Chapter 21

The Ritual

July 5-6: Powick

My watch said eleven fifty-one. I had nine minutes to somehow infiltrate the ritual and get close enough to Jutting to slip the paper out of his pocket, assuming it was still there. If he was wearing a robe he must have been already dressed and on his way to the chapel so there was a good chance he would still have it. I hurried down the corridor, trying to move silently.

At that moment, I wanted more than anything else to just find the nearest exit and make my escape into the cool night air. But I knew I couldn’t go without at least trying to retrieve the last bit of evidence. I didn’t want to leave anything behind that Jutting could use to get out of paying the reward to Wolhardt.

I crept back downstairs without meeting any guards on the stairs and was in a vestibule, peeking around the doorway into the candle-lit hallway that led back to the chapel, when I heard heavy, clomping steps coming down the stairs behind me. I moved back into a shadowy corner, pulling up my hood and pressing myself against the wall. A moment later a figure emerged into the vestibule, evidently in a hurry. He paused for a moment, patting the pockets of his black robe as if checking to make sure he had not forgotten something. As he did so, he turned half around and I saw his face in profile. I remembered that face with its white goatee and florid cheeks. It was Archibald Matthews. Maggie had introduced me to him in Seattle at the symphony performance and Jutting, I realized now, had said Matthews’ name on his call with haggis face. Maggie had mentioned that he was very wealthy and he had told me himself that he was interested in the Enigma Variations. He must have been rich enough and obsessed enough to join Jutting’s black magic club. I imagined all the invitations would have gone to men like Matthews—super wealthy illuminatus wannabes.

Regardless of why he was there, he was just the break I needed at that moment. Matthews turned toward me, his vaguely annoyed expression turning to shocked surprise as I stepped out of the shadows and pressed the stun gun to his chest. His body stiffened, the expression frozen on his face, and I caught him as he fell.

The vestibule had three exits—one into the corridor, one to the stairs Matthews had just come down, and one leading back into the offices behind the lobby. “Sorry Archie,” I said as I hefted his floppy bulk and pulled him through the last of these. His heels, encased is stiff leather dress shoes, dragging along the wooden floor, sounded weirdly like one of those toy trains on a string made to delight toddlers and drive parents to distraction. The idea of a toddler pulling a train arrested my mind for a moment and I had to shake it off. Something definitely wasn’t right in my head. I sat Matthews down in an empty cubicle, and whipped the robe off of him. It was loose and came off easily. A nearby supply closet yielded a roll of packing tape. I covered his mouth with a piece, wrapping it all the way around the back of his head, then quickly bound his hands and feet. He wasn’t unconscious but he was dazed. I thought it was very unlikely that he would have recognized me, out of context and from just a brief glimpse of my face in the shadows. Stepping back, I pulled the robe on quickly. Matthews was about the same height as me and the robe was not made to fit closely so it seemed fine. I pushed Saint Martin’s laptop bag around so that it hung across my back under the robe. It was a little bulky but not too conspicuous I hoped. My phone said eleven fifty-eight. I took a calming breath, pulled the hood up, and headed back out, through the vestibule and down the hallway toward the chapel.

A guard stood at attention outside the door. It was the woman who had accompanied Jutting when he visited me in the electrical room. I kept my head down, face shadowed by the cowl, and took short, hurrying steps like an older, less active man.

“They’re about to start,” she said, opening the door for me. I bustled through, not looking up until I was well into the nave where I paused for a moment, eyes adjusting to the looming darkness of the chapel. All the windows were draped with black tapestries. The only light came from the raised dais in the apse where giant candles glowing red on round stone plinths were arranged in a wide circle. From across the nave, the circle of candle flames had a hazy, dreamlike appearance. I could see shadowy figures in black robes moving slowly in what seemed to be a procession. Some were already stationed just inside the circle of candles. Others were taking up their places. I hurried forward, stepped up onto the dais, and crossed over the boundary of flame to join the round, finding an empty space with my back to the chapel. I had no idea what I was doing. I would have to attempt to follow along with whatever happened. My vision doubled for a moment and I could feel a vein throbbing in my forehead. I needed to sleep. Maybe I needed a doctor too. Letting my eyelids droop closed for a moment, I tried to pull myself together then opened my eyes again and examined my surroundings.

In the center of the circle was an altar like the one I had seen in Jutting’s basement—ancient looking stone, hand hewn blocks pitted with age, stacked into a low dolmen shape like some megalithic tomb transported from a mist shrouded moor. A primitive lamp—just a shallow stone bowl full of oil with a wick—burned with a guttering flame on the altar. A book, bound in leather with brass hasps, a gold chalice, a curved knife, and a wand of dark wood capped at both ends by silver ferrules were carefully arranged around the lamp. Behind the altar stood Jutting, the only figure with his hood down, bristly gray hair and oblique planes of cheekbone, forehead, nose like rough carved stone limned by the firelight. Harsh shadows gathered in the creases of his mouth and in the corners of his eyes. His head was slightly bowed and he wore a beatific expression that contrasted with and fought against the cruelty of his face, as if an internal struggle was animating him against his will, playing out across his features. We all stood silently, frozen in that tableau for nearly a minute. Finally, Jutting raised his eyes, focused, exerting control. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead.

"We call upon the horned god whose name is oak king, two face, hanged man, the frozen winter field, the ripe vine,” Jutting intoned. “Leader of the hunt. Lord of death and resurrection. Keeper of the summerland. Lord of the underworld. Cernunnos. Ammon-Zeus. We request a sacred space. We request a circle of protection. Let it enclose our company as a corral encloses cattle. Let it ensure our safety. Let a wall of power surround us. Let the hoard of your servants stand without. Let the forces of chaos be barred from our circle. We ask in your name, Baphomet.”

“Baphomet,” a whispered chorus issued from the assembly.

“Baphomet,” Jutting repeated.

“Baphomet,” they whispered again.

“Baphomet,” Jutting said again, raising his hands up in the air as if lifting a heavy ball of energy. He held the pose for a moment, then lowered his hands, reaching out and opening the book to a page marked by a red silk ribbon.

“Tonight, we gather to work magic,” Jutting continued. “An ancient magic. Passed down from Thoth to Hermes Trismegistus to Solomon to Pythagoras to Albertus Magnus to Benvenuto Cellini. This book, the grimoire of none other than Cellini himself, holds the ancient knowledge. It shows us the way to power. It allows us to open the gateway and command the forces of chaos. None shall stand against our army.” An answering murmur came from the figures around me but Jutting held up his hand. “Silence. I have given all of you the proof of this book’s authenticity. You know that Benvenuto Cellini called up an army of demons. Tonight, we will duplicate his great achievement. The enigma has been decoded. It points to this book. Chapter thirteen which is titled Negromanzia.” Jutting’s voice echoed through the chapel with an edge almost of hysteria. “Twelfth page. The invocation itself is written in no language known to man. Copied down by the hand of Cellini himself as he learned it from the cursed Sicilian priest. I have communicated with each of you individually. I have told you what is necessary according to the diagrams in the grimoire. Is there any man here who dissents? If so, you may leave the circle now.” Jutting paused, scanning the figures who surrounded him.

Feet shifted nervously. I heard a stifled cough. Jutting waited another thirty seconds. His face was damp with sweat now, shining in the candlelight. A minute went by. No one spoke. Jutting lowered his eyes to the altar, smiling. I looked down too and for the first time noticed that thin red lines had been painted on the boards beneath my feet. They led to the altar, intersecting and continuing—a star inscribed on the floor, points touching the edge of the circle. It took a moment for my malfunctioning brain to remember the word pentacle.

“We call upon the triple goddess,” Jutting spoke softly, looking up. “Consort of the horned god. Whose name is the plowed field, the three phases of the moon, huntress, mother, witch. We call her in her form as maiden. To consummate the sacred union which births creation. The union of male and female power which opens the gate. Which calls forth and binds the underworld to our will. We call your name. Hecate.”

“Hecate,” the whispered answer came from the men surrounding me.

Jutting intoned the name again and again and the robed figures answered him. It seemed to drone on and on. I was unsteady on my feet, feeling hazy. My vision blurred, doubled, sharpened back to hallucinogenic clarity. A smell like freshly turned earth filled the chapel. Gradually I become aware that a figure in white had emerged from the shadows of the transept. Two black robed companions led her toward the circle, carrying censers from which thick, perfumed smoke snaked in sinuous billows. Her face came into focus, emerging from darkness into the red glow of the candles. It was Victoria Butler. She was dressed in a Greek chiton, tied at the waist with gold cord. Her face was blank, emotionless, but she did not seem to be drugged or entranced. She walked forward under her own power. Once inside the circle, she continued forward on her own. As she reached the altar, Jutting stepped back. Victoria faced him, back to the altar for a moment, then lay back. I saw her shiver as her skin touched the cold stone. Jutting stepped forward. Was he really going to…? It was inconceivable. At first I didn’t believe what I was seeing but Ashna’s joke about naked orgiastic sex rites had not been far off the mark. I stood there, stunned. She was his niece. I considered darting forward, picking the paper from Jutting’s pocket while he was otherwise occupied, and fleeing in the resulting confusion. It was too risky though. I needed a better opportunity.

Without missing a beat, Jutting began to read from the book. His voice was guttural, spitting out each word. The sound was barbarous—a forgotten or made up language of hard consonants and long vowels. My vision filled with holes, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. Colors shifted and separated. A rational corner of my brain wondered if I had been dosed with some kind of psychedelic. Was it possible? I hadn’t consumed anything. I had hurried into the ritual at the last moment. It had to be the concussion. I swayed, unsteady. The air felt hot and close. I needed to stay alert. The droning of Jutting’s voice continued, reaching a crescendo. I focused my eyes on the altar. I saw his hand reach out, feeling across the stone surface until his fingers found and closed around the handle of the knife. Quickly, he raised it in the air. I followed the path of the knife up, watching the blade glint in the light of the lamp, reflecting a multitude of candle flames. Jutting’s face blurred and I thought I saw, superimposed over his features, some other face even cruder and more cruel than Jutting’s, full of cold hauteur and writhing with blood lust. Above that face, spectral horns curling up, shimmering in the darkness. All at once, I understood what was about to happen. I saw Victoria’s eyes go wide with shock. I fumbled for the stun gun in my pocket and ran forward as the knife flashed toward her throat, describing a golden arc. I was too late. I couldn’t get there in time. Someone else lumbered ahead of me though, already rushing the altar, a bulky shape in black. A second blade flashed silver in the dark—a sword that pierced Jutting at the breast bone, running him through, throwing him back. The knife flew from his grasp and he screamed, an unholy, primeval howl ripping through the darkness. I saw him fall and, standing over him, Lester Dworkin like an avenging angel, bloody sword in hand. Someone ran forward and Dworkin turned, swinging the sword wildly. I dodged, knelt at Jutting’s side and thrust my hand into his left pocket, then his right. The paper was there. He looked up at me in confusion, life draining from his eyes. There was a thunder of feet around me and voices yelling. Jutting tried to speak but his mouth filled with blood which bubbled over, running down his face in a red sheet.

“Sorry, Jutting,” I said, reaching under my robe and shoving the paper into my own pocket. “I have to go.”