The next two hours were an exercise in chaos, as the Memphis PD tried to deal with the situation, interview dozens of witnesses, arrange medical attention and ambulances for the wounded, while keeping one of the city’s most popular tourist destinations shut and dealing with the complaints of dozens of inconvenienced citizens, bar owners and people who seemed to be trying to organise a spontaneous protest, based on the wild rumours which were no doubt circulating that the killing had been racially motivated.
Nightingale hadn’t seen Bonnie Parker since the shooting, and assumed she’d been taken away from the scene in a police car as quickly as possible, to start the process of inquiry at Police headquarters. Nightingale gave a witness statement to a uniformed police sergeant, telling him everything he’d seen from the arrival of the young girl on the sidewalk opposite, up to the point where Parker had shouted her warning, fired twice, then run across to try to help the victim. He hoped that other witnesses had seen the same and would back up the story, otherwise Parker was likely to be hung out to dry. Shooting dead a ten-year-old black child on the street, in a city with an over sixty percent African-American population was not going to play well on the news, unless the full story was given quickly.
A lot of people were going to be looking for some kind of explanation, and Nightingale doubted they’d be getting one that made any sense. Random spree shooters tended to be white, male and middle-aged, except for the school and college students who suddenly snapped, who were generally white, male and younger. Black female children spraying bullets just didn’t happen. Until today.
Having given his statement and contact details, Nightingale was permitted through the police cordon and started the short walk back to the Peabody. His mobile phone rang before he’d got two hundred yards. It was Wainwright. ‘Jack. Julia Smith just got black-lined here. I’m hearing there’s a kid shot dead on Beale Street.’
‘I know, I was there. She showed up and started firing, maybe at me, maybe randomly, and a cop took her down. She shouted warnings, but the kid just kept shooting. Like she wanted someone to kill her. The name on her school bag was Julia Smith.’
‘What the hell is going on? You’ve noticed these things are getting more and more public?’
‘I had. It started off with domestic incidents, but the last three will have made the national news. Almost as if whoever is doing this is upping the ante with each one.’
‘That makes sense. Nothing these people, or whatever they’re using here, like more than a little fear, panic and chaos.’
‘Lord of Misrule,’ muttered Nightingale.
‘There is that. Something else that’s pretty obvious too.’
‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘They’re pulling me into it. I found the Wendover girl’s body. Kim Jarvis’s suicide was all for my benefit, and today this kid knew exactly where to find me. I assume she’d never fired a gun before, otherwise I might not be here now.’
‘Maybe,’ said Wainwright. ‘Unless they want you around for the big finish, want you watching it all and knowing you can’t stop it.’
‘Sounds like the kind of torture that somebody with a huge grudge might enjoy,’ said Nightingale.
‘And remember, the grudge works on both of us.’
‘Have you been able to find out anything about what’s left of The Apostles?’
‘Not a thing,’ said Wainwright. ‘They’re all deep undercover. The singers aren’t singing, the sportsmen all retired, the bankers quit, they’re holed up in mansions behind bigger security than Trump. Not a word on Abaddon, or Margaret Romanos. No morgue or funeral home knows anything, and no medical facility received her, alive or dead.’
‘But she’d fit the bill.’
‘Not by herself, this kind of control would be out of her league.’
‘What are you telling me, she might have set some kind of demon on these kids?’
‘That could be, but I’ve never heard of one working this way.’
‘So what do I do next?’ asked Nightingale.
‘What about the people you said you could ask for help?’
Nightingale didn’t care to mention Proserpine, since that was something he had never fully shared with Wainwright. Also she had a serious dislike for her name being ‘taken in vain’ as she’d once put it. Wainwright didn’t know much about Mrs. Steadman either.
‘They came up with nothing,’ said Nightingale.
‘Then you need to find the next ones on the list and stop them killing themselves.’
‘Will that break the spell, if they miss a victim?’
‘Who knows, they’re probably making up their own rules,’ said Wainwright. ‘You find them, I can put security on them. I’ve already got my niece under guard, without telling her parents.’
‘I thought you weren’t going to do that?’
‘I didn’t think I’d have to. The game is changing, Jack, we’re running out of options.’
‘To be honest. I’m not sure what good security’s going to do, there are any amount of ways a kid could kill itself at home, in school, in the street, long before anyone could stop it.’
‘Thanks for that, Jack, makes me feel a lot better,’ said Wainwright, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘But it’s all I’ve got at the moment. I’m gonna try a few things with some books, maybe see if I can find out if there’s something evil hanging over my niece. Maybe get rid of it.’
‘That’s possible?’
‘Who knows. Better than nothing. I’ll be in touch.’
Nightingale put his phone away. He walked into the Peabody and asked for his key. The receptionist handed it over, together with an envelope containing a phone message. Nightingale tore it open. Neither the number, nor the name rang any bells, but the word Urgent got his attention, so he took out his mobile phone and called Professor Wilhelm Schiller.
The voice that answered sounded rather too young and female to be the Professor, but he was put through after listening to a little classical music for a minute or so. The Professor’s voice was old and cracked with a fairly strong accent, which Nightingale supposed was German, in keeping with his guess about the name. ‘Ach, Mr. Nightingale. It seems it is most urgent that I speak to you. Can you come to my home this evening? Shall we say after dinner, at eight?’
‘Could you tell me what it’s about, Professor?’
‘It is not a subject for discussion on the telephone. Shall we say that a certain lady contacted me, and suggested you were in very great need of assistance, and that I might be best placed to provide it, in the matter of the children’
‘True enough, if she recommended you, then I’ll certainly be there. Let me have the address.’
The Professor dictated it, and gave him directions. His home was a short drive away. ‘Very well, Mr. Nightingale. I will see you at eight, I hope. And please be very careful, you may be in danger.’
‘When am I not?’ thought Nightingale to himself as the Professor ended the call. As he headed up the endless stairs to his room for yet another change of clothes, to replace the ones he’d torn and dirtied rolling around Beale Street, he offered up his thanks to Mrs. Steadman. Then realised that there was more than one ‘lady’ in the case, to whom the old man could have been referring. He hoped it was indeed Mrs. Steadman that the Professor was referring to.