Devil's Eye

by Al Ruksenas

“You were in the Army, weren’t you?” Caine said under his breath.

  “I spent my time in intelligence.”

  “You had basic training, didn’t you?”

  “Well. Yes. Twice, actually.”

  Hurried footsteps echoed on the floor above. Someone leaned over the marble railing and peered below. Caine and Carruthers were huddled over the body behind the desk directly across from the man. Colonel Caine raised his eyes upward. He recognized him immediately—the ill‐tempered overseer he met at Sherwyck’s estate.

  The man scanned the hall below, then hurried out of sight.

  Carruthers grabbed the guard’s pistol. A bullet was already chambered, ready to fire. He nodded knowingly. “They mean business,” he whispered. “Whoever they are. We have to find Laura.”

  The curator pointed to the second floor where the man had just been. “She was interested in that gem area. Around the Hope Diamond.”

  Caine cursed himself for not investigating sooner the suspicions Laura had from the start.

  Chapter 49

  Victor Sherwyck, in fact, had been at the Smithsonian the night Colonel Caine wanted to meet him at the reception in the Old Castle. Except, he was across the Mall in the Museum of Natural History officiating at a demonic ritual.

  On recurring occasions after the museum closed and the night crews took over the grounds, Victor Sherwyck and his fanatical followers would arrive unobtrusively through the service entrance. They would climb in solemn fashion individually, or by twos and threes up the marble stairs to a maintenance level below the gem exhibit.

  There, at the end of a hall cordoned by a red velvet rope with a sign “Restricted Area Employees Only,” they would file through a door with no handle—opened with two key cards held by Sherwyck and one of his attendants—into an empty area featuring a thick glass shaft—the secure repository for the Hope Diamond which would descend from the floor above if someone tampered with the display.

  Farther beyond the column was a door into another maintenance and storage area where myriads of items not currently on display were neatly stored in large pull out drawers, on movable metal tables, in theatrical trunks and clothes racks. The trunks and racks held various costumes and donations of historical clothes that would, in time, be circulated into the exhibits. One rack, off to the side and mingled with period fashions, had a sign draped over it stating: “Not for Display.”

  The rack held black velvet robes for Sherwyck and his supplicants. High born and low who had fallen into his sway, would gather together and drape themselves in the robes. All would be equal, no fashion outstanding, no threadworn shirt too poor.

  But active participation in the most infernal elements of the rite was reserved for influential members and those growing in influence through committed membership. Over time all could see the results of their evil devotion assisted by the aura of the Devil’s Eye. The supplicants gathered in the large chamber where black candles were aligned in a circle around the glass shaft.

  They were led in chant by Victor Sherwyck: “Elohim, Elohim, Eloah Va‐Daath. Elohim, El Adonai, el Trabaoth, Shaddai. Tetragrammaton, Iod. El Elohim, Shaddai. Elohim, Elohim…”

  At a given moment a large vault, triggered by member security guards upstairs, would descend from the floor above and come to rest in the middle of the circle of candles. Inside, rested the Hope Diamond, gleaming on its pedestal; its blue radiance thrilling hundreds of visitors on the floor above just hours previously. Now, with an ultra violet light positioned from a tripod over the supplicants’ shoulders, it would begin to glow a phosphorescent red.

  “Behold the Devil’s Eye!” Victor Sherwyck would begin. “Behold its power! Now and into all Time!”

  Supplicants would resume their chant as two members wheeled in a metal autopsy table from the storage room. On it was a dark red cloth covering the slotted surface. A struggling young woman, and rare occasions a man, would be handcuffed naked to the corner supports of the table.

  Their screams, reaching only ears in the know, were a hopeful sign that Baal would respond.

  Participation in ritual murder was reserved for those members demonstrating unwavering belief in the diabolical and submissiveness to their Master. Once involved they stepped outside the pale of normal society and their infernal bond was stronger. Discipline, silence and devotion were welded by latent fear of the Sorcerer.

  Supplicants had witnessed Victor Sherwyck’s prophesies and promises. They achieved fortune, power and prestige. They saw that his rituals evoked results—incidents bringing humiliation and ruin, destruction and death.

  He seemed to be everywhere, staring through the eyes of birds, cats, horses, dogs, and other creatures known and unknown— triggering events in their presence. Soon they would witness the imminent takeover of a world power—the last obstacle in their quest for total domination: the last god‐fearing democracy strong enough to ward off their age long quest.

  It would happen swiftly, and without conflict, hardly noticed by a population mourning a departed President, Vice President and two vital government officials. Their man‐in‐waiting, Phillip Taylor, would suddenly inherit the ultra secret codes of the nuclear arsenal of the United States and hand over power to threatening members of a resurgent totalitarian state acting on behalf of the Prince of the Netherworld.

  Taylor had already participated in the sacrifice. He was steeled for what was to come. His moment in the world was at hand. Several others would hold the sacrificial dagger for the first time.

  Their evil actions would be protected by the bodyguard of faithful goons who patrolled the outside of the museum intimidating any passersby.

  This night they had gathered as before. It would be a culminating ritual.

  ***

  Colonel Caine and Alvin Carruthers crouched in the desk well over the body of the guard Caine had shot minutes earlier.

  A two tone gong echoed through the sound system as if ending a concert intermission.

  Several workers started filing up the stairs opposite them, as several more came from separate exhibit halls radiating from the main rotunda. Among the custodial crew ascending the stairs were three uniformed guards who would normally provide building security at night.

  “There must be others,” Caine whispered in Carruthers’ ear.

  “They’re scattered throughout the building,” Carruthers whispered in return.

  The workers gathered solemnly at the hallway door, ready to listen to the ritual proceedings. They were not yet fully initiated to observe the deadly rites, but were fanatic enough to act as devoted sentinels at the door, called to protect the practitioners who had already filed inside.

  “We could take ‘em,” Caine began to whisper.

  “They might hurt Laura,” Carruthers interrupted. “I’m the curator, remember?”

  Caine glanced at him expectantly.

  “I know places through here that don’t need a key.”

  Chapter 50

  “Behold the Devil’s Eye!” Victor Sherwyck intoned with outstretched hands and resplendent in his black velvet robe. “Behold its power! Now and into all Time!”

  The blue diamond started glowing red in the beam of the ultra violet lamp above them. Gathered in the darkened chamber, lit only by a circle of black candles, were a group of velvet robed believers who stood outside the circle of candles in shuddering anticipation.

  Facing Victor Sherwyck was Senator Everett Dunne, whose round, cherubic face and wire‐rimmed glasses looked incongruous in his velvet black robe. Next to him stood Philip Taylor, tall and gaunt and in the ceremonial robe, easily mistaken for Sherwyck, himself. Next to him were two veterans of the museum staff, both of whom Laura Mitchell had encountered days earlier in the elevator. Behind them hovered Stanley Brooks, the union steward. On Senator Dunne’s right stood Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton, the philanthropists supporting museum innovations. They were dressed for a formal dinner under their oversized robes and would make excuses later that they were “unex
pectedly delayed.”

  The fanatical believers began their incantation to summon their Master from the Underworld. “Elohim, Elohim, Eloah Va‐Daath. Elohim, El Adonai, el Trabaoth, Shaddai. Tetragrammaton, Iod. El Elohim, Shaddai. Elohim, Elohim…”

  The door to the storage area opened and two robed supplicants pushed an autopsy cart into the room. It was bedecked with a red velvet swathe covering the perforations for collecting blood. On the table, squirming in desperation was a voluptuous blonde woman, handcuffed naked on her back to the four posts of the cart. She was screaming loudly, cursing, pleading, and jerking at her shackles until her skin was raw and bloody.

  Along each side of her body lay two obsidian daggers with handles bound in hide. Their cold edges touched her as she writhed, evoking greater terror of the inevitable.

  The robed attendants wheeled the cart slowly to the middle of the chamber, ignoring the woman’s screams and gazing with prurient pleasure at her undulating body.

  Sherwyck stared at the black robed figures around him and commanded them to chant louder, enveloping the screams into their cadence. “Elohim, Elohim. Eloah Va‐Daath. Elohim, El Adonai...” As they repeated the words in a tedious tempo, a trancelike euphoria began to overtake them.

  Sherwyck looked to the Diamond illuminated red in the vault and incanted over the screams of the victim and the droning chant:

  “Rise, invincible Eye and grant favor upon us! Grant that this body be worthy of Baal! Hear our plea!” he intoned. “Hear our command!” he added with resolve.

  “Favor your vanguard as ever in time! We spill the sweet blood of your power before you! Red will it be as the red of your Eye! Take this body as bond of our pledge!”

  “Rise, invincible Eye and grant favor upon us! Look down with consent for we herald your reign!”

  The base on which the Diamond rested slowly began to rise in its thick glass shaft. The guards had reset the safety mechanism and the legendary jewel was returning to its showcase vault on the exhibit floor above. As it rose past the ultra violet lamp, it turned iridescent blue again and slowly continued to its place of prominence in the Gem Hall.

  The two robed attendants then pushed the gurney with the writhing, screaming sacrificial offering next to the shaft in the center of the circle of candles.

  Victor Sherwyck loomed over her, his hands outstretched over her body, glistening with sweat.

  “Do not fear!” he intoned.

  The woman fleetingly, desperately believed and fell silent. Her body heaved with her short and rapid breath.

  “Do not fear! All will be over! All will soon be over!”

  She stared at him and hung on every word.

  “There will be no pain! There is no need to fear!” the Sorcerer assured.

  “Mark the symbol of Grimorium Verum on this flesh—so our Prince will know through whom we speak.”

  At this point Mr. Knowlton approached the gurney and with his forefingers took a swab of blue grease paint held by one of the attendants and smeared a line on the woman between her clavicle bones.

  She cringed in fear and yelled: “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” She let out a primeval scream and tried to turn over, tugging at her handcuffs, and squirming futilely.

  Knowlton backed off slightly to get more grease paint. He then smeared a line from her left clavicle bone across her breast through the middle of her belly to her right hip as she squirmed and yelled.

  The smear was crooked—evidence of her vigorous protests.

  Next Mrs. Knowlton came up to the victim and dabbed grease paint on her forefinger from the container held by the silent attendant.

  She looked menacingly at the woman and quickly smeared a line from her other clavicle bone, across her breast and through the middle of her belly to her left hip.

  All the while the woman squirmed and screamed, but her movements were weary and her voice was getting hoarse and barely audible.

  An X with a looped top was now displayed on her torso.

  “You will rest soon in comfort, oblivious to everything,” soothed Victor Sherwyck in mock consolation. “You will be our vessel into the Netherworld, where you will be welcomed with open arms! Are you not pleased that we have chosen a most valued treasure to bring about our most cherished wish?”

  “You fucking mad man!” the woman spat while she writhed, hoping desperately to break her metal bindings. “I’ll kill you! I swear! I’ll kill you all!”

  Sherwyck smirked. “Be pleased that we will partake of your blood to see the vision of our Master. Be honored that it is you we have chosen! You are the medium through which the Final Order comes to this world!”

  He looked around at his supplicants who nodded eagerly as he spoke and awaited the warm elixir of power.

  “You will be peaceful and serene when we partake of your passionate heart! Imagine yourself peaceful and serene as you suddenly enter our Master’s domain.”

  The woman tried vainly to raise herself from the pallet, squirmed back and forth and fell back in a faint.

  “Hurry! Before the moment is past!” Sherwyck commanded.

  Senator Dunne stepped up to the gurney and took the container from the attendant. He gazed longingly at the naked body on the red velvet cloth, then dabbed two fingers deeply into the greasepaint.

  The Senator smeared a line from one shoulder down her side, across her body just above the pubic area—sighing at how luscious she looked—and swirled it back up several inches along the outside of her opposite thigh.

  He did the same—longingly—along the other side of her body and across to the other thigh.

  Victor Sherwyck came up to Senator Dunne, who cringed slightly when he did, and took the container from him.

  “Our time has come! May this night bear us fruit, so tomorrow we rule!”

  Sherwyck dabbed his forefinger into the greasepaint with a flourish and smeared a V from between her legs several inches up her belly then crossed the tops like a T.

  At this point she began stirring into consciousness.

  “Behold the Grimorium Verum! Behold the vessel that will carry our plea!”

  Victor Sherwyck nodded to Senator Dunne, who approached the gurney.

  He then nodded to Mr. Knowlton, who stepped up next to him.

  Sherwyck nodded again and Philip Taylor came to the other side of the autopsy cart with the woman looking back and forth in terror at the faces leering down at her.

  He nodded one more time and Mrs. Knowlton approached the cart next to Taylor, looking with sneering envy at the beautiful body before her and eager to destroy it.

  A small circle of other cultists loomed in the background, droning their infernal chant.

  Victor Sherwyck gazed up along the shaft to the floor above. He stretched out his hands in a dark embrace formed by the long flowing sleeves of his black velvet robe.

  “The aura of the Devil’s Eye! Enfolding all around! Its ageless power moves the earth, to grant our deserved plea!”

  “Raise your daggers!” he commanded.

  The two attendants stepped back towards those gathered in the background. The closely bunched group blended with the darkness like a sinister, swaying velvet wall.

  Those around the gurney grabbed at the handles of the sacrificial knives lined along the struggling woman’s body. They raised them slowly over their heads.

  The woman let out a piercing, elongated scream.

  “Let nature act to hide our hand! In causing what’s to be!” Sherwyck shouted above the shriek. “Strike at our foe, high placed and: ‘Lo! Bring on our victory!”

  At that instant, Philip Taylor, tingling with expectation of world renown, and excitedly poised to strike at the breast of the woman, fell in a heap to the floor, hitting his face on the edge of the gurney and tumbling onto his back. The blade was still clutched in his limp outstretched hand.

  A stream of blood was spurting between his death glazed open eyes.

  All froze in shocked silence and peered in the dark
ness toward the light of the door that had opened from the storage area.

  There stood Colonel Christopher Caine, slowly unscrewing the silencer from his Beretta.

  “Sure enough,” he said icily. “The center of the Star.”

  He looked to his right and left and strode toward the group.

  “Unlock those shackles!” he snarled in a slow, commanding voice.

  Senator Dunne, closest to him, immediately raised his hands in surrender, then clumsily placed his dagger behind him onto the gurney. It touched the woman’s knee. She vigorously shook it aside.

  Knowlton, still entranced, recognized Caine immediately as the quarrelsome Colonel at the reception and shouted: “How dare you?”