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While the rest of the department and their guests were sucking down the dregs of stewed coffee and chewing on the last of the bagels in the boardroom, Temeke was debating on reading that sodding awful book. It was so cold in the office and every time the rotten door opened a blast of air gave him the shivers.
New Mexico. Sand and wind, where nothing grows. He’d begun to hate it almost as much as he loved it.
His finger absentmindedly caressed the grip of the desk drawer. The book was in there, had to be read, had to be examined, and his mind was shouting obscenities if he didn’t hurry up and get on with it.
It’s like a novel, for crying out loud. A thriller. You like those.
Temeke slipped the book out of the evidence bag and opened it, frantic to sidestep the yawning pit of nightmares that threatened to suck him in if he let it. There was an elusive scent, not sweet, rather salty like brine on the ocean bed and the pages had turned a nicotine yellow. Beneath the title on the first page was a logo of a lion holding a sword with the sun behind it, reminiscent of the ancient Persian symbol of royalty. The publisher name was obscured by a date stamp where the ink had turned green with age.
Verron’s Bookstore, it said. November 11, 2007.
Temeke googled the book and found eighty-two mixed reviews since publication. He then called the bookstore in Old Town Plaza, heard three rings before a voice with a Slovakian accent answered.
Romanian, the man assured him. “I’m a citizen, detective. Been here for fifty years.”
“It’s not about your citizenship, Mr. Verron.” Temeke cleared his throat, hoping the thick accent hadn’t seeped into his response. “I have a book you sold several years ago. The Lilin Esoterica. I wonder if you remember it?”
“Brown leather. Yes... I remember the book. Hard to shift something like that. I told all my customers it came from Transylvania. To make a sale, you understand. Cash buyer.”
A good hearty laugh and the phone vibrated against Temeke’s ear. He wasn’t keen to listen to the rantings of an old man or a bleeding vampire story from another century. He could easily have lunch with Hackett for that.
“Any chance you kept a record of who you sold it to?”
“So long ago.”
“Yet you remember the person paid cash.”
“A young woman. That’s all I remember.”
Just like Adel Martinez had said, Temeke thought and ended the call.
He had one of those bad feelings, the same damn feeling that had him spooked. He’d been a detective long enough to read the subtle warning signs and the words so long ago triggered all kinds of possibilities and sadly, no leads. It also triggered a sense of time. Mr. Verron knew roughly when it was sold, even if he didn’t have a name.
The mysterious book lay open on his desk, ancient and tired, like an old man you wanted to help across a busy street. A man who wandered home alone, if he even had a home.
A gray twist of ash landed on the keyboard and Temeke brushed it away with a hand, stubbed the cigarette out on the corner of his desk and threw it in the trash. He read the first chapter.
In women, there is a powerful drive which emerges in the instinct to survive, to procreate, even in grueling and desperate conditions.
There are impulses which move women ‒ love, lust, hate, and the urge of marriage and motherhood. This is the destiny of a sister.
Temeke sensed a sudden rush of wind, the sound of breath against his ear, forging past him as if born on cloven hoofs. He slapped the side of his head and began to mutter the word hogwash, as if by repeating it he could encase himself in a tall hedge nothing could penetrate.
If any sister does not obey she must be cut out from the Lilin and left to perish.
For it is said the first shall be buried alive, the second shall have her limbs severed, the third shall be cast into a fire, the fourth shall be drowned, the fifth shall be poisoned and the sixth shall be starved of air.
For woman is cracked and tarnished, just as the last light on a dying world.
If Alice had held séances in the school attic, brewed belladonna, and started a cult, she might also have been coerced into a spiritual marriage with a few of her friends.
Just as a nun enters a religious order, a Lilin must take a new name. This name will reveal her character and her destiny and it will also signify a new beginning and a new end. It will transform the woman who acquires it by making her a sharer in the sisterhood.
Temeke’s thoughts seemed to have run their course, ebbing into gray bars as his eyes narrowed and he saw only the faint outline of his eyelashes. He sank deep into his chair and tried to ward off an unexpected surge of nausea.
There were only two options in his opinion. The shrewd one, which was to talk to Malin about the occult, only he’d be forced to listen to a rant on the evils of witchcraft. Or the reckless one, which was to go it alone.
The phone rattled on his desk and a voice introduced himself as Matt Black. It was the initial report on the Samadi house Temeke had been waiting for.
“There were blood spatters on the carpet and on the piano, namely the key slip and bed,” Matt said. “The keys were old and yellowed with age and some chipped at the corners. Looks like they had been wiped with a cloth, but not enough to clean the side grain. Basswood. Very porous. Same blood type as on the carpet. We’ll let you know when we have a name.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Whoever it was wore gloves.”
“Consistent bastard.”
“But there was a strand of hair. Scale patterns indicate it’s human not animal, very coarse and bone straight, possibly Asian. The follicular tag was intact meaning it could have been pulled out in a struggle, but we’ll run nuclear DNA on the root pulp. Another thing, there were traces of skin and bone inside the piano. Dr. Vasillion said they belonged to the third and fourth right distal phalange.”
“A what?”
“Two fingertips.”
