First Circle Club

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First Circle Club Page 9

by Alex Siegel


  The ball return machine eventually coughed up his ball. It was made of clear, hard polyurethane wrapped around a solid gold core. The ball contained hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold, but he cared more about the weight and balance. He never settled for anything less than perfection. Walton wiped off the ball with a towel and prepared for his second roll.

  Another servant came running into the alley. He carried a portable phone on a velvet pillow.

  "Sir!" the newcomer said. "You have a phone call from a Mr. Ted Floyd. He says it's urgent."

  Walton recognized the name. Floyd was performing close surveillance on the home of Daniel's sister. He was also one of the mercenaries Walton employed for assignments that could turn violent.

  Walton put down his ball and grabbed the phone. "Thank you. I need privacy. Everybody leave."

  His staff immediately left the bowling alley.

  Walton put the phone to his ear. "You have something to report?"

  "Yes, sir," Floyd responded in a gruff voice. "Four people showed up at the old lady's house tonight. When I shot them...."

  "Don't jump ahead. Describe the visitors."

  "Two men and two women wearing suits. One woman was black."

  "Old? Young?" Walton said.

  "One of the guys looked kind of old. The others were young-ish and in good shape."

  "Did you notice anything unusual?"

  "Not at first, sir," Floyd said. "They went into the house and talked to Patricia."

  "About what?"

  "Her dead brother. The microphones picked up the whole conversation. I'll send you the recording."

  "I look forward to listening to it," Walton said. "What happened next?"

  "The black woman spotted me, but I don't know how. It was dark, and I was dressed in night camouflage. She and one of the guys tried to catch me. I barely got away. They were fast! I've never seen anybody move like that."

  Walton nodded. He wasn't surprised. "Go on."

  "They chased me back to the car. I ambushed them with a shotgun, a Benelli M4 loaded with buckshot. I blasted the guy three times and the woman twice at close range. Every shot was good. This is the crazy part. They didn't die!"

  "What color was the blood?"

  "Black," Floyd said. "I swear I'm telling the truth. I wasn't drinking or anything! The guy looked like he had stuck his face in a wood chipper, but he was still moving."

  Demons, Walton thought, just as we expected.

  "I believe you. You did a good job. Thank you."

  "What were those things?" Floyd said. "They were freaky monsters!"

  "You know better than to ask questions like that. Go home. You're off duty for now. I'll make sure you get a nice bonus."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Walton hung up the phone. He began the long walk through his mansion.

  He climbed up a flight of white marble stairs to the main floor. He passed a study, a library, a billiards room, and an art gallery. The home was far too large for a single man, but his extensive staff filled it up. His security team alone was forty people.

  He hadn't always been single. Over the course of his life, he had turned three beautiful young women into millionaire ex-wives. Each marriage had produced children at least, but none of those kids shared his home. They were just line items in his exorbitant child support budget.

  Walton finally arrived at his private office on the third floor of his mansion. All the furniture was made of ivory and obsidian with gold leaf accents. His desk was as big as a queen-size bed. He closed the door and locked it carefully.

  Paranoia made him check the window. A huge sheet of bullet-proof glass provided a view of gardens and an Olympic-size swimming pool. Scattered lamps illuminated rose bushes, lilies, and lavender. Bronze tiles covered the bottom of the pool.

  He went to a blank section of a wall and wiped his hand across the surface in a specific pattern. Sensors behind the wall detected the movement, and he heard a click as a latch released. A small gold statue of the Greek god Plutus was nearby. He twisted the head of the statue back and forth like the dial of a combination lock to finish unlocking his safe.

  A section of the wall slid out of the way. The safe was the size of a walk-in closet, and it held his greatest treasures and most important documents.

  Walton went straight to a white scroll tied with a white ribbon. He grabbed the scroll which had the feel of fine parchment, but he knew it wasn't really dried animal skin. The material hadn't come from any earthly source.

  He took the scroll to his desk and unrolled it. The scroll showed an intricate diagram drawn in black and gold ink. It featured a central star with seven points. Blocks of text explained specific details such as what type of iron to use and the capacities for the needed tanks of holy water. The calligraphy was magnificent.

  Walton grabbed a phone off his desk and pressed a button on the side which put the phone into high-security mode. He dialed a number he had memorized.

  After a few rings, a man answered, "Yes?" Walton knew his name was Gadberry.

  "This is Ken Walton."

  "Oh! What can I do for you, sir?"

  "How is the project going?" Walton said.

  "We're having a little trouble sticking to the schedule. The special copper alloys were very difficult to acquire. Costs exceeded the initial estimate by quite a bit. We finally received the materials today. Forge welding all the joints is also slowing down the construction. The metal workers have never used that technique before."

  Walton referred to the design on the scroll. "What about the salt for the moat? You were having trouble with that."

  "Extracting a thousand pounds of salt from the bones of freshly slaughtered goats isn't quick, but we'll get it done."

  "I need everything ready by tomorrow night."

  Gadberry paused. "That's impossible, sir. My people are already working 'round-the-clock. You told me I had three more days."

  "An incident this evening pushed up the schedule. I'll do what I can to buy a little extra time, but three days just won't work. You have two at the most. I don't care what it costs. Make it happen."

  "Yes, sir."

  Walton looked at the scroll. "Let's go over all the items again to make sure you didn't forget anything."

  He read from the scroll, and Gadberry confirmed every detail was included in the project schedule. When Walton was done, he hung up the phone and returned the scroll to the safe. The safe closed with a hydraulic hiss.

  He left his office. It was time to check on his house guest.

  He hurried down to the first floor and left the mansion through a back door. As he stepped outside, he could smell the roses. It was a warm, humid night, and insects buzzed loudly. It was September though, and he expected the weather to turn at any time.

  A patrolling security guard in a green uniform nodded politely to Walton. "Good evening, sir."

  "Good evening." Walton smiled back. "Any trouble?"

  "No, sir. Quiet as usual."

  "Just stretching my legs. Keep your eyes open."

  "We always do, sir," the guard said.

  Walton continued on through the garden. He entered a hedge maze made of Boxwood plants which were taller than the top of his head. The maze was fairly small, and he knew it well, so it took just a couple of minutes to reach the center.

  He arrived at a circular space which featured two bronze benches and a water fountain. The fountain depicted Satan as a beast with three faces. Three sinners were jammed into the mouths with only their legs sticking out. Water trickled from the toes of the sinners. A blue patina covered the entire fountain.

  Walton reached under the fountain and tapped a combination on hidden buttons. The entire fountain lifted up and sideways, revealing a circular staircase made of iron. He checked for witnesses out of paranoia and then descended into the earth.

  The air quickly grew uncomfortably warm, but he pressed on. He didn't plan to stay long.

  He reached an underground chamber which se
rved as Daniel Shipman's residence. The serial killer was locked in an iron cage suspended by chains over a pit. Gas jets produced blue fire which licked the bars of the cage and caused the metal to glow red in spots. A normal person would've been roasted alive. Sharp spikes inside the cage added to the torment. Daniel was naked, and the small cage forced him to kneel down and duck his head. It was impossible for him to find a comfortable position.

  Medium height and a plain face made him a physically unremarkable man. He had a doughy midsection, but he wasn't fat. His sparse brown hair needed a trim around the edges. He sported a mustache but no beard. He was the sort of man who could walk through a crowd without anybody giving him a second look.

  Searing heat forced Walton to stand well back from the pit. A tub of constantly chilled water was near the door. He soaked a towel in the water and draped the wet towel over his head.

  "How are you doing?" Walton said.

  "I'm not suffering enough," Daniel said. "Can you make the fire any hotter?"

  "The cage will melt."

  "Maybe we should try the bullwhip again."

  "Last time, you told me it just tickled," Walton said. "You were bored."

  "Let's attach knives to the end of the whip."

  "We don't want to shred your body. You still have work to do."

  Daniel sighed. "Then I'll just stay in the cage. At least it reminds me of the pains of Hell."

  "I'll keep you in there until morning."

  "That's fine."

  "Your sister had visitors this evening," Walton said. "Our enemies are finally making their move."

  "It took them long enough. The bureaucracies of Heaven and Hell grind slowly indeed. I've had time to release five souls while they dithered and debated."

  "I wish they had taken even longer. The trap might not be ready in time."

  Daniel snarled.

  "I'm pushing as hard as I can," Walton added weakly.

  "Do I have to remind you of the price of failure? You'll wish you were in a place as comfortable as this cage. Tell me about my dear sister's visitors."

  "There were four. Two with the appearance of men, and two women. They bled black blood."

  "Demons, just as we predicted. The princes of Hell know how to sing only one song." Daniel spat into the flames, creating a hiss of steam.

  "Everything is going according to plan, assuming the trap works."

  "Major demons are permitted only very short visits to Earth. These must be minor fiends, a mere nuisance."

  "They survived several shotgun blasts."

  Daniel waved his hand dismissively. "I could rip them apart with my bare hands. The princes insult me by sending such pathetic creatures to take me down."

  "Regardless," Walton said, "the trap will destroy them, not you. Stick to the plan and focus on your own tasks. Another release is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon."

  "I'll begin the purification ceremony as soon as I'm out of this cage."

  Walton nodded. "Need anything else?"

  "You're sure you can't make the fire any hotter?"

  "What about a cauldron of boiling lead? I could arrange that."

  "Sounds delightful," Daniel said.

  "Consider it done."

  Walton turned and ran up the stairs. He was about to faint from the heat.

  Chapter Six

  Virgil almost stumbled as he descended the back staircase behind Red Palace Antiques. The wounds on his chest had closed, and his face wasn't quite as chewed up, but he still couldn't see. Alfred was guiding Virgil by the hand.

  "Just three more steps," Alfred said. "Then we're home."

  Virgil took the last three steps. He heard a key being inserted into a lock. Then a door opened on rusty hinges.

  He shuffled into the basement, feeling his way with his hands. He found a pile of furniture and groped around until he discovered a chair. He pulled the chair off of the pile and sat on it heavily.

  "Is everybody here?" Virgil said.

  Alfred, Lisa, and Sara all said, "Yes."

  "Then let's have a meeting."

  "I vote we talk to Barachiel first," Sara said. "Some guidance from above might help."

  "How are we going to do that?" Lisa said. "I don't think our fancy phones can call Heaven."

  "Last time," Alfred said, "she spoke to us using a puddle of water."

  "I'm sure the water must be clean," Sara said.

  "Of course, and still. It must be as pure and peaceful as Heaven."

  Virgil heard people moving around the basement. It sounded like they were searching through the piles of antiques.

  "I found a silver serving tray," Alfred announced. "Well, silver-ish."

  "Bring it over to the sink," Sara said.

  Virgil heard footsteps followed by the sound of water splashing against metal.

  After a pause, Sara said, "Barachiel! Barachiel! Can you hear me?"

  "Yes, my child," the angel responded. "It appears some of you got into a fight."

  "Will I heal?" Virgil said.

  "The damage doesn't look that bad. I'm guessing you'll be fully recovered by morning, but I'm not an expert on demon flesh. What happened?"

  Sara summarized the events of the evening.

  "We think a larger conspiracy is supporting Daniel Shipman," Virgil said after Sara was done.

  "I don't share your conclusion," Barachiel said.

  "The guy who shot us was clearly trying to stop the investigation. He knew detectives would eventually talk to the sister. He was waiting for us."

  "I really don't understand the logic of your argument. I agree that somebody was performing surveillance on the house, and he shot you. Connecting that incident to Daniel is pure speculation."

  Virgil clenched his jaw. He had observed this trait in demons, and apparently, angels shared it. They had no imagination. Their minds only ran in small circles and straight lines.

  "Patricia and Daniel are siblings," Virgil said.

  "That relationship ended when Daniel died forty years ago," Barachiel said.

  "She's the closest thing to a living character witness. When I found out she was alive, I went straight to her. It was the obvious move, and the opposition was clearly expecting it."

  "You keep suggesting several people are involved. Do you have any hard evidence to support that claim?"

  "Yes," Virgil said. "The most obvious is that Daniel escaped from Hell. I spent enough time there to know that simply walking out is impossible, and he was all the way down in the Eighth Circle. Somebody helped him get out."

  "Another human soul?"

  "Maybe, or possibly a demon."

  "That statement is the most ridiculous so far," Barachiel said. "No demon would ever do something like that."

  "Why not?"

  "The Celestial Contract forbids it. To angels and demons, the Contract is more than just a lengthy legal document. It is the reason for our existence. It delineates our roles and responsibilities. For us, violating the Contract would be like a human spontaneously growing a third arm. It simply can't happen."

  "Then what is your theory?" Virgil said.

  "Simple incompetence. A demon made a mistake and allowed Daniel to get out."

  "I've met plenty of demons. They are surly, obnoxious, wretched creatures, but I would never call them incompetent. The one thing they do well is their jobs. And if Daniel did get out by mistake, why can't you find him now? The princes of Heaven and Hell see all things that transpire on Earth, right?"

  "True," Barachiel said softly.

  "Yet you can't find a serial killer who has taken five lives. Somebody powerful is hiding him."

  Barachiel paused. "This line of reasoning is deeply troubling. I must reflect on it."

  "Wait," Alfred said, "before you go, I have another request."

  "What?" Barachiel said.

  "Patricia mentioned a father, a Baptist minister. I'm sure he had a profound influence on young Daniel, but he must be dead by now. Is the father's soul in Heaven? Can
we speak with him?"

  "Matt Shipman's soul does not reside in the Kingdom of Heaven."

  "Oh?" Alfred said.

  "Pride, arrogance, and wrath condemned him to a darker place. Seek him there."

  Silence followed. Virgil couldn't see, but he assumed the angel was gone.

  "I guess we're talking to Mammon next," Lisa said. "But how?"

  "I saw him in a mirror," Virgil said. "A broken, dusty mirror. I'm thinking the dirt is important."

  "There must be a mirror somewhere in all this junk."

  He heard crashes, thumps, and squeaks. He smiled. He enjoyed Lisa's direct approach to solving problems. She had obviously recovered from her injuries enough to move around.

  After a few minutes, she announced, "Found one!"

  "What does it look like?" Virgil said.

  "The kind you hang on the wall. It has a gold frame, but the gold paint has rubbed off in a few spots. There is plastic underneath."

  "The perfect instrument for making contact with the Demon of Greed. Crack the glass but don't shatter it."

  He heard the sound of glass breaking.

  "It's still together... mostly," Lisa said.

  "Probably good enough," Virgil said. "Now we need some dirt."

  "Uh... OK. Hold still."

  After a moment, he felt her hand against his face.

  "What are you doing?" he said.

  "Scraping off some blood. Nothing filthier than mud from Hell."

  Virgil held still.

  After a moment, Lisa said, "Now I just need to wipe this crap on the mirror, and we should be good to go." She paused. "Mammon! Can you hear me? Whoa! There you are."

  "What do you want?" the demon rumbled.

  Virgil summarized recent events for his boss this time.

  "You should've been more cautious," Mammon said. "You walked into that ambush like a pair of amateurs."

  "We were chasing a spy, sir," Virgil said. "There wasn't time to be cautious. I still can't see. Will I heal?"

  "By dawn, you'll be fully restored. If the damage had been worse, you would've needed an infusion."

  "Of blood?"

  "No," Mammon said. "Fresh mud from the Plain of Fire."

  "Got it. Maybe we should have some on hand for emergencies. Do you agree with my theory that a conspiracy is behind all this?"

 

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