Diana Tregarde - Burning Water Part 9

"They know the Chief's brought in an expert," she replied grimly, "And they are actively working to prevent me or anyone else from pinpointing what tradition they are working in. I could feel it; I'd get a clue, start to get close to identifying them, then I'd hit a b.o.o.by trap, and it would be gone. Knocked right out of my mind."

"You sure it wasn't, you know, the 'on the tip of my tongue' phenomena?"She shook her head, and her long hair brushed his sleeve. "No and it wasn't just that floaty forgetfulness you sometimes get in trance. This was deliberate first redirection, then getting forced off the track, losing the entire train of thought. Then sabotage when I got too close. Multiple times.

Mark they're good. Frighteningly good."

"Good enough to beat you?"

She sighed. "I don't know. They were good enough to sucker me and I'll tell you more about that later."

FIVE.

There were no jokes the next day.

Di called from the bus stop again, but Mark was already awake. He hadn't slept much that night; he'd spent most of the night hours wondering what he could have done to prevent what happened.

When the phone rang he was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, feeling every muscle in his shoulders ache with tension.

This was the first time his work, his a.s.signment, had involved dead kids. He'd been feeling wretched: and not only miserable and torn up inside, but unaccountably guilty as well, even after getting home last night. It had taken a double shot of bourbon to put him to sleep, and his dreams had been nightmare-haunted.

He headed for the shower after Di gave him his wake-up call, hoping, somehow, to wash some of the depression away. It didn't work. But at least he was showered, shaved, and dressed by the time Di rang his doorbell.

He let her in; she looked just as blue as he felt. She followed him to the kitchen without a word, moving as quietly as Treemonisha at her sneakiest. She took a seat and watched him feed the cat. They brooded at each other over coffee until she finally broke the silence.

"It isn't my fault," she said grimly, "And it isn't yours. It happened, it could happen again. If we can prevent it, fine. If not well, dammit Mark, we're trying. If we've got to lay some guilt, let's put it on the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who drown little kids! We shouldn't have to be protecting every innocent creature in Dallas."

"But " Mark tried to articulate his own guilty feelings. "Di, we're the only ones who really know what's going on. Doesn't that make us responsible for preventing things?"

"No, dammit," she replied, strain in her voice. "Okay, we're the best shot the law has at catching these lunatics but there's only two of us, and the bad guys are at least as good as I am. That's gonna make it harder; we'll do it anyway. But we aren't going to do anyone any good if we wallow in guilt that we don't deserve."

He thought about that; thought about it hard. They were trying; doing the best that they possibly could. Finally he nodded, slowly. "Okay," he replied, "You're making sense; you're making sense to my gut as well as my head. I think I can deal with that."

She sighed as his tension eased, and the line of anxiety between her eyebrows faded. He gave her a questioning look.

She shrugged. "One of the problems with being an empath is you get caught in positive feedback I felt wretched all last night, and once I got inside your influence it was worse. And we can't let this stop us that's exactly what 'they' want."

He nodded. "Okay, changing the subject. Tell me something, you said you were being 'blocked' last night. Shielding I understand, but how can anybody block a thought?"

"You would ask about theory at seven in the morning, wouldn't you." She stirred a little more sugar into her coffee and contemplated the dark fluid for a minute. "You never used to be interested before it was always 'Don't tell me, I don't want to know just tell me what to do.'"

"People change; I've been getting curious."

"Okay, on your head be it. You want theory you're going to get chapter and verse from now on. This is crazy stuff, so get ready to suspend your skepticism," she said. "I'm going to give it to you like it's fact I don't know if it is or isn't fact, it's not provable, but it works this way for me, and in magic, that's what counts. The whole of the way I work is a half-baked combination of my Wiccan tradition and some of the parapsych experiments they're doing now, and a little tad of particle physics and of traditional psych."

He raised an eyebrow. "Strange bedfellows."

"In spades. It goes like this Jung was almost right. There is something like a collective unconscious, sort of a human database. Only its 'memories' don't go all the way back to the cave, like Jung thought they're only as old as the oldest human alive. Got that so far? There's another 'historical'

memory that does go back that far, but that's not what I was after last night, and I have to go through a whole song-and-dance act to get at it. Still clear?"

Mark nodded again and sipped his coffee. "Think so."

"Okay; I can tap into the current memory bank, but I can do it consciously, deliberately. It isn't telepathy; I'm not a telepath it's something else. I think of it as data retrieval, and that's how it works for me. Most anybody can do this, you do it yourself when you dream, I just do it on purpose. But if you know what you're doing and if you're dealing with a very small area of collective knowledge you can also lay roadblocks in the collective mind. Essentially that's what I hit. When I'm dealing with something arcane that I don't recognize, I generally take a dive into the collective mind and trace back what clues I do have to the source. Except that this time "

"You hit the roadblocks," Mark supplied.

She sipped her coffee before answering. "Exactly. Now comes the tricky part; behind the roadblocks were traps, traps I sprung on myself when I tried to get around the blocks. You know that 'tip-of-your- tongue' phenomena you were talking about? Where you know you know something, but the harder you try and work to get it, the farther away it wiggles? Whoever is doing this knew that an occultist was going to be called in, and laid a trap to do just that to any similar knowledge the occultist in question possessed. They can't really wipe it, the way I implied, but they made it d.a.m.ned near inaccessible to me."

She looked angry and frustrated, and Mark didn't blame her one bit.

"I am royally ticked off at myself for not antic.i.p.ating traps. Now the only way I'm going to figure out what magical system they're using is to come at it from the side, find it by process of elimination, or get hit in the face with a clue so broad the trap doesn't work."

Mark polished off the last gulp in the cup. "Well, where do we start?"

She managed a wry quirk of her lips. "The hard way. We spend long enough at HDQ for me to work up that report I promised the Chief and for you to collect the preliminary on last night from Forensics. I called Andre last night; we aren't going to chance a modem because I might lose data to the phone lines he doesn't much like the quality of the lines down here, he told me. He's arranging for a package of books and some dump-down diskettes to come to HDQ via FedEx. I a.s.sume I can arrange for that to get billed to the department? You said I could, and I warned you I'm not exactly rolling in money."

He nodded. "We've got a little account for stuff like that, I'll warn the mail room that it's coming."

"Good, thanks." She bit at a hangnail, eyes dark with worry. "After that, we'll get the files the Chief promised on that Satanist and the other jerk, and go check them out. By now Andre has called my New York voudoun expert "

"And if I know how these things work, you should have a contact here by nightfall?"

"I think so; depends on how paranoid the locals are getting." She sighed. "If I were local, I'd be either gone or hiding so deep it would take a backhoe to dig me out."

"You want me along?" Mark asked, when they pulled up outside the former ma.s.sage parlor that was now the First Dallas Church of Satan.

"How un.o.btrusive can you get?" she asked. "How good is your poker face these days?"

He considered that question for a moment, staring through the windshield. "I think I can probably still manage the 'Mr. n.o.body' routine we used to use. The one where I'm your wallpaper boyfriend "

"Then it wouldn't hurt to have you along, although I really don't expect much of anything. Put out your antenna for a minute, and you'll see what I mean."Mark did his best to get the "feel" of the place, even though he wasn't nearly as sensitive as she was.

"Nothing," he reported. "Not a d.a.m.n thing."

Di smiled wryly. "That's because there's nothing there. High Priest Azarel, alias Thomas Harden, is about to conduct a Black Ma.s.s in there right now. He has a full weekday lunch-hour congregation all seventeen of them and if there was ever going to be any power being built even you'd feel it now. Fact is, there's not a thing there to be sensed. It isn't shielding, either. There isn't a person in that building that could magic their way out of a wet paper sack, or shield against you on your worst day."

Mark snorted. "But I'll bet they've convinced themselves that the world is trembling in fear of them."

"Bingo. Well, come on. If you can keep your stomach steady and keep from laughing your head off, we'll go play eager converts."

The Black Ma.s.s was about as exciting as a Knights of Columbus luncheon. The nude female serving as the altar looked as bored as Mark felt; by her garish blond hair and makeup, and a certain feeling that he'd seen her somewhere, Mark guessed she was one of the local stripper-c.u.m-b-girls from one of the clubs in the neighborhood. The congregation of middle-cla.s.s, middle-aged businessmen and housewives did appear to be enjoying the "thrill" of doing something wicked, though. Mark wondered how long it would take to wear off.

He and Di were the only people in the entire room under the age of forty. Di's exotic good looks were drawing a lot of attention from the male contingent and one of the ladies; for that matter, there were a couple of the hausfrau types that were watching him out of the corners of their eyes.

Probably wishing this was the Sat.u.r.day night orgy, and not the weekday ceremony, he thought, finding himself rather grateful that it wasn't. One of that lot looked like she'd enjoy devouring him whole if she got the chance. He edged closer to Di, and caught disappointment in her expression before she turned away.

The founder of the cult had stolen from just about every ceremony he could lay hands on. The form was almost a parody of the Catholic Ma.s.s; the main differences lay in the philosophy as well as the ceremony. The nude woman as a living altar was the most obvious. Subst.i.tution of deity was another.

But the main point of the ceremony was exaltation of the flesh instead of the spirit, and selfishness instead of selflessness. The entire thrust was toward "do whatever you want, whenever you want" the old sixties "let it all hang out" credo dressed up in semiliturgical costume and taken to its furthest extreme.

The congregation stood the entire time; Mark wasn't certain if that was part of the ceremony or if it was because Azarel was too cheap to buy chairs. Mark was fairly certain that beneath the various robes, which were as motley as those who wore them, they were also nude. Full nudity was reserved for Sat.u.r.day night, Di had told him.

In the light of day the congregation looked like a bunch of moulting crows.

The weekday "ma.s.s" was mercifully short. Afterwards Di grabbed his elbow and hauled him with her to accost the High Priest before he could pull a vanishing act.

"Mr. Azarel?" she asked breathlessly, "I'm Sally Bradey, the one who called earlier "

The "altar" had already done her vanishing trick. The man's face had brightened the moment he saw an attractive young lady hauling Mark along towards him and if he was disappointed that "Sally"

had a male companion, he didn't show it. He was altogether a rather pathetic little man, Mark decided after a moment's perusal. Thin, short, and balding, with a bit of a pot belly; he was trying to grow a moustache and goatee in imitation of the founder of the cult and failing miserably. His "robes of ceremony" were only too obviously salvaged choir robes with moon-and-star appliques sewn to them.

His watery blue eyes reflected a lifetime of not-quite-failing. Mark decided that he was sorry for the little nerd.

Just exactly the kind of jerk who'd get taken in by an operation that was founded by a flimflam artist. Poor geek. Probably believes everything they told him.

" would you like to come around to my office, Sally?" the little man was saying, in a kind of faded baritone. "I think we can probably answer all your questions in an hour or so."

"Oh wonderful" Di gushed. "We were afraid you wouldn't have any time I'm sure you must be terribly busy."

The Dread Azarel smiled smugly. "We always have time for worthy converts. Back through there, Sally, the door on the right; I'll join you in a minute."

The "office" was decorated in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The shelves themselves (the inexpensive board-and-bracket type) held not so many books as a plethora of other junk. It looked like a bankruptcy sale at the demise of a horror-movie company. The shelves were crammed with plaster skulls, "voodoo dolls," odd and badly executed statuary, black candles, incense burners, and the inevitable inverted crucifixes. The place reeked of cheap incense and low-grade pot.

Mark felt his lip curling with contempt. It was all so tawdry like a tired old stripper in a carny geekshow, doing the 'Ugha the Ape-Girl' act because her stretch marks showed too much for her to work the peep shows anymore.

"Priest Azarel" made a would-be dramatic entrance, flinging back the worn velvet curtains at the rear of the office and striding through. He was no longer in his High Priest costume; he wore black pants and turtleneck, both polyester, and an inverted crucifix around his neck. He didn't look sinister or even worth a second glance on the street. If anything, he looked like a burned-out old hippy who wouldn't let the sixties go.

Within a few moments it was plain even to Mark that neither Azarel nor his followers could have had anything to do with the killings.

For one thing, he knew less about them than had been printed in the papers. For another, despite his boasting about how much power he and his followers had raised through "evil," his idea of "evil"

seemed to consist of holding weekly orgies spiced with a little gra.s.s and c.o.ke, casting "curses" on the enemies of those within the congregation, and pulling petty "acts of vengeance" on those so-called enemies that were somewhat on the level of teenaged pranks. Sugar in the gas tank; slimy, fecal things in the garden.

Then Di pulled the last trick they'd planned on him.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked, reaching into her purse without appearing to look. Mark knew what she was up to, though, and was not surprised when she cursed and pulled her hand back out with a cut across the thumb.

"Dammit!" she exclaimed, holding the freely bleeding thumb out before her. "My d.a.m.ned mirror broke! I don't suppose you have a Band-Aid in your desk?"

Azarel stared at the blood, and paled; the kind of greenish pallor that accompanies nausea.

"N-n-o," he stammered. "I "

He gulped and gripped the edge of the desk.

"You're going to have to leave," he said unsteadily. "You're in danger I feel myself under psychic attack from my enemies, and they would feel no remorse at striking at you as well "

Di squealed, and stood up hastily. "Psychic attack! Oh how horrible! Thank you Mr. Azarel, we'll leave right now! Will you be all right?"

He tried to look haughty as Di waved the blood-smeared thumb practically under his nose. He succeeded only in looking sicker. "Of course. I am far stronger than they it is only that I have to extend myself to protect you "

"Then we'd better go " They practically ran out of the office door their haste due mostly to the fact that they didn't want to blow the game at this point by laughing in the man's face.

"What a wimp!" Mark exclaimed with contempt when they got to the haven of the Ghia.

Di gave a little snort of disgust and agreement. "Why anyone would bother with that turkey " She fished in her purse for the razor blade she'd used to cut her finger, wrapped it and put it back into a little plastic box so that it couldn't bite her again. "Well, at least we've got a good solid reason to write him off."

He nodded. "I doubt even the Chief will want us to bother with him after we tell him about the way Azarel nearly threw up when you cut your thumb."

She grimaced, and sucked daintily at the cut. "The things I do in the line of duty! Ah well let's go check out Jorden MacKever and the House of Dark Desires."

* * *The House of Dark Desires was in Fort Worth, not Dallas; thirty minutes as the crow flies, but it took them slightly more than an hour to wind their way through all the back streets. It was in a neighborhood similar to that surrounding the Satanist Church; an area of p.o.r.n purveyors, stripper bars and p.a.w.n shops.

"Ho boy this I did not expect."

Di stared at the front of the shop with a look of startled surprise on her face. Since the storefront was nothing more than black gla.s.s with the name ornately lettered in gold, Mark didn't think her surprise was caused by the decor.

"What is it?" he asked, as the bucket seat creaked with his efforts to get a better look at the store.

"This isn't one of the five signature auras I picked up but this guy knows at least something of what he's doing," she said, turning to him with an utterly sober expression. "No, don't unshield, take my word for it I'd rather not chance you getting caught by what he's got going. He's got what we call a 'glamour' on the store; it will attract anyone with psychic gifts, unless they know enough to see through it. This is a hunter, Mark; and the store is his trap. And I think I know why and what he hunts."

"Could this be our pigeon? Could the others the signature auras you talked about be involved with him?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so; what he's done is a little crude by my standards, and it certainly lacks the finesse of the traps I ran into. If this were the number-one person behind the killings, he should have more subtlety. Besides, one of those five auras had an incredible feeling of power and the l.u.s.t for power in it; and I can't see that person playing number two to anyone. But this guy is not a nice man, and if we can find something to hang him with, we should do it. If he's into Crowley, and it feels like he is, he's drawing in unawakened psychics, using their potential, and throwing them away when they're drained and ruined."

Now Mark was worried. "You want me in there with you? You think you can handle this by yourself?"

"Near at hand, but not with me, okay? If two of us with shields come in at once, he might spook. If just one comes in, he might figure they're unconscious shields, and he might bite." Her expression firmed into determination. "This isn't our prime target, but I want him, Mark. He's been using people using them up. In some ways, that's worse than killing them."

Mark nodded. "All right then; I'll be right outside if you need me."

Diana edged her way into the p.o.r.n shop, feeling her skin crawl with every step she took. The man who owned this place and the people who frequented it were genuine s.a.d.i.s.ts. No m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.ts allowed. At least not here. In the back room that was another story.

Power through pain as long as it isn't mine. Maybe the ultimate in self-centeredness.

And at least some of those people the owner included understood the theory and practice of raising occult power by the infliction of pain far, far better than she did. They were doing as others before them had done; draining the power of unawakened innocents for their own uses, and throwing away the husks afterwards without a backward glance. A psychic, even one who'd been abused physically and spiritually, could recover from that kind of ethereal rape but it wasn't easy, and they had to find expert help right away. Too often the wounds just festered until the psychic ended up on a couch somewhere, trying to explain things no cla.s.sically trained psychiatrist would believe.