Incubi

Chapter 33

The fog of her thoughts sidetracked her all the way home. She’d read The Synod of the Aorists in its entirety, a tome as black as pitch tar. Its images seemed to peer at her like phantoms in the backseat. When she spotted the green sign, her exit—Historic District, Next Right—she nearly wept with relief.

Jack’s car was not at the house. She drove around Church Circle, trying to listen to the radio. WHFS was playing a group called Strange Boutique. “Never throw away what could be true,” the singer lamented in beautiful sadness. How much have I thrown away? Faye wondered. She did not pursue an answer.

She still felt confused about last night. Had she made Jack feel better or worse? Right now she wondered if she knew anything.

Big Brother Is Watching You, read the Orwellian sign in the bookshop window. Faye parked in the lot behind the Undercroft, unconsciously glancing about. Did she expect devils to be in wait? Black-garbed aorists bearing dolches in red hands? Baalezphon is watching you, she thought. Was there really a devil? Faye didn’t believe in devils, only the ones man made out of his own imperfections. But the aorists were as devoted to truth as the Christians, avoiding the same faith to different gods. Who could say that their acts were any worse than the Crusades butchering in the name of Jesus, the Templar Knights forcing conversion at sword point, and the mindless torture of the Holy Inquisition? Mankind pursued truth without ever really seeing it. Act for act. Evil for evil.

She scurried across the gravel lot. She needed to be around people, around life. Maybe she should get drunk and forget about everything. Relief embraced her the instant she stepped into the ’Croft. People, talk, laughter. Craig was expertly pouring four beers from four different taps at the same time. This transition, from the dark solitude of her research to this crowded reality, made her feel physically light.

“What can I do you for, Faye?” Craig inquired.

“Just water,” she said.

Barkeeps had a knack for insistency. Craig brought her a bottle of the same strong German beer she’d had last night. “I asked for water,” she complained.

“There’s water in that,” he said.

“Oh, well,” she decided. At least if she got drunk she could blame him.

“What’s wrong, Faye? You look like you’ve just seen Death.”

Not Death. Baalzephon. She ignored the comment. “Jack hasn’t been in, has he?”

“Nope, not since last night.”

Could he have used the directions he’d pilfered and gone to find Veronica?

“They’re really giving it to him in the papers,” Craig said.

“I know. It’s disgusting.”

“Why are they calling it the Triangle case?”

“Trines,” she muttered, more to her beer. “It’s a satanic emblem, a triangle with a star at each point. The killers drew them in blood at each murder scene.”

“You’d think something like that could never happen in a town like this.”

“This town is no different from any town in the world in any age,” Faye responded too quickly. “It’s got people. It’s got beliefs. It’s got good and it’s got evil, and that’s all you need.”

Craig gave her a long look. “Any leads?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even working on it anymore.”

“So what are you gonna do now?”

She’d asked herself the same question a million times already. “Go back to my regular job. Go home.”

“What about Jack?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Craig’s barkeep vibes sensed her despondency. “Cheer up. Sometimes things work out when you least expect them to.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And here he is now,” Craig looked up and announced. “Living proof of the steelworkers’ strike.”

“Hilarious,” Jack said, sporting three days’ growth. The door swooshed closed behind him. “I saw your car when I was passing by,” he told Faye, and took the stool next to hers.

“I—” she started to say.

Then he leaned over and quickly kissed her.

It was just a peck on the cheek, yet it nearly shocked her. Before she could even react, he was saying, “I’ve been looking all over town for Stewie. I’ve decided to give those directions to him. It’s better that way. Whatever the problem is, he’s Veronica’s manger, so he should take care of it. None of it’s any of my business, really.”

This information secretly overjoyed Faye. Did this mean he’d given up on Veronica for good? Faye doubted it, but it was a start. Circumstances often took time to come to grips with.

“But I’m still wondering about those names,” Jack commented. Craig brought him a soda water with a lime slice. “Maybe it’s just cop paranoia, but it’s almost like this rich guy is using people to cover his tracks.”

“Fraus Herren,” Faye said. “Philippe Faux. And then the business with the phones.”

“Yeah. It bothers me, that’s all.”

Faye reserved further comment. Why bring up subjects when the common denominator was Veronica? Faye felt jealous and subordinate to this woman she didn’t even know.

“How’d it go at the library? You check out that book?”

“Yeah,” she said, as the dismal images returned. “It verified the information I discovered yesterday. The aorists made random sacrifices constantly, but once a year they engaged in a special incarnation rite that specifically involved the trine—”

“The triangle.”

“Right, and what they thought of as a transpositional doorway. The first three sacrifices served as a catalyst to the ritual. One for each star. These girls were supposed to be passionate and creative, to appease Baalzephon.”

“The first victim was an art director, the second two were poets,” Jack reminded her. “And they got around.”

“Um-hmm. Very sexual, Baalzephon’s cup of tea. Anyway, the first three sacrifices were carried out by the surrogates, or surrogoti — highly trained spiritualists. That’s what the Latin line is all about. ‘Father of the Earth, walk the earth through me.’ It was an incarnation summons. Baalzephon was an incubus. The surrogoti would invoke the demon transpositionally, trade places with him for a short time. They’d not only take on his physical likeness, but they’d become vehicles for Baalzephon’s spirit as well. So it wasn’t the surrogates themselves who were committing the precursory sacrifices, it was an incarnated aspect of Baalzephon.”

“So the guys who killed Shanna Barrington, Rebecca Black, and Susan Lynn believe that it was actually Baalzephon who did it?”

“Yes. That’s what they believe. But these were only partial incarnations. The full transposition came at the end.”

“The fourth sacrifice you were talking about,” Jack added.

Faye nodded, sipping her beer. “This fourth sacrifice was the most important, and today I found out why.”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” Jack mumbled.

“The fourth was to serve as the ultimate gift to Baalezphon. She was usually selected out of several candidates.”

“Selected by whom?”

“By the prelate. It was his job to choose the one who would best serve the demon. They often underwent intense spiritual training. Self-awareness was very important, not just women who were highly creative and passionate, but women who had a refined sense of ‘self.’ The prelate would take great care in selecting optimum candidates.”

Jack jiggled the ice in his glass. “But that’s what I don’t quite get. Candidates for what?”

“For Baalzephon’s wife,” Faye said. “Baalzephon took a human wife every year. He was the hierarchical demon of passion and creativity, so his wives must be strongly possessed of both traits.” Faye wasn’t even looking at him as she recounted what she’d read in The Synod of the Aorists. “The sacrifice of the fourth woman effected a complete transpostional incarnation. The prelate would murder her with the dolch, directly upon a trine fashioned in some low place, like a cave or a quarry, or even a basement. This was the act that the first three sacrifices had led up to — the transposition. Baazelphon would open the trine and ascend, incarnare, or in the flesh. To stand upon the very earth that God had banished him from, and claim his bride.”

Jack rubbed his eyes wearily. “This morning I told Noyle that there would probably be a fourth murder.”

“I don’t think there are any probablies about it, Jack. So far our killers have duplicated the original rite. Noyle would be stupid not to expect a fourth murder.”

“Noyle is stupid,” Jack said. “He’s convinced the two killers are just crackheads or psychotics.”

“There are at least three killers, remember. There’s also someone out there who thinks he’s a prelate, and you can bet that right now he’s preparing for the fourth murder.”

“Great,” Jack said. “In a way I’m glad Noyle took me off the case; it’s his problem now.” He stood up, fishing in his pockets. Onto the bar he emptied a bunch of change, keys, and scraps of paper. What a slob, Faye thought. But I still love him.

“I’m out of cigarettes,” he said, “and if I don’t have one soon, I’ll die.”

“You might die if you do have one soon.”

“Please don’t confuse me with facts.” Jack plucked quarters out of the mass of change, then disappeared for the cigarette machine.

Faye remained lulled on the bar, thinking. “Can I ask you something, Craig?”

“Of course.” Craig was deftly juggling four shooter glasses around a lit Marlboro 100 in his mouth. “People ask me things all the time.”

“Should I bow out?”

“I can’t advise you on that one. But I can say that it never pays to give up.” Craig spoke and juggled at the same time.

“You’re a big help, Craig. I hope you drop those glasses.”

“I’ve dropped many. How do you think I got to be so good?” Craig grinned. “Think about that.”

Faye smirked at him. He was saying that fulfillment came though trial and error. She’d dropped a few glasses herself in life.

“But here’s something for you to consider. There’s a minor variation on the men’s room wall, so you know it’s true.”

“Graffiti is the voice of truth?” she asked sarcastically.

“You never seen our men’s room.”

“Okay, Craig. What?”

He expertly juggled each shooter glass down to the bartop. “A woman’s got to do what she’s got to do.”

Faye’s frown deepened. When she sipped her beer again, she noticed a slip of paper Jack had removed from his pocket. She blinked.

Then she picked it up and looked at it hard. The piece of paper was filled with scrawl, but right on top—

Jack returned, tamping a fresh pack of Camels.

“What…is…this?” Faye asked, the impossibility of what she saw stretching her words like tallow.

Jack glanced at the slip of paper. “Those are the directions I told you about, the directions to the rich guy’s house.”

“Rich guy,” Faye repeated.

“Yeah, the rich guy. I already told you, the guy who invited Veronica to his estate for some kind of retreat. I copied them down when I broke into Ginny’s apartment.”

“You broke into Ginny’s apartment?” Craig asked, incredulous.

“Don’t ask,” Jack said.

But Faye was tugging on his sleeve, urgent to the point of almost tearing his shirt. “Jack, Jack, listen to me!”

“Are you all right, Faye?”

“Shut up and listen!” She pointed to the world Jack had written above the directions. The word was Khoronos. “What’s that? Why did you write that?”

Now Jack looked totally cruxed. “That’s his name.”

“Whose name?”

“The rich guy,” he close to yelled. “I already told you.”

“You never told me his name!”

“So what?”

“The rich guy’s name is Khoronos?”

“Yes! Big deal! What’s the matter with you?”

Her eyes leveled on him. “Like those other names, Jack. Fraus. Faux. They weren’t names, they were words. Khoronos isn’t a name either. It’s a Greek word.”

Jack tapped out a Camel. “What are you talking about?”

She paused to catch her breath. He didn’t understand. “Let me ask you something… Do you have any reason to believe that Veronica’s disappearance might have something to do with the Triangle case?”

Jack looked at her absurdly. “That’s ridiculous. They’re totally unrelated.”

Then Faye Rowland enlightened him. “Khoronos is Greek for aorista.”