by J. P. Sloan
Well, then.
“Let’s not stray from the subject, huh?”
“If you wish.”
I sighed. “Julian’s not my handler. I’ve known him for too long.” Even as I said it, the shadow of doubt curled into my brain. When had I met Julian? And where? It was at the club, shortly before I’d shrugged off the memory charm Carmen had used to deep-six my entire charm-crafting career. I knew nothing about him before then.
I met another man not long after that day. Clarence de Haviland, a.k.a. Mr. Brown. Had I known that the Druid Hill Club was a hotbed of Presidium members, I might have been more reserved in my acquaintanceship.
Or would I? Julian was so clearly uninvolved in the Life. He was open, eager to learn… and I had turned him away at every opportunity. He was always there for me, even sacrificing his entire career to save a good man. No, he wasn’t my handler. Couldn’t have been.
Still, though, if a man is always there for you, doesn’t it necessarily mean that he’s always… there?
“What are you picking up from Julian?” I whispered.
She cleared the maze and turned to wait for me. “He is concerned for you.”
“Not exactly a smoking gun, Annarose.”
“And he’s curious about this place,” she added with a wave of her hand to the house.
I countered, “He’s interested in the craft.”
She took a step forward and whispered into my ear. “He is shielded.”
I blinked the words away. “I didn’t feel any―”
“This warding is masterfully wrought. Tread carefully. He is no novice.”
She reached around my head and pulled it down to her face. Her lips slid across mine, waves of floral-laced energy washing over me, with just a hint of tar. Her dark ringlets slid across my nose as she slowly pulled away. She wiped her thumb across my mouth with a predatory smile.
“What was that about?” I mumbled.
“Perhaps you interest me, too?”
“No offense, Annarose, but you still scare the shit out of me.”
A razor smile lifted across her lips. “Good.”
My head reeled for a moment, overloaded by the recriminations and titillations of the last minute. I gathered my composure as Annarose reached the top of the deck. I trotted after her, wondering why she was always taking the lead.
We stepped inside, where Sarah was clearing her throat in rapid successions. Julian leaned back in his chair, a satisfied grin on his face.
“Well, this is all terribly interesting,” he chuckled. “I mean, I picked up a couple books before, trying to study the Tarot. Never really took, though. Probably because I never had time.” His eyes found me. “Oh, Dorian. You’ll be happy to hear that she’s drawn the Death card on my very first spread.”
I shrugged. “That card gets a bad rep, you know. Just means you’re due for a transformative period. Something will end, but something else will begin. Basic life journey stuff.”
Sarah looked up to me. I prepared to apologize for overstepping her table, but something in her eyes put a hook in my gut.
“Or, maybe you should get your colon ‘scoped,” I added.
He chuckled, then reached out to shake Sarah’s hand. “I enjoyed myself. Though, it seems you’re unhappy with the cards?”
Sarah shuffled her deck and sighed. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just really scattered right now.”
Annarose held out a hand, and Sarah calmed. As did Julian.
She reached for the deck, and slid her fingers alongside the cards. She lifted the deck ever so slightly, allowing the cards to fall into a neat stack beneath her hand until at some unknown cue she halted the flow.
When she held up the cards, she nodded.
“Mister Julian, you are right to wonder how it will end.”
He stared at the card, his face easing into a loose mask of confusion and alarm.
“What is it?” I asked as she held the card away from me.
She arched a brow. “It is not for you. Unless you would like your own.”
I lifted my hands. “Sure.”
She allowed more to slither from her fingers, and halted again.
With an easy cock of her elbow, she inspected the card, then nodded to herself.
“And?” I urged.
She angled the bottom card so that I could see it while muttering, “My offer stands, Lake.”
I gazed down at the revealed card.
The World.
The card of endless possibilities.
“I’m going to need your phone number,” I whispered.
I had to make do with the covenstead land line number and Sarah’s cell number. Seemed Annarose was of my philosophy when it came to modern electronics.
We said our goodbyes, Annarose holding my arm fast for just a longer moment than I had expected. It was a message. She was concerned, that much was certain.
And, as Julian drove us back to Baltimore, so was I.
hen we reached Light Street Tavern, Julian seemed positively filled with electricity.
“What’s next?” he asked as we stepped through the back door and approached his office.
“I’m cooking on that.”
“What about Turner? You said something about his brother-in-law. The one with the tinfoil hat?”
I agreed with Julian, if only in my own head. I found myself reluctant to volunteer a specific course of action.
Damn, but Annarose put a thorn in my noodle! Julian couldn’t have been a Presidium lackey. I would have known.
Surely, I would have known.
“I might go grab some coffee,” I grumbled.
He cocked his head. “Uh, okay. Are you feeling well?”
“Tired. Slept on the Swain’s couch last night for, like, maybe three hours. Plus, my side’s still killing me, so…”
He nodded. “I can take you wherever―”
“I’ll walk.”
He clamped his mouth shut.
I added, “There’s a deli a couple blocks down. Might get a bagel.” We stood awkwardly for a moment, so I added, “Shmear.”
Julian rubbed his neck. “All right, then.”
“Hey,” I blurted. “I’m not pushing you out.”
“Sure.”
“I’m totally not.”
I totally was. Even if he was completely innocent, too many people were receiving collateral boot-squash thanks to my insane life. I needed Julian to be that guy that was always there for me, not the One Who Was Always There.
Julian reached over and tapped my shoulder. “Go get your caffeine. I’ll be here. When you’re ready for the next move, let me know.”
I turned away and stepped out of the front door, and directly into the mass that was Big Ben Setleigh.
I coughed as I bounced off him, and chuckled. “Sorry, Ben.”
“Where you running to in such a damn hurry, son?”
“Coffee. What else?”
“Figured it weren’t the whiskey. Got plenty of that inside.”
“Yeah. Honest truth, I think it’s time I woke up more than I checked out.”
Ben hammered a flat palm onto my shoulder. “Son? I’ve been waiting for you to say that for years now.”
I smiled, then added, “Hey. I’m coming right back, and Julian’s my ride at the moment. Make sure he doesn’t leave. Okay?”
Ben winked at me. “No problem.”
I trotted up the street, fishing my phone from my pocket to dial Turner.
He answered, “What?”
“It’s Lake.”
“No shit.”
“I need a ride.”
After a pause, he answered, “Ever heard of car rentals?”
“I want to have a word with your brother-in-law.”
He made a noise I couldn’t quite identify. Possibly a cough, a sneeze, or a combination vomit-sigh.
“Still with that?”
“It’s important.”
“Can’t your boyfriend drive you?” he groused.
“Whatever. Where are you?”
“Half a block from City Hall,” I responded as I spotted the white façade of the old building between skyscrapers as I turned onto Fayette.
“You’re a pain in my ass, Lake.”
“Likewise. Now come get me. We’re burning daylight.”
Turner arrived in remarkable time. He unlocked his door of what proved to be an alarmingly malodorous Crown Victoria. I crinkled my nose as I fastened my seatbelt.
“Christ. The hell are you keeping in this car, Turner?”
“Head cheese. Also, go fuck yourself.”
He turned us up one of the main avenues leading to the Baltimore Beltway, and we rounded the city to the northeast.
“Where’s he live?” I ventured after about twenty minutes of silence.
“Edgewood.”
“Oh, God.”
He snickered. “Hey, this was your idea.”
“Is he, you know, of sound mind?”
“I’ve asked my sister that many times. Know what she tells me?”
“What?” I asked.
“To mind my own business and maybe consider getting an electric car. She’s all about electric cars and wind power. Kind of a fruit loop, but what can you do?”
Edgewood arrived as a patchwork of early 60’s bungalow style houses strung together like Christmas lights, most of which had gone out. Bushy lawns punctuated those that were maintained. The occasional front porch sat adorned with mismatched furniture intended for interior use, and more dogs on and off leash than was probably necessary and legal.
Turner drove into a cul-de-sac and parked his car well off the lawn on the street.
“George gets pissy when people rut up his grass,” Turner grumbled as he killed the engine. “And by pissy I mean he keys the shit out of people’s doors. Almost shot him once when I caught him with one of those garden claw things circling my Vic.”
“Sounds like a justifiable shooting to me.”
“I know. It’s like he wanted a trip to the emergency room.”
“Still, lot of paperwork. Right?”
Turner snapped his fingers. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
He trotted ahead up the front walk and knocked on the door.
“It’s Grant, George. Don’t shoot.”
I noticed the Don’t Tread On Me flag hanging from the corner post and braced myself.
The door eased open, and a surprisingly young man with wire rim glasses and a mop of red hair exploding in every conceivable direction peered from inside.
“Oh, hey Grant,” he rasped.
Turner stood for a moment, shifting weight foot-to-foot. “So, uh, you gonna to let us in, or what?”
“Who’s he?” George asked, his eyes still held directly on Turner.
“Oh, this here’s Dorian Lake. He’s a consultant for the precinct.”
“I don’t know him,” George mumbled.
“I barely know him, but he’s harmless. Seriously.” Turner gestured for the door.
George finally looked over to me, examining me head to ankle, before some unspoken line of reasoning cleared me in his head and he held the door open.
We stepped inside. The odor of cat urine hit me full in the face, and I choked back a cough. I spotted the first cat immediately, sitting on a multi-level carpeted perch in the corner. The second cat trotted from a hallway and immediately began making love to Turner’s ankles.
George closed the door behind us and latched no fewer than three deadbolts, a chain, and something electronic screwed to the side of his front casing. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I imagined he’d assembled it on his own from instructions he found on the Internet. All he was missing was a length of Edgar’s magic yarn.
Turner stepped around the cat and moved for a laminate counter pass-through connecting the tiny kitchen with the wall-paneled living room.
“Lake, here… he’s a kind of expert in bizarre phenomenons. Secret groups. The occult.”
With each statement, George’s eyes widened, until he finally turned to face me square-on with a lifting smile.
“Oh, yeah?” he wheezed.
I nodded. “Specifically hermetic practice. Hexes and charms. Nothing with aliens,” I added, just in case.
“That’s fascinating,” George offered, gesturing me forward into the living room. “Let me show you something. I picked this up at a convention in Pittsburgh. It’s supposed to be a talisman worn by a Nazi lieutenant during the Third Reich.” He fished a tiny brass medallion on a gold chain from a cedar box and held it up to the light. “As you know, Hitler believed in ancient occult practices, and believed he could yoke mystical powers in order to establish his thousand-year reign.”
I leaned in and examined the medallion, finding a laurel wreath imprint surrounding the edge of the Nordic rune Thurisaz.
“Well, there does exist a kind of modern mythology over the Reich.” I ventured, “Most of which was spun out of whole cloth to sell books.”
He eyes narrowed. “Are you familiar with the Völkisch Movement?”
“I am.”
“Then you’ll know that the late 18th Century push against modern industrialism found roots in ancient Germanic mysticism?”
I shrugged. “More like folklore. And yes, the movement did exist. But no, it was not occult in nature. It was more socio-political than anything.”
George put a hand on his hip. “What about Lanz von Liebenfels?”
I rolled my eyes. “Here we go with the mad monk.”
“What?” George sputtered.
“Look, Hitler didn’t meet von Liebenfels when he was a child. Old Lanz didn’t put the idea into young Adolph’s brain to summon a master race to restore order against the Jews.”
“He had published works!”
I nodded. “True, and he was an outspoken proponent of Ariosophy, and it’s possible his writings helped inspire the climate in which the Nazis blossomed. But he wasn’t in contact with the Devil, and he didn’t imbue Hitler with a Holy Mandate for genocide. Liebenfels was a son of a bitch of the highest magnitude, but his peculiar brand of bastardy was entirely human in nature.”
George scowled, scooped up the medallion into his palm and replaced it into his cedar box. I’d lost my audience already. Time to hook him back.
“Now, if you want to talk about the actual cabals operating in Germany at the time of the rise of Hitler, you’re going to want to start with the Thule Society.”
George spun around, his face rising in excitement. “They… they’re real. Right?”
“Oh yes. Very real, and very active. It was said they were seeking the lost Aryan race of Hyperborea, first by physical crypto-archaeological exploration, and later by isolating the blood of the Aryans by eugenics.”
George snapped his fingers. “Bilderberg!”
“Huh?”
“You know, the annual Bilderberg Conference? They gathered western European leaders together to discuss anti-Americanism and the formation of an Atlantic society. No one knows who arranges these conferences, but they are super-secret, heavily guarded, and it’s quite obvious to anyone who puts thought into it that the Bilderberg leadership is run by successful Hyperborean scions from Hitler’s eugenics program!”
I sucked in a breath, then held it.
I wasn’t sure if the crazy was catching, but I suddenly had an urge to make a few phone calls and figure out how the Presidium felt about these Bilderberg people.
Turner shook his head at the counter. “You people are loopier than a bat on acid.”
George snarled at Turner as he slipped around him to the kitchen. “What did you want to, uh, what do you want, Mister Lake?”
“I wanted to talk to you about secret organizations within the United States government.”
His head nodded violently. “Skull and Bones? Council of Foreign Relations? FEMA?”
“FEMA?” I blurted.
�
�Oh yeah! They wield absolute power within a time of crisis. The entire agency is utterly unconstitutional, and yet they’re the first ones called in whenever people’s property is up for grabs. They can relocate you, your family, appropriate your belongings. They set up and operate entire refugee camps in which they control who comes and goes, who gets medical treatment and who dies. You really think they answer to the President?” He snickered and shook his head.
“Actually, George, I wanted to discuss something a bit more historical. Occult influences in the forming of our nation.”
“Oh,” he shouted as he pulled a bottle of bottom-shelf vodka from his sink cabinet. “Then that’s all about the Freemasons.”
It really wasn’t, but I was going to let him roll with this.
“Have you ever heard of a group called The Presidium?” I asked.
George wrinkled his nose and poured himself, and only himself, a glass of gut-rot.
“Is that what this is about? Durning’s thing? Please. He was an amateur. Made up names and some fabricated society. Orgies? In the Capitol? You’ve seen those people, right? I think old Durning was a little…”
He made a winding motion with his finger near the side of his head, just before taking a belt of vodka and doubling over in a coughing fit.
I gave Turner a look, and he waved me off.
George continued, “Washington. Jefferson. Madison. Franklin. All Freemasons of high orders. And is there any question as to why these were the men who were chosen to lead our fledgling nation?”
“Do tell.”
He held up a finger. “Washington. Horrible leader. The worst. Know how many battles Washington actually won in the Revolution?”
“More than a couple, I think?”
“One!”
I scratched my head. I was fairly certain Washington had done marginally better than that, but I needed his crackpot theories so I let it slide.
“Saratoga! And that’s it!”
“What about Yorktown?”
He took another swig as his eyes filled with condescending pity.
“Please,” he gasped after pounding the vodka. “That hardly counts. The French were in the war, by that point. He can’t be given credit for walking in and mopping up.”
Turner smiled at me, and I tried my best not to notice.
