by Polly Iyer
“I know what to expect. I’ll be fine.”
Lucier pointed down the street. “When Halloran checked that house, the people who live there weren’t home. There’s a car in the driveway now. Maybe I’ll have better luck.”
“Hope so.”
She waved him on and walked tentatively through the gate. When she got to the top of the stairs and put the key in the lock, she turned around. Lucier stood watching. She smiled, opened the door, and went inside.
As soon as she entered, a chill hit her like a gust of arctic air. Strange, because the air conditioner was off and the house was closed. She rubbed her arms to warm up. The crime scene unit left everything as they’d found it, but their presence might contaminate her perceptions in the same way carelessness contaminates a crime scene. Taking it slow, she wandered the ground floor.
In the kitchen, she checked the refrigerator and pantry. Empty, except for a few cartons of instant soup. The drawers contained towels and silverware, and an assortment of pots, pans, and dishes filled the upper and lower cupboards. She pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table, her hands palms down on top. She closed her eyes. “Talk to me,” she said.
A strong sensation told her that people had eaten there in recent weeks. After a few minutes, she rose and strolled through the rest of the rooms on the first floor. No impressions. Nothing.
Climbing the stairs to the upper level, she stood for a long time outside the room with the drawings. The air was thick and heavy, and she found herself gasping to fill her lungs. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. She inhaled deep breaths before venturing inside, avoiding the wall with the diagrams. A small bed covered by a light blanket hugged the far wall. She sat down and closed her eyes. Someone had occupied it recently, maybe two people. Could they have slept in shifts?
The wall beckoned her. She cast her gaze on it, mesmerized by its satanic symbols. Diana’s interest in the supernatural evolved as a natural extension of her psychic gifts. As a child, she’d been labeled a witch and a collaborator of Satan because of her uncanny abilities. People found it easier to associate her powers with the black arts than to believe they were a gift bestowed by a higher power. Even though she’d led police to missing persons―some living, some not―and her finds offered closure for the respective families, a few still claimed she was a conduit of Satan. The accusations inspired her to delve into the occult, if for no other reason than to disprove what they said about her.
She studied the drawings: the Sigil of Baphomet, the official insignia of the Church of Satan; the upside down cross, symbolizing the mockery and rejection of Jesus; and the pentagram, used in occult rituals to conjure up evil spirits. The sensation of malice enveloped her like the devil’s cape. Dark impressions had been commonplace as a child, but the atmosphere in this room triggered an unprecedented reaction, as if fire seared her skin.
Get hold of yourself, Diana. Don’t lose focus. They’re just drawings.
With forced purpose, she viewed the other signs defacing the wall: the seeing eye, believed to be the eye of Lucifer―control it and you control the world’s financing. The goat’s head, mocking Jesus as the “lamb” who died for our sins. And last, the hexagram, a potent image of darkness and magic. There were more symbols, she knew, grateful they’d been omitted.
At age seventeen, when she expressed an interest in the occult, her parents thought she’d crossed over into another realm, that her psychic gifts had become rooted in the netherworld. Her father considered an intervention to release whatever evil spirit had entered her body, but he dismissed the idea when he thought of the publicity it would garner. Diana’s fascination passed, but not before she’d immersed herself in the history and culture of the mystical.
Ultimately, she determined her visions were granted for a reason. Now, shrugging off the visceral effects of the symbols before her, she thought of the past, thought of the present. Of the babies. And she knew why she was there.
She turned her back on the symbols and walked across the hall into the blue room, then the pink, with their cribs and sunlight and colorful mobiles floating over where babies once had lain. The babies in these rooms were fed and nurtured and yes, loved. For what? An offering to Lucifer? A donation to the god of darkness?
She sat in the rocking chair, and a sense of innocence overwhelmed her. Before long, she was rocking back and forth, embracing a weight so light it barely kissed her skin. She felt her breasts as never before, hard and full, and when she looked down, damp rings stained her blouse. Tears filled her eyes and fell down her cheeks. In the pure room. In the evil house.
Chapter Twelve
Transformation
Lucier rang the neighbor’s bell and waited patiently until a teenage boy answered. In the middle of his asking if the boy’s parents were home, a middle-aged woman came to the door.
He flashed his badge and asked about their neighbors in the pink house without mentioning the reasons for his interest.
“I’m Marjorie Wilton,” the woman said. “Come in.” Her husband joined them and Lucier listened as the two people related what went on in the pink house.
“I’m not a busybody,” Mrs. Wilton said, “but ever since that house sold―what, Stan, a year ago?”
“Give or take,” Mr. Wilton said.
“Ever since, weird things have been happening over there. Not all the time. Maybe twice a month.”
“Like what?” Lucier asked.
“They’re not close to us, and you have to be outside to hear the sounds. Chanting, wouldn’t you say, honey?”
“Sounded like that to me. Cars on the street and in the driveway. Expensive cars. Cadillacs, Mercedes, Lexus, even a Rolls once or twice. That’s how we knew something was going on.”
“Don’t forget the girls,” the boy said.
“What girls?” Lucier asked.
“Two of them. I tried to talk to one once, but she wouldn’t even look at me. Both of them were really pretty.”
“I’ve seen them too,” Mr. Wilton said. “They come and go at different times, like they’re swapping shifts.”
“What did they look like?”
“Built,” the boy said without hesitation.
“Jeff!” his mother scolded.
“Well, they were. You couldn’t help noticing. They were older than me. The younger one had long blonde hair and the other dark red. Both of them had big, you know, big―” He cupped his hands in front of his chest. “Really big. You’d have to be blind not to notice.” He looked at his dad, who bit his bottom lip and turned away, embarrassed.
Oh, yes, Lucier thought. You’d have to be blind. “Did you call the police about the noise?”
“No. Like I said, you couldn’t hear it in the house, and I didn’t want to get involved. They weren’t bothering anyone. It was just curious, that’s all. I did ask the only man I saw during the day what was going on in there, and he said they were playing cards. When I asked about the singing, he said they listened to Gregorian chants. He apologized if they bothered us and assured me they’d lower the volume. He seemed nice, not at all threatening.”
“What did he look like?”
“Red hair and beard, about five-eight, always wore a brown jacket. He and the girls were the only ones I saw on a regular basis. The others came during their get-togethers.”
Lucier flashed the picture of Ridley Deems. “Is this the man?”
The father and son nodded. “That’s him,” Mrs. Wilton said. “We’ve been on vacation the last week. What’s going on there, anyway?”
“Nothing now. Anything else unusual?”
“No, but I don’t make it a habit to spy on my neighbors.”
“Of course,” Lucier said. “Did you happen to notice a tall, good-looking man coming or going? Middle aged, graying hair.”
“Nope, just the bearded fellow.”
“And the group, would you recognize any of them?
“Not in the dark. Their card games started late, around ten, sometimes la
ter. They never put on the outside light.”
“Any license plates stick in your mind?”
“I never paid attention. I’m sorry.”
“What’s this about,” Stan Wilton asked.
“We’re not sure, Mr. Wilton, but whatever’s been going on there is over.”
“I’m glad,” Marjorie Wilton said. “The whole late-night thing was strange.”
“If you think of anything else, or if someone turns up in the middle of the night and you happen to see, here’s my card. Call.”
“I will.”
Lucier left the house sure what the Wiltons had described, and he’d bet the meetings took place during specific moon changes. Who would make that connection?
He sauntered back to the pink house. Diana wasn’t waiting in front, so he went inside. An unearthly silence greeted him.
“Diana?” She didn’t answer. Fear shimmied down his spine, and he drew his gun. Heart pounding, he cleared the first floor.
She must be upstairs. I should never have let her come in alone.
“Diana? Where are you?”
He scanned the room with the symbols on the wall, then moved stealthily toward the pink room, stopping at the door. Diana sat in the rocking chair, her arms crossed over her chest. He wasn’t sure whether she was in a trance or asleep. His heartbeat thudded louder.
“Diana?” He crept closer and spoke softly, careful not to alarm her. Leaning down, he saw that she’d been crying. He touched her face. “What’s the matter?”
She lowered her arms, revealing the circles of dampness over her breasts. “It started when I sat in this chair.”
A lump rose in his throat. “I should never have involved you in this. It’s too soon. You’re not fully recovered.”
She looked at him, her expression questioning. “This doesn’t happen, Ernie.”
He slipped his hand around her arm and lifted. “Come, I’m taking you home.”
“Those girls were here. Brigid and the other girl we saw going into the mission. They were here and breastfed the babies. They’re wet nurses.”
This case was taking turns he didn’t understand, and because of its bizarre nature, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. “I know. The people next door saw them. Deems too. I’ll explain everything on the way home.”
She stood in front of him, arms still crossed over her chest. Lucier took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She slid her arms into the sleeves.
“I need to get you out of here,” he said.
“I couldn’t stop the flow. It kept coming, and I couldn’t stop it.” She wrapped the jacket around her more tightly. “Don’t tell anyone about this, please.”
He took her in his arms. “I won’t, sweetheart. I promise.”
Chapter Thirteen
A Truth Stranger than Fiction
This time Lucier didn’t announce his arrival at Sunset Mission. A woman asked him to wait, left, then returned to usher him to Slater’s office. The director sat behind his paper-strewn desk. He smiled when he saw Lucier.
“Lieutenant, what a pleasant surprise.” Slater rose to shake Lucier’s hand. “Have you come to donate time or money?”
“Neither,” Lucier said. “I needed to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask away.” Slater gestured Lucier to a seat, then leaned back in his chair with the same natural confidence he exhibited on their first meeting.
“Do you know anything about a house at 107 Parkside Avenue.” News about the house hadn’t been released, so he watched Slater’s reaction. There was none.
“I don’t even know where Parkside Avenue is, let alone a particular number.”
Undeterred, Lucier pressed on. “When Ms. Racine and I were leaving here the other day, a beautiful young blonde girl went into your Mission. She was identified, along with Brigid, as frequenting the Parkside address.”
“Sounds like Nona, but why would her whereabouts interest you?”
“Is she your employee?” Slater frowned, and Lucier thought he’d end the interview.
“No, she stayed here for a while. Another story of incest, I’m afraid. She gave up the baby for adoption and left when she got a job―don’t ask where because I don’t know. She helps out here when she has time.” Slater moved forward and folded his arms across the desk. “I raise donations here, Lieutenant. I see that the money is well spent. It would be inappropriate for me to get involved in the lives of women who’ve been abused. Many are suspicious of men and rightly so.”
Liar. But Lucier couldn’t call him that to his face with nothing more than a cop’s gut instinct. “The house in question is home to a satanic cult.”
Slater jerked in surprise. “That’s impossible. Voodoo I understand, but Satanists?” But when Lucier didn’t argue, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Satanic symbols covered the walls, and Diana sensed the presence of the kidnapped baby or babies. Those two young women nursed them in that house.”
“Let me get this straight. Are you accusing Brigid and Nona of collaborating with Deems in kidnapping a baby from the hospital, or are you accusing me of being involved? Since all three connect to this mission, it sounds like the latter.”
This was the first time Slater displayed anything other than an irritating calmness. Lucier hated himself for his perverse feeling of triumph.
“I’m doing my job, Mr. Slater,” Lucier said. “That connection is the only lead I have.”
“I assure you, Lieutenant, if you’re looking for a fall guy, you’re in the wrong place. I don’t know Nona very well, and Brigid may be young, but she’s too smart to be involved with a satanic cult.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to talk to her. Would you mind calling her into the office?”
“This is impossible,” Slater said. “Those girls have gone through hell. They’d never hurt a child. Nona gave up her baby, and Brigid’s was stillborn. Neither breastfed, which leaves what you’re saying an impossibility.”
“Then Brigid doesn’t have anything to worry about if I ask her a few questions, does she?”
Slater was now in full annoyance mode. He spoke after a long moment. “I’ll ask Brigid to step in here, but if I think her rights are being violated, I will end your interrogation and call one of our attorneys. Fair enough?”
“Absolutely.”
Slater left the room and Lucier took the opportunity to look around. He tried the doors on the bookcase. They were locked. Then he remembered the camera, turned, and saw the red light glaring at him from the vent. Damn.
Slater came back into the office and took his seat. “She’s not here. Strange, but now that I think of it, I haven’t seen her all day.”
“How convenient.”
Slater’s narrowed eyes bored into Lucier.
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Lieutenant. I’ve been perfectly willing to cooperate, but you seem determined to involve me in something I know nothing about. If you want to make a formal charge against me for whatever you perceive is my crime, make it. I dislike people beating around the bush. I have too many things to do and not enough time to do them.”
Slater’s forthrightness took Lucier by surprise, and he wondered why he was being so aggressive. He knew the reason, and he liked himself less when he forged ahead anyway. “Do you know a man by the name of Silas Compton?”
Slater didn’t bat an eye. “Of course. Everyone knows who he is.”
“I mean personally.”
Slater rocked in his swivel chair. “Mr. Compton is a generous contributor to the Mission. In fact, his money funded us in the first place, and he’s been impressed enough with its success to continue his charitable donations. I’d like to think he’s a friend, even though I’m out of his league. Now, what has he got to do with this investigation?”
“He owns the house where the cult meets.”
Slater stiffened but recovered quickly. “I’m sure he owns many properties in the city. He’s one of the wealthiest men in t
he country. As far as his politics or religion, I don’t get involved. I’m only interested in helping people who need help.”
“And Deems?”
“I told you, I barely knew him.” Slater stood. “This has gone far enough. I have things to do, as you can see by the work on my desk.”
“Why do you have a camera in the vent, Mr. Slater?”
Slater shook his head and released a long sigh. “After the incident with Jeanine Highsmith, I thought it best to protect myself. All financial transactions take place in this room. The tape activates when someone is present. I don’t want a case of he said/she said. If money is donated I have a visual and audio record.”
Lucier eyed the camera. He’d love to get his hands on those tapes, but he had no legitimate reason to requisition them. What would he find? Slater was too smart to conduct illegal business and record it.
As if Slater read Lucier’s mind, he said, “You’d need a court order, Lieutenant, and you have no reason to ask for one. Besides, the tapes only go back to the time after Ms. Highsmith made her accusation. Oh, and Silas Compton makes me shut it off whenever he’s in my office.”
Was that a look of triumph on Slater’s face? “I’d be careful, Mr. Slater. If what went on in that house connects to Mr. Compton, the FBI might be interested in your mission when they find out he’s the financial backer.”
“It would be like the government to go after Mr. Compton, since he’s an outspoken critic of the way things are done in this country. I’m apolitical, but I don’t believe in biting the hand that feeds me.”
“Are you a devotee of Satan, Mr. Slater?”
Slater laughed. “That’s what I like, someone who comes to the point. No beating around the bush this time, huh, Lieutenant?”
“No, not this time.”
“I’ve made no secret I’m an atheist. I lost faith in God many years ago. My philosophy, however, is personal―meaning it’s none of your business.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Slater.”
Slater walked to the door and opened it. “You can apply any interpretation you want. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Lucier was halfway out of the office when Slater said, “And how is Ms. Racine? When you came here, I’d hoped she was with you. I’d like to meet with her again. She’s a fascinating lady, but I’m sure you know that.”
