Then a husky masculine laugh split the air, and he swiveled so fast a muscle burned in his neck. He hesitated, then stepped quietly out onto the deck.
Skip was stretched out on a lounge chair beside the pool below, wearing only a brief racing-style swimsuit. Blond hairs glinted against the deep tan of his well-formed legs and chest. One hand held the ever-present Tanqueray; the other was gesturing in the direction of the Cote d’Azur. Alysse stood an arm’s length away, dressed in the white print frock she had worn the day McTell had first seen her in the village. Both her hands were clasped around a fresh drink. She seemed poised on the edge of flight, but at the same time, her expression was one of frank admiration and amusement. Skip continued speaking, hand waving airily; the words were indistinct, but the accent was crisp, sophisticated. Alysse burst into laughter; Skip’s well-polished chuckle joined in. When he exchanged his drink for the fresh one, his hand lingered on hers. Her face went shy, but there was a peculiar tinge to the look—dark, speculative. She said something timidly, laughed again, and backed away, followed by the empty mirth Skip so clearly summoned at will.
McTell walked inside and leaned against a wall, resting his cheek against the cool plaster. Spots danced before his eyes, as if he had stood up too quickly. His pulse was thumping like a locomotive pulling up a hill—slowly, steadily, and very hard. He imagined himself taking the girl by her shoulders, shaking her, shouting, “Can’t you see through him? He’s a pretty wrapper with nothing inside.”
But of course she could not. He possessed good looks, money, sophistication, and a confident patronizing air easy to mistake for importance. She was a teenager who had spent her entire short, and impoverished, life in this tiny feudal village.
He closed the study door behind him and poured a stiff drink. It was only a flirtation, he told himself; he was blowing up over nothing. Skip was playing his usual sort of game.
Or did his anger really stem from the answering look he had seen in Alysse’s eyes?
There was no point in even pretending to go back to work. As he returned the grimoire to its copper cask, his glance fell on the strange cover design. He paused, staring. Slowly, he raised his left palm. The caul-like mark was a dark, angry red, its outline at last clearly visible.
McTell laid his palm on the cover and lifted his gaze to the window. The ruin glowed in the sunlight like a rough jewel.
** ** **
There had been no sign of Pepin, and dinner was strained; but Mona seemed subdued, even contrite. After the meal she and Linden cleared the table, while Skip fiddled with the television, maintaining a position close to the bar. McTell stayed in the background and watched for his chance. It came when Bertie stepped into the garden for his evening stroll, examining the flowers with a knowledgeable eye. McTell quickly poured two snifters of brandy and joined him.
Bertie accepted the brandy with a gracious inclination of his head. He was wearing a dinner jacket, black tie, and ruffled shirt. “I’m quite envious of your marigolds,” he said.
“I’m afraid we’re not very horticulturally inclined,” McTell said. “There’s a gardener, but I suspect he spends most of his time napping with a bottle of vin rouge.”
“Shouldn’t be surprised. By the way, I couldn’t help witnessing your little contretemps with Lady Mona yesterday. You have my condolences. I’ve been on the wrong end of that sort of thing with her myself.”
McTell shrugged. “To tell the truth, I let her go in one ear and out the other.”
“Best way to handle it, of course. Afraid I have to kowtow a bit more. Professional relationship, all that. Odd about the dog.”
“He acted like he’d gone crazy. I’m certainly glad he didn’t break my skin; I can’t help but wonder about rabies.”
“Possible. They only got him a few weeks ago, and those kennels are regular breeding grounds for disease. Perhaps he’ll turn up yet, and we can have him quarantined.” Bertie glanced around, then added in a lower voice, “Actually, I’d be a damned liar if I said I was going to miss the little cur. I was against it from the start.”
McTell smiled and raised his glass.
Nightfall was near. The songs of crickets and nightingales were rising. By unspoken consent, both men turned to face the vista of mountains to the south, dominated by the dark silhouette of the fortress.
“That business you were talking about the other day,” McTell said suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him; “did you ever come across anything like a grimoire?”
“Once or twice. At least, books that were purported to be copies of the real thing.”
“I happened upon one in the Bibliotheque Nationale not long ago, doing some research. I suppose it’s on my mind because of the ruin there. You heard about the story the priest told us.”
“Yes, Linden was regaling us with it on the drive yesterday.”
“This book,” McTell said, “had a very odd design on its cover. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He took a pen and pad from his coat pocket and made a quick sketch.
Bertie held it up to catch the remaining light. “Can’t place it exactly,” he said, “but it reminds me of the sorts of symbols you find in old works on alchemy and demonology. Those fellows had the demons all catalogued, you know, as if they were some sort of nobility: hierarchy of rank, attributes, even coats of arms. This could be one of those.”
“Like Belial’s?”
For the first time, Bertie turned to look at him. “Maybe. Why him in particular?”
“Oh, I suppose I made the connection with something the priest mentioned,” McTell said hastily. “Apparently some of the Templars were accused of worshipping him.”
“Yes,” Bertie said after a moment. “I suppose they were.” He turned away, taking out a silver case and opening it to expose a row of black cigarettes with gold filters. “Smoke?” McTell shook his head. Bertie’s lighter flared in the dusk, illuminating his hollow cheeks and high bony forehead.
“I just glanced through it,” McTell said. “What intrigued me were a number of references to a pilgrim. Very cryptic, though—no explanation of any sort. Does that ring any bells?”
Bertie dragged on the cigarette, exhaled a delicate cloud.
“Not specifically. But the obvious correlation would be with the adept who was using the book—making the metaphorical journey to, say, the philosopher’s stone.”
Behind them the door opened and closed. McTell’s mouth tightened in annoyance.
“As I say,” Bertie went on, “I really don’t know much about the occult; just some dabblings. But I do know that it can be very dangerous, for a number of reasons, on a number of levels.” He glanced at McTell again.
“Personally, I think that’s all a bunch of crap,” Skip drawled, coming up behind them. “People who think they’re dealing with spooks are just digging up their own insanity. My wife, for instance. Now that she’s set off about Pepin, there’s no stopping her. She claims she’s been having nightmares—one last night about soldiers in armor, impaling people on sword points. And one of the victims had Linden’s face.”
“I suppose,” McTell said slowly, “that Freud would have had a ball with that.”
“Premenstrual Syndrome, probably,” Skip said. “Or those stories Linden’s been telling. How about you, my lord? How’ve you been sleeping.”
“Alone,” Bertie said primly. Skip laughed, the husky chuckle that, briefly but vividly, brought the image of his hand touching Alysse’s to McTell’s mind. He smiled tightly and sipped his drink. The hum of crickets rose like an unseen orchestra tuning up. Moths battered themselves against the lighted windows with tiny fluttering sounds.
“I missed our little cook tonight,” Skip said. “She’s taking over for a sick aunt?”
Careful to keep his voice cool, McTell said, “Yes. Mademoiselle should be back any day.”
“She’s an orphan, I understand? No other family?”
McTell turned to him. “That’s right. Why?”
�
�Just thinking that must be a tough way to grow up.”
Bertie cleared his throat and murmured, “If you gentlemen will excuse me.” He went back into the house.
Skip was staring thoughtfully toward the mountains, stroking his mustache. Then he said, “Come on inside. I’ve got something that might interest you.”
McTell doubted it. For another minute he remained, thinking about Bertie’s words: The adept who was using the book—making the metaphorical journey to, say, the philosopher’s stone.
In the light of the doorway he stopped to examine his palm, making sure the makeup of Linden’s he had smeared across it was not wearing off.
** ** **
From the inside pocket of his sport coat Skip took a leather case about the size of a pack of playing cards. One half held a mirror; the other, lined with velvet, had precisely fitted spaces for a small vial, a silver knife, and a slender glass tube. He spread the apparatus on the coffee table. “A special treat to cheer us all up,” he said, “in memory of our dear departed Pepin.” Mona, sitting beside him on the couch with crossed legs and folded arms, rolled her eyes. They held an unreadable look, and flicked from time to time at McTell. She had been drinking more than usual.
Deftly, Skip’s long tanned fingers tapped a sizable amount of white powder from the vial onto the mirror. With the knife he chopped and worked it, forming it into lines, then scooping them together and starting over. It was like a shell game, almost hypnotic—which, McTell supposed, was the point. Everything about the man was smooth. He wheeled, and walked to the sliding door. The nearly full moon was rising, lighting the sky, turning the slope of Montsevrain into a sea of sharp black shadows. From behind him came Skip’s voice: “Ladies first”; then the sounds of long, shuddering inhalations.
“Very good, Linden.” Skip’s voice was faintly mocking.
“You must have been practicing. My lord?” McTell watched Bertie reflected in the glass, stalking stiffly across the room for another crumb from the rich man’s table.
“Come along, John,” Skip said.
“I think I’ll pass,” he said, turning.
“Ever tried it?”
He shook his head.
“Come on,” Mona said. “It’ll shake some of the lead out of your ass.”
“Great stuff,” Skip agreed. “Uncut Peruvian flake. We bought an ounce of it in London, and my darling wife got it through customs in a way that only a true woman of the world could.”
“Really, Skip,” she murmured, but did not look displeased.
“But I have to warn you, it makes you awfully randy. The ladies especially. If you won’t try it, I might just have to take care of things myself tonight.”
“Threat or promise, sweetie?” Mona said. “Remember, we both passed puberty long ago.” She rose, pulled a record from the shelf, and flipped up the cover on the turntable. Skip’s eyes followed her, narrowing for just a second before the smooth look returned. The opening strains of a Charlie Parker record jumped into the room like another presence. McTell liked the music, but it was too loud, discording annoyingly with his mood. After a moment, Bertie moved discreetly over to turn it down. McTell realized that he was appreciating the man more; dependent on Skip’s charity and sexually out of his element, he was dignified, perceptive, knowledgeable.
As if reading his thoughts, Bertie turned to him. “I’ve been thinking, old boy, about this occult business you seem to have on your mind. Remembered a story, an incident that happened to me long ago. Might give you something to chew on.”
“I’m all ears,” McTell said, trying to sound amused.
“I was just on the fringes of that sort of thing, you understand,” Bertie began. “This must be more than thirty years ago now. There were a number of self-styled witches and occultists running around in those days. A Welshman with a wandering eye, I recall, who claimed to be a warlock; a widow who gave seances; that sort of thing.” He took a cigarette from his case. As he replaced it, McTell noticed that the dinner jacket was shiny at the elbows.
“A man I knew in London arranged a little gathering featuring a so-called swami from India. You know, one of those chaps with the turban and caste mark on the forehead. Flowing robes, all that. You see them and think, Nothing but a sideshow fraud.
“Well, this fellow was of a different stamp. I knew the minute he walked into the room that he was an evil man. You could see it in his eyes, sense it around him like an aura. When he spoke, there was a greasy, ingratiating quality about it—as if his voice was somehow trying to feel its way inside you, to get control. Difficult to explain, but thoroughly unpleasant, take my word for it.
“Our host was a fellow named Parkins, I recall; sort of a silly, nervous type, always looking for some thrill or other. He was well-to-do, and had paid this swami to put on this show, you understand. Well, the swami came in—can’t remember his name, one of those Indian ones full of rajs and goochs and such—and announced that he was going to summon a spirit. He arranged his apparatus on a table, some sort of wand, candles, various other gewgaws, and then spread a cloth on the floor. It had a circle embroidered on it, with various sorts of designs inside; I remember thinking that it must be a sort of Eastern version of a pentacle. He stood inside that circle and told us it would protect him from the spirit. The rest of us would be all right, he said, since we weren’t dealing with it—as long as we didn’t speak. If someone said a word, the spirit would turn on that person. Of course, we were all skeptical about the whole thing—jocular, even I, at least, didn’t take the warning very seriously.
“The swami had Parkins turn out the lights, and lit the candles, and began to go through his mumbo jumbo, waving the wand, speaking some incomprehensible rot. We remained quietly jovial, thinking this was going to be your run-of-the-mill seance, that pretty soon the table would start thumping or something like that.
“Then it started to change.”
Bertie dragged on his cigarette. His forehead was creased. McTell realized the others had gone silent and were listening too.
“The temperature began to drop. In a couple of minutes it was very cold, a clammy, nasty sort of chill. At the same time, the air started thickening. I don’t really know how to describe it. There was an incredible sense of menace, as if this evil, insidious, terribly threatening presence were literally materializing in the room. I tell you, old man, never in my life have I experienced a sense of pure terror like that. Not fear for your body, or even of death. It’s fear for whatever it is that makes you you—for the essence of your being. If you haven’t experienced it, I don’t think you can imagine it. The thing is, there’s absolutely nothing you can do—you can’t fight it and you can’t hide.
Bertie glanced searchingly at McTell. He shook his head, not sure himself what he meant.
“It reached the point where it was really unbearable. I know I was on the edge of panic. The sense that at any second this thing was going to appear and—I don’t know tear one’s soul right out of the body.
“At last old Parkins leaped to his feet and screamed, ‘Stop it, stop it this instant!’
“All that energy turned like that”—Bertie snapped his fingers—“into a sense of fury, of rage. Then it was gone. Poor old Parkins was pale and shaking—I imagine we all were—and the swami was absolutely livid. I remember distinctly that in the midst of the confusion, he pointed at Parkins and said something I couldn’t hear, very rapid, very low, and then made some kind of sign with his hands. Then he gathered up his things and hurried off. Parkins was in quite a sweat, as you may imagine, and tried to stop him, but the swami refused to even look at him. I know Parkins tried to find him afterward.”
“So Parkins was all right after all,” McTell said.
“For a while, old man, for a while. We laughed it off with him, told him the whole thing was obviously a fraud—some sort of trick played by the swami to collect his money and get out before he had to deliver. There were some jokes about getting demon-proof locks for the doors, that
sort of thing. We all went home, the days passed, the memory faded. At least it did for the rest of us.
“I didn’t know Parkins well, but from what I gleaned afterward, things got rather worse for him. He had a growing sense of being watched and followed by something he couldn’t see. In a few weeks the poor man was a wreck. Couldn t sleep, couldn’t bear to be alone for an instant. He searched desperately for the swami—ads in the papers, rewards offered, even went so far as to hire a detective—but the man had vanished.”
McTell glanced at the other faces. Linden was watching with her mouth slightly open. Skip as usual looked bland, and a little bored. Mona was leaning against a wall, arms folded, unimpressed. “So what happened to him?” she said.
Bertie exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Fell off the roof of his own house. He’d been dining out, took a taxi to the door, went on inside, and apparently he kept right on going up the stairs, clambered out a window onto the roof, and fell. Or leaped. Three stories, head first. Turned out that his valet had snuck out for a pint, so Parkins was unexpectedly alone in the house. It seemed clear from the signs he left—doors flung open, some blood from his hand on the window latch—that he’d run up the stairs in a wild dash.”
“As if he’d been running from something,” Linden said.
“Precisely, my dear.” Bertie shrugged. “Of course, the police tried to put it down to an intruder, but there were no signs of one. Then it was generally decided that Parkins was an impressionable sort, and the swami’s threat had conjured up some imagined menace that finally drove him mad. Like they say voodoo works. It came out later that he’d gone to see his minister with the tale, and the minister suggested with some amusement that he try a therapist. That was enough to brand him as unstable as far as the police were concerned. Case was closed.”
Next, After Lucifer Page 15
