure exasperation. “I go to a press conference and ask Teddy Powell one strange-ass question suggested by your buddy, and a few weeks later, both Teddy and Michael are dead. I think that’s a pretty goddamn bizarre coincidence.”

  “Alex—”

  “Listen to me. I think Michael got caught up in something funky that turned bad. Real bad. He got shot, for God’s sake. Do you really think he crashed into your pond by accident? It probably took him well over an hour to get out to your place from wherever he was. I’m betting someplace downtown.”

  “It was shitty that night. Sleeting.”

  “So you need to figure out why he came out hauling ass.”

  “To talk?”

  “Maybe, but he must have known he’d be in real bad shape by then.”

  “The cops didn’t find anything about the Inferno or Tophet or any other hellish thing, or they would have said something, asked me about it. Believe me. I was thoroughly grilled.”

  “I’ll bet. I just can’t figure out why he gave these names to me.”

  “He told you,” Danny said. “You were backup. He came out to my house in the summer. He said he was onto to something. I wasn’t exactly receptive. Maybe he’d gotten on to this.”

  The waiter came to take their orders, and for a moment, Danny thought about Michael and those lost opportunities. Christ, he had been an asshole. That was the worst part.

  “Don’t go beating yourself up,” Alex said. “Everyone knows Michael had problems. I told you, the cops want to talk to me.”

  “Be discreet.”

  “You think I want to tell the cops Michael was investigating hell?” Alex gave him her patented you-are-a-dumbass look. “He was weird, though.”

  Danny nodded. “He was at that, but he was also very lonely.” He raised his club soda. “I’ve spent the day looking into underage sex trafficking.”

  “Oh Christ. Is that what you think this is about?”

  “I don’t know, but Michael had a couple of porn discs featuring kids.”

  “Don’t you think we’d hear about missing kids?”

  Danny shook his head. “What if they were runaways?” He watched the realization dawn on her.

  “Throwaway kids.”

  “The Cyber Tipline has received more than three-point-five million reports of suspected child sexual exploitation since it started in 1998. Those are just reported tips.”

  She pressed her fingers against her forehead. “What do you need?”

  He smiled. “I’ve missed you. I forgot what a good time we had working together.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Alex said. “But be quick about it. Sam and I are leaving for vacation in a few days. It’s kind of a relief. Since Michael and Teddy Powell died, I gotta tell you, I’ve been edgy.”

  “You’ll be fine.” He squeezed her hand. “And you’ve done more than enough.” He glanced around. The patrons looked normal—happy couples seated in an upscale restaurant enjoying their delightful entrées. No shady men with bulky jackets lurked close by, but a niggling unease brushed over his neck like a cobweb.

  “I’ll follow you home after dinner,” he said. “Just to be sure.”

  She started to protest but stopped. “He finally found something, didn’t he? Poor Michael.”

  Danny nodded. Styx and Avernus were doorways to the underworld, but Tophet and Inferno were hell itself.

  10

  Sean McFarland stood at the edge of Alex Burton’s cubicle and smiled. The reporter had closed her laptop at their arrival and faced them with a blank stare. Sean knew she was African American, but with her long, honey-brown hair and gold skin, she could have passed for any number of backgrounds. At present, her amber eyes assessed Novell and him. He wasn’t sure her conclusions were positive.

  “So, Ms. Burton. Michael Cohen was your colleague. How closely did you work together?”

  “We didn’t work together,” Alex said. She doodled with a purple pen.

  “Was he a good reporter? Competent?”

  “He was adequate for the task he was assigned.”

  “And that was?”

  “He did celebrity news, for the most part.”

  Sean glanced at Novell. This woman had a better cop face than most cops. “But he was working on restaurant reviews.”

  “Yeah. We lost our restaurant critic a few months ago. Layoffs. Most of us pull double duty these days.”

  “I was curious. You were at a town hall meeting a week or so ago with Congressman Powell and asked him a question about something called Tophet. May I ask what that is and why you asked?”

  Alex shrugged. “It was a joke. Michael put me up to it. He said to ask him. I don’t really know why. Seemed sort of stupid. The congressman ended the conference after that.”

  “He was upset?”

  “I don’t know. He may have had other commitments. He did seem a little upset. It was a silly question.” She doodled faster. Big circles looped together across her notebook.

  Sean wrote down Tophet and underlined the name.

  “You didn’t think it was odd for Michael to suggest a question like that?” Novell asked.

  “I was running out the door to do a town hall and was late. I wasn’t really thinking. When I got to the meeting, it just popped out.”

  Sean glanced at Novell, but Novell had no expression. Then Sean realized Novell was looking at a photograph of Alex Burton and Danny Ryan. It must have been taken at an awards dinner, and they both clutched trophies.

  “Have you looked into Tophet since?” Sean said. He gave her his best Boy Scout smile. He wasn’t sure she bought it.

  “Sorry. Like I said, it was a joke, and I have some other stories to finish. I’m going on vacation with my husband at the end of the week. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “No problem at all, Ms. Burton. You’ve been very helpful.”

  *

  Danny ducked into Naraka. It was one of Michael’s favorite shops on South Street, filled with pentacle earrings, upside-down cross T-shirts, and other raptures for those inclined toward devil worship and the occult. He should have waited to shave until after he visited.

  A girl with green hair, black lipstick, and a pentacle tattoo on her left wrist stood behind the counter. Her name tag read, “Violette,” and he wondered if that was her real name. Laced into a black leather corset with a purple skirt that was high in the front and lower in the back, she looked a bit like a Goth showgirl.

  The air was filled with the aroma of what he thought might be patchouli mixed with dog shit and the music of some metal band he couldn’t identify. Red lights sparkled from red glitter lamps lining the walls. In the glass case stood crystal balls of all sizes and tarot cards from around the world. Something for everyone.

  “Welcome,” Violette said. “We have crystal balls on sale today. Twenty percent off.”

  “Sorry, I’m not a believer,” Danny said. “I’m looking for Max.”

  “Max quit a few days ago. Something about his aunt dying. You don’t look like a friend of Max’s.�
�

  “I’m a friend of a friend. I’m from out of town, and my friend told me to look up Max.”

  She pursed her lips together. “I can’t help you.”

  “I was told Max could hook me up with some clubs, you know?” he said.

  “This is a legitimate business.”

  Danny shrugged. “I get it. I don’t want any trouble. I just heard about this place called Pluto’s Bowl.” He didn’t know why he started with that one. It was the least sinister name from the list that came into his head. “I can make it worth your while.”

  He opened his wallet to pull out some bills and watched her back away when she caught a glimpse of Michael’s black-and-white card.

  Violette shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  He noticed her hands shaking and knew it was time to back off. “It’s just a name I heard. I don’t know anything about it. I’m not looking for anything too weird.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve got one of those cards. You’re looking for weird.”

  Danny hesitated. He would have to tell her why he was here; she wasn’t going to talk to someone she thought was a total pervert. “Look, Violette. I’m just trying to get information. I’m a reporter. Dan Ryan. My friend Michael Cohen was—”

  “I know about Michael Cohen. I saw it on the news.”

  “I’m not asking you to go on the record.”

  She glanced up at the security camera. “I don’t know where Max is. He took off in a hurry. He was scared. That’s all I know.”

  “So he’s not coming back.”

  “Max wasn’t into clubs. Max had other business interests, y’know?” Violette sniffed. “Do you like stones? We have a ton of healing stones.” She walked over to a bin divided into sections. “They’re nice to touch.”

  “Colorful.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. Here.” She held up a black stone. “Jet. It’s really powerful. It protects you from evil and helps you heal from grief.”

  “What?”

  “It heals. You look sad. It’s your eyes. You have really nice eyes, but they’re sad. You should hold onto the jet. It will help.” She pointed to a bin of gray stones. “Like Apache tears. They’re very good for healing grief. Not as good for protection though.” She held the jet out to him.

  “I don’t believe in magic stones.”

  She closed his fingers over the piece of jet. “Maybe you should. Take it. It’s on the house. Go grab some white sage, and you can pay for it and the Apache tears while I write them up. Burn the sage in your house to get rid of evil spirits. Bad karma.” She selected a gray stone from the bin and walked to the counter.

  “Better safe than sorry?”

  “Hey,” she said, “if you’re smart, you’ll go home and forget about clubbing. Just hold onto that stone. I think you’re gonna need it.”

  *

  Eight hours later, Danny slouched in Beth’s Mercedes on a private lane in Gladwyne watching a parade of cars pull into the gated residence that sat at a discreet distance from the road. He used an infrared camera filched by Alex from the photo department to snap license plates. He’d discovered the address written in tiny letters at the bottom of his sales receipt from Violette.

  It didn’t seem likely to be a club, so it was probably a private party of some kind. He figured he could take a chance and pretend to be a guest. If only he’d worn his tuxedo and a black feathered mask, he would have fit in.

  He pulled through the gates, swung around past the surprised valets, and left the car facing the gates. When he rang the bell, the door swung open, and he faced a tall, gaunt man with a swirl of dark hair artfully arranged on the top of his head.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’m at the right place,” Danny said. The house was so quiet that except for the cars parked outside, he would have sworn no one but this ghoul was home. “I believe there’s a party tonight.”

  The ghoul’s left eye twitched. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A party.” Danny spoke a little louder. His voice seemed to bounce off the walls. Jesus, this place was like some kind of museum. Victorian furniture. Good paintings on the walls of Italian landscapes and naked children playing in the water. It smelled of lemon polish, bleach, and air freshener that masked another odor, something vaguely unpleasant like rotting meat. Mouse in the floorboards? Body in the walls?

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this party tonight is black tie and by invitation only. You are neither invited nor properly dressed.”

  “How do you know?” Danny pulled out Michael’s black-and-white card. “I am a member.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But that card will not grant you access to this particular event. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave at once.”

  Danny weighed the option of trying to find the party guests and getting thrown out. Not worth it. He already had license plates. At least he could get an idea who attended this soirée. He held up his hands. “Sorry. My mistake.”

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  As he was driving home, it occurred to Danny that he should have stayed parked across the street, but it was too late now. He had no doubt the ghoul was already processing his license plate.

  11

  In the morning, Danny threw his research in a satchel along with the camera. He figured he could work out of the Penn Law Library for a few hours after he returned the camera. Beowulf lay by the door, his head between his paws, and watched him with his sad eyes. Had he always done that or had Conor taught it to him? The sad eyes, the silent plea for more dad time.

  “I wish I knew his secret,” Beth once had said.

  “What secret is that?”

  “How to get your attention.”

  “You always have my attention, Beth.”

  She had slumped a little. “I used to.”

  Danny had put his arms around her. He’d watched her try to blink away her tears before he gathered her against him. “The day you said yes to me was the happiest of my life. I’ve never regretted it. Maybe you have, but not me.”

  “I don’t regret it,” she’d said against his chest. “I miss us. I miss the way we were.”

  “We’ll get it back,” he’d said. And they had, to a point. Some weeks were good, especially when her workload eased, and he would see his Beth, sunlit and smiling. She’d spend hours with Conor, reading and playing with puzzles. Later they would make love like they had in the early days.

  But those other weeks, when the stress had worn her down, Beth’s temper would turn stormy, and Conor quickly learned to pack up his toys and head to his room when she pulled into the driveway. Danny knew she hated sitting home; he wanted her to go back to work, but Beth had begun to believe he worked against her with Conor, as if parenting was a competition to be won.

  Danny looked at Beowulf and grabbed his leash. “Come on, you win. We’ll go to the park, but not for long. I have work to do today.”

  *

  Novell swallowed a cup of black coffee and refilled it. It tasted like hell, but at least it was real coffee. He eyed the young blonde sitting in the metal chair, swinging her right leg over her left. Sean entered with a soda and handed it to her with a smile, which she returned.

  “So, Ashley, you worked as a nanny for the Ryans for a year?” Sean asked.

  “I did. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about the accident. Conor was such a sweet little guy. He was just like his dad. So adorable.”

  Novell filed the information away. Maybe Beth Ryan didn’t like the nanny gushing over her husband and son.

  Sean leaned in. “I’m sure it was a great place to work. Would you say they were a happy couple?”

  “Oh my God, yes. I mean I wasn’t there all the time, but they seemed happy. I think Mrs. Ryan sometimes got upset because Conor would miss his French lessons, so I started working with him. Like I’d go with him and his dad to the park and all and go over French.”

  “And Mrs. Ryan didn’t mind?”

  “No.
She was fine. One time someone thought I was Conor’s mom. Can you imagine? And then Conor started kindergarten not long after, and Mrs. Ryan let me go.”

  Novell looked at Sean. Had Ryan cheated on his wife? Did it matter?

  Sean said, “Did you know Michael Cohen?”

  She frowned. “The creepy fat guy? Yeah, he used to come over. Mrs. Ryan didn’t like him. She told me to keep Conor away from him. Even Mr. Ryan agreed with that, and he was always so laid back.”

  “So she was afraid Michael Cohen would hurt Conor?”

  Ashley took a sip of soda and considered. “I don’t know what she thought exactly except that he was creepy. Real creepy. If a kid went missing where he lived, he’d be the first person I’d suspect.”

  *

  Danny had gotten a later start than he planned, and it had been frustrating. He was still trying to trace the owner of the house in Gladwyne but had only a name: John Smith, whom he had traced to a holding company and then nowhere. One holding company led to another and another until his eyes were burning.

  When he pulled into his driveway, Beowulf wasn’t barking. Odd. He walked straight to the back door. Unlocked. The kitchen in disarray.

  The drawers and cupboards gaped open, their contents strewn on the floor. Danny stepped over the mess. Every room downstairs was ransacked, but he ignored the shattered crystal and broken china, opening doors and trying to subdue his growing panic.

  “Wolf?”

  He didn’t care about the mess. Where the hell was Beowulf? He ran back to the kitchen. Danny opened the door and stared into the growing darkness. His breath blew out in cloudy puffs, and he found himself making childish bargains with a God he knew wasn’t listening. Please let him be all right. I’ll go back to church. I’ll do goddamn anything. Don’t take him too.

  Then he noticed the footprints. Dark against the gravel driveway, they led to the garage.

  “Wolf!” Danny tried to force air into his lungs, but they wouldn’t expand.

  If he didn’t move, everything would be all right. He knew that.

  Never open that one door. It’s always the thing you fear: the state cop with his kind eyes, the blue-and-red lights reflecting against the falling snow. “Mr. Daniel Ryan? There’s been an accident.”