Slow steps carried me to Terry’s house. The place was still creepy, even in daylight. With the sun at just the right angle the trees, still full of leaves, bathed the entire front yard in shadow. It was eerie, even though I knew it was staged. I climbed the short steps and padded my way through the grass-entangled path to his porch. The decking groaned under my weight. The porch swing, again, dangled like a dead man from a gibbet, but it seemed more sinister in the play of light and shadow. The stone lion stood proudly, fiercer-looking somehow in the light of day. I knocked a few short raps on the door. Terry opened it a moment later, the butt of his 12-gauge resting on one narrow hip.
“Good to see you,” he said.
“I’m still trying to figure out if the feeling is mutual,” I said, looking at the weapon. “What’s with the elephant gun?”
“I’ve had a few unnerving events since your last visit,” he said.
Haven’t we all?
“Some punks, lurking in the bushes at night, trying to throw a scare into me,” he said.
“Could be more than that,” I said. “What’re you using for shot?”
“Rock salt, mostly,” he said, grinning slightly. “With a dash of cayenne pepper to taste.”
“Can I come in?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, lowering the shotgun and pivoting to one side. “Be my guest.”
He locked the door behind us. Then he led me into his parlor. He set the shotgun down but never moved more than four long steps away from it.
“Nervous?” I asked.
“Feels like a little more than the usual pranks this year,” he said. “Once or twice I swear I smelled sulfur.”
“Best to be prepared, then,” I said.
“Yep,” he said, reaching into the fridge for a beer.
He offered me one. I waved it away.
Somewhere I have to go. Someone I need to see.
I took a bottle of water and slurped several quick gulps. It went down smooth and refreshing. Some of the persistent fog cleared off my mind instantly.
Need to slow down with the booze. Been too dehydrated.
I had been, up until the last few days, drinking heavily. I hadn’t noticed it making me dull. I guess it had. I looked at the bottle.
Probably needs to be water for a while.
I downed the other half. It cooled my insides when it hit bottom.
“So, what do have for me?” I asked.
“You will not believe it,” he said.
Hah!
“Try me,” I said.
“Ok,” he said. “Since you were here last, this whole symbol thing has been nagging at me. I knew there was something I was forgetting. Something I had read somewhere. After the night prowlers, I decided to take another look. The library felt safer.”
“What did you find?”
“A lot of boring stuff,” he said. “Mostly manuscripts from the Inquisition.”
He told me. A lot of it was boring. Dates, confessions, various and sundry transcripts of auto de fe. Like he said, boring stuff.
“Then,” he said, “I came upon a very old book of transcripts dating to just before the start of the Spanish Inquisition. Well, copies, really. The real ones are stashed away in a climate-controlled box at the Vatican.”
“What did they say?”
“I’m getting to that,” he said, a little annoyed with my questions.
“There was an early offshoot of the Inquisition. They branched off
just after the slaughter of the Cathars.”
“The slaughter of the who?”
“Cathars, never mind,” he said. “Anyway, it seems this branch of the Inquisition was given free rein to travel the world and root out evil, by the Pope himself.”
“I’m getting sleepy here.”
“I could brew some espresso,” he said, completely missing my meaning.
“Just get on with it,” I said.
“Anyway,” he continued, “They answered only to the Pope. And apparently, and this is one of really strange parts, they never kept records of any kind.”
“None?”
“None that were ever found,” he said.
“Why is that strange?”
“The church was crazy about record-keeping,” he said. “So many fortunes changed hands or were seized during the Inquisition that the church had to have precise records, down to the last implement of torture on the last victim, just to keep track. And because even in the church no one trusts anyone else with that kind of money.”
“So, what happened to the order?” I asked.
“Torquemada,” he said.
“Huh?”
“The Spanish Inquisition had been up and running for two or three years when Tomas de Torquemada was named Grand Inquisitor,” he said. “By then, the Inquisition had become a hotbed of corruption. They stopped trying to ferret out heretics and spent most of their time killing, and then seizing the estates of, wealthy Spanish Jews.”
“Really?” I asked, wishing I could remember high school. Although, somehow, I knew this type of information never made it into textbooks.
“Yes,” Terry said. “And Torquemada was the worst of the bunch.”
“How do you figure?” I asked.
“How else does someone move up through the ranks so fast?”
He had a point. I hadn’t seen it all in the three years I could remember, but I had seen enough to recognize that particular truism: only the slick and ruthless advance quickly. Hard work is for people with integrity and hourly jobs.
“So, what did Torquemada do to the order?” I asked.
“When he realized the order was beyond his control,” he said, “He declared them heretics and had them hunted down and killed.”
“Damn.”
“Hold on,” he said, “It gets better.”
“Hit me.”
“I found an old woodblock of Torquemada,” he said. “Made when he was at the height of his influence.”
Terry shuffled some books on a shelf before finding the right one.
“Here,” he said, handing me the old tome, split open to the page. “See anything familiar?”
I looked. Whatever he was talking about, I missed it.
“Look at what’s hanging around his neck, where a chain of office should be,” he said.
I did.
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
“That’s what I said,” Terry added. “That is exactly what I said.”
The woodblock print was old, and not well maintained, but it was clearly visible. On the chain around the Grand Inquisitor’s neck hung a medallion that bore a striking resemblance to Drake’s copper disk.
“Un-fucking-canny, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
I was at a total loss for intelligible words. What the hell were the implications of this? Why was Drake carrying around a disk with the same inscriptions as Torquemada’s old jewelry?
“What kind of evil did the order fight, exactly?” I asked.
“They were tasked with hunting sorcerers,” Terry said. “Real live witches, not that fake shit that spread all over Europe, but the real deal.”
“Sorcerers?”
“Yep,” he said. “The text said the order was to hunt down and bring to redemption those who had gained power over the elements. Sorcerers who had cavorted with demons.”
“Demons?”
“Yeah,” he said, “Back then they believed every sort of supernatural occurrence was performed by either angels or demons. Not sure that it means a whole lot.”
“No, probably not,” I said, hoping more than I had ever hoped that the demon thing was just superstition. I wasn’t getting paid enough to fuck with demons. I don’t think I’m even comfortable with the idea of demons actually existing. I sure as hell didn’t want to be involved with any if they did exist.
“What else could you find out about the order?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Not even the name of the damn thing. With the exception of a few scattered and rare references, all trace of the order seems to have been erased from the pages of history.”
Ok, fuck.
I was not in any mood to be erased from history.
“I did find one thing,” he said, rifling through a stack of papers. “I have a partial illumination of the order’s seal. I know it’s here somewhere. Hah, there you are.”
He pulled a scrap of parchment from a notebook and handed it to me.
Stars within circles within stars within circles.
The color must’ve drained out of my face.
“You ok?” Terry asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I think...” I tried to say, cleared my throat and tried again, “I think about twenty minutes ago I did.”
“What?” he asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I said, “but I think I listened to one speak. Right after I found this.”
I took the small, leather book from my pocket.
“Just a leather journal,” he said.
Then I turned the cover, so the seal faced him.
“Holy shit,” he said, the words trailing off as he spoke.
“Yep,” I said.
It was the only thing I could think to say.
Terry paced around the room for a solid five minutes, not talking, just staring at the floor. I stared at the seal on the book.
“Have you opened it?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “Thought I’d get you to take a look at it. See what you knew.”
“Not much,” he said. “Not yet. What are you going to do with it?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “The ghost, at least I think it was a ghost, said something about unlocking its secrets and joining the fight.”
“Joining the fight?” he asked.
“Or finding someone I deemed worthy,” I said. “You want a crack at it?”
“Hell, no,” he said without even a moment’s hesitation.
“But I’d sure like to know what’s inside,” he added.
“Me too,” I said. “If for nothing other than sheer, monkey curiosity. But I don’t have time now.”
“Why not?”
“She said secrets. I haven’t looked, but it makes me think it’s in some type of code,” I said.
“Yeah, probably,” he said. “Hell, Da Vinci even wrote his personal journals in that weird, backward cipher. Why not a secret arm of the Inquisition that’s been in hiding for the last five hundred or so years?”
“Make you a deal,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got some dangerous shit to do,” I said. “Maybe you could hold onto this and keep it safe for me until I come back.”
“How dangerous?”
“Pretty.”
“And if you don’t come back for it?” he asked.
“All yours,” I said, “but I’d be careful. Its last owner wound up as a human charcoal briquette.”
“You telling me that…”
“Yeah,” I said, “That’s what I’m telling you. You’ll be safer if you don’t tell anyone else. But if I don’t come back, you might want to get better security, or move out of state.”
“What the hell are you into?”
“Something I’d rather not be in the middle of,” I answered.
“Then split, man,” he said. “Fuck this town and hit the road.”
“No can do this time,” I said. “I’m in it until it’s done. One way or another.”
That effectively killed the conversation. I got up from the obscenely comfortable chair I’d been slouched in and handed Terry the book. He took it, the expression on his face somewhere between reverence and fear.
“I’d hide that if I were you,” I said.
“I got a spot for it,” he said and left the room.
Not long later, he came back, pulling one of those gnarled cigars out of his breast pocket. He swiped a match from the chrome ashtray.
“You might want to let me step away before you do that,” I said.
“Why?”
“It would be best,” I said. “Unless you’re looking to burn off that devil’s beard of yours.”
He shot me a puzzled look and shrugged. But he waited for me to walk several steps away before striking the match. It still flared up, bright and yellow, in his hand. His eyes opened wide, but it didn’t stop him from igniting the tip of the cigar. Hell, the flare-up might have helped his cause a bit.
“What was that?” he asked.
“I’ve had a brush with the unexplained,” I said.
He gave me another puzzled look, so I told him. I figured I would eventually if I survived. I told him about the Cult of the Magi, about the blood and the disk and about the strange effect I’ve had on flames ever since. It took a while to tell. I left out the stuff about Hannah. Something in my brain said he was better off not knowing. If everything went well, it would be a great story to tell over a beer. If it didn’t, well, then it wouldn’t matter. He would find out, if we all went up in flames, in a couple of days. No reason to make him worry.
Up in flames.
Why did that phrase stick in my head?
I wondered if I could use the connection between fire and me to some kind of advantage. It had been annoying and a little hazardous up to this point, but what if it could be more?
Could I use it to get a leg up?
I pondered it for a long couple of minutes. Then, a tiny spark of an idea kindled in the tinder of my imagination.
It’s a long shot, but it just might work.
“What’s on your mind?” Terry asked.
“Too much,” I said. “Do you have a plastic ketchup bottle or something similar I can have?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he said, “It’s in the fridge.”
He made to walk past me, and the tip of his cigar jumped from a dull, orange glow, to a white-hot beacon at the end of his face.
“Shit!” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, moving out of his way. “Sorry about that.”
He shook his head and doused the remains of the cigar under the kitchen faucet. The ember took longer than it should have to go out.
“That’s something,” he said.
“Pain in the ass is what it is,” I said.
“I wonder how it affects gas mileage,” he mused.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t checked.”
He let out one, short, burst of laughter and proceeded to rummage through the refrigerator.
“Here you go,” he said, handing me the nearly empty bottle.
“Mind if I wash it out and take it with me?” I asked.
“Be my guest,” he said. “Although, I’ll be damned if I know what good it’ll be.”
“Not sure myself,” I said, unscrewing the cap and flushing the remaining ketchup down the drain.
Terry shook his head and watched in fascination. I dried out the bottle, screwed the cap back on, and handed it to him.
“Don’t suppose you could melt the end of this thing for me?” I asked. “The opening is too big. I need it a little smaller, by about half.”
“Sure thing,” he said, “but you go over there. I don’t want to blow up my house.”
I moved to the far side of the kitchen/ parlor combination. He took out a lighter and melted the opening. Even on its lowest setting, the lighter still had a two-inch flame. He finished and ran the cap under cold water to flash-cool the plastic. I walked back over and tested the airflow through the cap. It whistled ever so slightly.
“Perfect,” I said.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Still figuring that out,” I said, “but I’m almost there. If it works out, I’ll tell you all about it over a beer.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“You’ll be able to read about it in Knoxville Uncovered,” I said, “but don’t believe too much of what that harpy prints about me.”
“She doesn’t like you much, does she?”
“I hate her,” I said, “but I don’t think she cares much, one way or the other, about me. And that’s why I hate her. She doesn’t care what happens to anyone, just so long as she gets her front-page story.”
“Hadn’t thought about it like that,” he said.
“You haven’t met her yet,” I said.
We talked about other, less important things for a minute. It felt good. It felt normal. Terry told me about the usual pranks that get pulled at the beginning of the school year, and about his plans for the haunted house. He went into great detail about that. I had to stop him from dragging out sketches and designs to illustrate what he had in mind. It was the first no-pressure conversation I’d had in nearly a month and a half, since before the Simmons case. I took all I could get. After about twenty minutes, I figured it was time to stop postponing what I needed to do. I wanted to get moving. There were things to do before nightfall. The vague plan that had formed in my head would be better done in daylight. Well, maybe not better, but safer to any bystanders.
“Can I use your phone?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said and motioned to the antique call box on the wall. It had a separate ear and mouthpiece.
“Like the look, huh?” I asked as I picked up the earpiece.
“Yep,” he said, “but it’s not antique. I got it out of a catalog. It’s push-button and everything.”
I giggled. I couldn’t help it. With all the tension of the last couple of days, it felt good to laugh, as long as the laugh didn’t rise much above a giggle. I wanted as many good spirits as I could get, but I could just as soon do without the ache in my ribs flaring up to full-blown searing pain.
I dialed the number, knew it by heart. A tiny, familiar voice answered. For a long second, I couldn’t speak.
“Hello?” the small voice said.
“Uh, Delilah?” I asked, knowing it was her. “It’s Caleb.”
“Caleb!” she squealed. “When are you coming to see me?”
“I thought,” I said, and cleared my throat, “Is now ok?”
She squealed again. I could hear her yelling past the receiver, “Mom, Caleb’s coming to visit.”
I didn’t hear what her mother said. Delilah sounded so excited. I’d never heard her like that before. I told her I’d be there in a few minutes. She squealed again, none of her enthusiasm leaving her voice. I said goodbye and hung up the phone. Then I dialed Justin’s number. He picked up on the first ring and sounded less enthused.
“Detective Hagen, Special Crimes Division,” he said.
“I thought you were supposed to be taking a nap,” I said.
“No chance,” he said, then lower, “I’ve been dodging the captain. He’s become unreasonable about the whole affair.”
“No doubt,” I said. “Tell him you’ll have it closed by tonight. That ought to get him off your back.”
“Will I?”
“Either that,” I said, “Or, like me, you’ll be dead and not concerned with such mundane things.”
“Good point,” he said, “but let’s avoid the death thing. I’ve got plans.”
“Me, too,” I said. “How’s the supply thing coming?”
“Just fine,” he said. “You need anything?”
“Yeah,” I said, and rattled off a list.
“What do you want that shit for?” he asked.
“I’ll explain when you come to pick me up,” I said. “I think it’s time to try out Diana’s toy.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” he said.
“Going to take a bit longer than that,” I said. “Got something to do first.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Going to visit Delilah.”
“Oh,” he said. “Bout time.”
“Yeah, so I’ll call you when I’m done,” I said. “You can pick me up there?”
“Of course,” he said. “Where are you now? This isn’t your office number.”
“Over at Terry’s house.”
“Terry?”
“The Horror.”
“Oh,” he said. “The guy from the other night. The one Hannah was running around with.”
“How does everybody else find this shit out?” I asked, to the air. “Thought I was the detective around here.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Ok, do your thing. Call me and I’ll come get you,” he said and hung up.
I place the earpiece back on the hook. Terry stared at me, an odd expression on his face. I shrugged and cocked my head to one side.
“Going?” Terry asked.
I nodded.
“Take care of yourself,” Terry said, showing me the door, shotgun in hand.
“No problem,” I said. “Keep that item safe until I get back.”
“Sure thing,” he said.
He put the shotgun down. I thought he was going to shake my hand. He hugged me instead. Aside from the ache in my ribs, it was a comforting gesture, like seeing old friends for the first time in ages. He released the embrace.
“You keep a handle on that cannon,” I said. “Hannah will be pissed if you shoot your foot off.”
“Hannah’s a good woman,” he said, “but she isn’t interested in me.”
“No?”
“Nope,” he said. “In fact, I think she’s kind of sweet on you.”
My stomach tried to drop. I took a deep breath, cocked my head to one side, and shrugged again. I turned and padded back down the path and out of his yard. I hoped it would not be for the last time.