San Francisco Night (4 page)

It was almost midnight. Nightingale had showered, twice, and he was wearing a brand new white cotton robe that he’d bought from a WalMart store. He lit two white candles and switched off the light, then took off the robe and placed it on the bed next to a small brown leather bag. The bag was several hundred years old but the leather was supple and glossy, as smooth as silk. He untied the bag and took out a large pink crystal, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, which was attached to a silver chain. Also on the bed was the Bible he had taken from the priest’s room.

He knelt down on the floor, placed the Bible in front of him, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer, the crystal pressed between his palms. When he had finished he opened his eyes and let the crystal swing free on its chain. He pictured a pale blue aura around himself as he took slow, deep breaths. He began to repeat the name of the owner of the Bible.  Father Michael O’Hara.

Nightingale focused all his attention on the name and stared hard at the Bible. He whispered a sentence in Latin, and imagined the blue aura entering the crystal, helping it to show the direction in which Father Michael might be found, opening his mind to an image of the priest and his whereabouts.

Nothing.

The pink crystal remained motionless.

Nightingale tried again, focusing on the crystal and the Bible as hard as he could, but it just hung where it was. After ten minutes he stood up and put the crystal back in its leather bag. He looked down at the Bible on the floor and spoke quietly to himself. “Rest in peace, Father Michael.”

He was by no means an expert in the use of the crystal, but he knew that the fact there had been absolutely no reaction meant only one thing – the priest was no longer alive. He pulled on his robe and sat down on the bed. Nightingale needed advice, and there was no one better for guidance in the occult world than Mrs Steadman. It was midnight in San Francisco which meant it was about eight o’clock in the morning in London. He knew that Mrs Steadman was an early riser so he picked up his phone and called her. She answered on the second ring. “Why, Jack. How delightful to hear from you.”

 “I need your help, Mrs Steadman.”

“That’s what I’m here for. And you know I always love to hear from you. Now, how is the city by the bay?”

Nightingale hadn’t told her where he was, but it was no surprise that she’d picked it up. She often knew things about him he’d never told her.

“OK, I suppose, though I’m not getting much chance to see the sights. I’m working again.”

There was a hissing intake of breath at the other end. “Joshua Wainwright again? You know what I think of him. Jack, the man is not your friend, and not a force for good. He has passed the Abyss and embraced the Lord Of This World.”

“Yeah, but he pays well,” said Nightingale.

Mrs Steadman wasn’t laughing. “It’s not something to joke about, Jack. You may well find the cost to you far outweighs any payment you might receive. He cares for nobody but his own sweet self.”

“And how’s your shop?”  Mrs Steadman ran a Wicca store in east London, which is where he’d first met her.

“As ever, a change of subject any time you feel uncomfortable. You can’t always avoid important issues. But my shop is doing wonderfully well, thank you for asking.  Now you’ve got me worried, Jack. What are you involved in?”

Nightingale could hear the concern in her voice.

“There’s a Satanic group out here who are killing people. They killed a nun, and a priest, I think. And there’s a young girl missing.”

Mrs Steadman gasped. “Oh! Goodness, no! That’s awful.”

“Have you come across anything like this before?”

 “You know I don’t move in those circles, but from what I’ve heard, sacrificing non-believers is common to many of the blackest rites.”

“What do you mean ‛non-believers’?”

“Non-believers in the supremacy of Satan, so people with faith in other religions.” said Mrs Steadman. “Jack, be careful. You don’t want to be involved with people like that. Tell Wainwright you want nothing to do with whatever he’s up to.”

“I can’t do that, Mrs Steadman. I owe him.”

“I sometimes think you’d have been better doing a deal with Satan himself than hitching your wagon to Wainwright,” she said. “People like me can call down power, channel it, hopefully for good. But Adepts of the Left-hand Path use it to impose their will on people and events. Their rule is ‛Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.’ But the real top people, the Magister Templum, the Ipsissimus, they can store power within themselves, to use as and when they wish. No need for incantations and ceremonies every time, they are raw occult power. And horribly dangerous. Their strength of will is incredible, they can dominate people so easily, make them do anything they want. Jack, please, for me. Get out of there, now.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Then be careful. At least promise me that you’ll be careful.”

“I will. I swear. Mrs Steadman, who do you know in San Francisco who can help me?”

She chuckled softly. “I don’t fly much these days, Jack. You know that. It’s been decades since I visited San Francisco.”

“I could do with someone local who knows can tell me who’s naughty and who’s nice.”

She chuckled again. “You do make me laugh sometimes,” she said. “You put your soul in mortal peril and you continue to crack wise.”

“It’s my way of dealing with tension,” said Nightingale.

“I know that,” she said. “And that’s fine so long as you realize the seriousness of your situation.”

‘Just get me the name of someone on the ground that I can talk to, Mrs Steadman. Once I’ve done what has to be done, I’ll leave. I promise.”

Nightingale took the cable car down to Fisherman’s Wharf and arrived half an hour early for the second ferry of the day. This early in the morning, the queues were short, so he bought his ticket, then smoked a cigarette while he waited. There was a street performer just opposite him, dressed as an antique bronze statue and making every effort to stay motionless.

The ferry finally pulled in. The Alcatraz Escape looked quite new, or at least freshly painted in black and white and ran to three decks, the top one open for anyone brave enough to sit up there on a chilly April morning. Nightingale walked up the gangplank and stood against the forward railing.  He looked over at the island prison through the morning mist as the ferry plowed through the choppy sea .

There were several dozen other passengers on the ferry, but none looked as if they were investment bankers on the run from Satanic assassins. Two women walked past him, a couple of six-year-olds in tow, and an older man in a dark anorak. A dumpy middle aged woman with her hair in a bun leaned against the opposite railing. Most of the passengers had taken the sensible option of sitting inside. Nightingale was as conspicuous as he could make himself in his light overcoat, leaning against the rail, but nobody came near him for the whole fifteen-minute trip.

The ferry pulled into the jetty on Alcatraz Island and the passengers disembarked and headed up the hill to the baleful, gray monolith of America’s most infamous prison. Nightingale knew it by reputation, the one prison never to see a successful escape in its entire history. Getting out of the cell, outside the wall and past the armed guards was pretty much impossible, but that would still have been the easy part. The mile and a half swim through the icy water and vicious currents of San Francisco Bay was the real killer. Literally.

He followed everyone else inside, took his audiotour handset, and started walking past the long rows of tiny cells. Apparently each one would have been equipped with bed, chair, basin and toilet  years before, but the majority were empty now. The place gave him the creeps. The thought of thousands of America’s most dangerous criminals cooped up here under armed guard over the years was chilling.

His cellphone rang once, then stopped before he could take it out. A minute or two later, a tall young man in a pulled-up black hoodie and jeans walked past him and whispered as he passed.

“Outside by the smoking area in ten minutes.” It was Mitchell.

Nightingale watched him walk down the corridor and out the main door at the end. He mooched past the cells, pretending to look interested. He went outside and walked down to the dock where a central cylindrical ashtray and some unwelcoming metal benches comprised the smoking area. The young man was waiting, looking out towards the city, his hood still pulled up to hide as much of his face as possible. Nightingale stood a yard or so away and leaned against the rail. No other smokers were braving the early-morning cold and biting wind. Nightingale took out his pack, fumbled out a cigarette with his gloved hands and lit it. The young man didn’t turn his head, but spoke quietly. “You’re English?”

“Yeah. I’ve known Joshua for a while and he wanted me to help you.”

Mitchell snorted. “You know what you’re up against?”

“Joshua’s told me everything. I can protect you until he gets here, then you can get on his plane and go wherever you want.”

“Give me a cigarette.”

Nightingale offered Mitchell the pack and then lit a cigarette for him. Mitchell inhaled, then blew smoke towards the mainland. “They have so much power, they can do things you wouldn’t believe. I need money and a way out.”

“Joshua can give you that.”

“But he’s not here, is he?”

“No, but in the meantime I’ll do what I can. How the hell did you get involved in all this?” asked Nightingale.

Mitchell grinned but it was the snarl of a cornered animal. “A girl.”

“A girl?”

“A Goth bitch I met in a bar. Laura, her name was. Laura Lost, she called herself. I don’t know if that was her real name or not. I’d had too much to drink, she was high on something, best sex I’d had in a long time. She was covered in tattoos, all down her back. Weird stuff. Pentagrams, horned things, chalices, upside down crucifixes, the whole nine yards.”

“And she introduced you to the coven?”

Mitchell’s eyes hardened. “The Apostles aren’t a coven,” he said. “They are way way way more than that. Saying the Apostles are a coven is like saying Hitler had an anger management problem.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “I went out with her for a while. Well, I say went out, I just went around to her apartment and banged her most nights. When we did go out it was to these weird bars, pop-up places usually, in abandoned warehouses. She told me about stuff she was involved in. Sacrifices. Branding. Hard core stuff.”

“Branding?”

“She had some, on her back and her legs. Symbols and stuff, done with a hot iron. She said branding was more ‘real’ than tattooing, whatever that means.”

“What sort of brands?”

“Satanic stuff.”

“And this girl introduced you to Abaddon?”

Mitchell shook his head. “She was only playing with it. I think it was just about the sex with her, she wasn’t about acquiring power. She showed me a few websites and chat-rooms and I started getting more interested. I could see what I could get out of it.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Little did I know.”

“So how did you get to Abaddon if it wasn’t the girl?”

“I started going to a few meetings. Low level stuff at first, chanting, animal sacrifice, burning stuff. Then I got approached by a guy who asked if I wanted to go up to the next level and by that stage I was hooked and I said yes.”

“Who was this guy?”

“Cooper, he said his name was. I never found out if that was his first name or his surname. Haven’t seen him for a while. I used to meet him in a bar on Haight. Tall guy, long gray hair, gray eyes.  He promised me I could get what I wanted, money, power, promotions, women, everything. I said I was interested, obviously, and he said he’d check me out. Eventually I got invited to a Sabbat in an old warehouse. I don’t know where, I had to park somewhere and I was taken there blindfold. It was harmless enough, chickens slaughtered, Black Mass, then sex. Sex with women, men.”

“You make it sound normal.” said Nightingale.

“It’s the way a Sabbat often finishes. It’s the reason a lot of people get into it, but it was kids’ stuff for me. That was the first, then there were two more, each one a little more serious. Then another guy, much older than Cooper, asked me if I wanted to move up again. I was starting to do a whole lot better in the bank, so I sure did.”

“What was the next level?”

“Devil worship. The real thing. Scary as hell.” He shuddered. “It was then that I realized just what I was getting into. Devils, Jack. Real devils.”

“Heavy.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I tell you, up until the first summoning I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure it was for real, you know?”

Nightingale smiled. “Yeah. You never forget your first.”

“You’ve done it? Attended a summoning?”

Nightingale nodded. “I tend to work one-on-one, though.”

“You can do that? I was told it’s too dangerous, there’s too much can go wrong.”

“You have to know what you’re doing.”

Mitchell finished his cigarette and flicked it away. “My first was a real bitch. I couldn’t have faced her alone. There were ten of us at the Sabbat and I could see that everyone there was terrified. Her and her dog. You could feel the evil pouring out of them.”

Nightingale stiffened. “Dog?”

“Yeah, a collie with the blackest eyes you’ve ever seen. Same as her eyes. She appeared in black. Like a Goth. It was only when I saw her I realized that Laura had a tattoo of her on her back. Do you think that means something?”

Nightingale said nothing. Of course it meant something. Mitchell had been pulled into Satanism by a girl who had the tattoo of the first devil that he met. That couldn’t have been a coincidence.

“We swore allegiance to her, that was the purpose of the summoning, but we were all terrified. Even the High Priest was scared, you could hear it in his voice. Give me another cigarette, will you?’

Nightingale flicked away what was left of his cigarette and lit fresh ones for both of them.

“Did you do a deal?” he asked after he’d blown smoke.

Mitchell looked across at him, eyes narrowed. “A deal?”

“For your soul.”

Mitchell shook his head and took another drag on his cigarette before answering. “I thought about it, but no. I was approached by the Apostles before I got the chance. You can’t join the Apostles if you’ve sold your soul, that’s one of the rules. One of the many rules.”

“And did Proserpine say what she wanted from you?”

Mitchell cocked his head on one side. “I didn’t say her name was Proserpine.”

“She’s famous in devil-worshiping circles,” said Nightingale. “Goth chick with a collie, she’s one of a kind. But never let her looks deceive you. She’s dangerous.”

“You’ve met her?”

“Oh yes. And lived to tell the tale, just about. But it was a close call.”

“She didn’t ask us to do anything, but said that one day she would. But like the Godfather, you know.” He forced a smile. “The whole thing’s a bit like the Mafia, isn’t it? You do what they say and you get what they want. But cross them and you’re dead.”

“Yeah, except the Mafia will just put a bullet in your head. The devil will take your immortal soul.” He shuddered again. “It was one of the women at the summoning who told me about the Apostles. Just a few throwaway lines at first and then once I’d shown interest she told me the full story.”

“Was she an Apostle?”

She shook her head. “No. She works for Abaddon. Like a recruiter. She’d sold her soul to a devil when she was a teenager so she couldn’t become an Apostle herself.”

“Tell me about the mansion where all this took place.”

“I only saw the changing rooms and the main ceremonial area. I parked about twenty minutes away. They hooded me to and from the place. It’s only when you get to be a full Apostle that you find out where it is. It’s a matter of trust.”

“And you prove your trust by killing?”

Mitchell nodded. “That’s how you become an Apostle. You kill for them and that binds you to them. But it’s more than that. Each killing is part of a greater process.”

“Leading to what?”

“Ultimate power,” said Mitchell. “The Apostles will rule the world.”

“According to this Abaddon?”

“She knows what she’s doing, Jack.”

“Where did you park? Same place every time?”

Mitchell nodded. “A Rite Aid on Hillsdale Boulevard. They picked me up and put a hood over my head. Then dropped me back there when it was over.”

“Tell me about the first time you went to the mansion.”

“Like I said, I only saw the changing room and the temple. Big place, all the Satanic decorations you’d expect. Candles, herbs, chanting in a language I’d never heard that they had to teach me phonetically.  Musical instruments. Drums. Bells. Tambourines. Then they dragged in some fat frizzy-haired girl, naked, tied her to the altar and some guy shoved a spear into her a dozen times, finally in her throat. He took his mask off and drunk the blood.”

“And you recognized him?” asked Nightingale.

“Pure chance...Kent Speckman. How about that?”

Nightingale looked at him blankly.

 “You’ve never heard of Kent Speckman? The Specter?”

Nightingale shook his head.

“Shit, Jack, don’t you read the papers? The Specter, the fastest and most elusive running-back the 49ers have ever had. Nobody can lay a hand on him. The guy’s a living legend.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“No question.”

 “They took you out after the sacrifice?” asked Nightingale.

“Yeah, I wasn’t allowed to see them pay their Service to the Temple.”

“What’s that?”

“If you’re a woman, it means giving yourself to any man who wants you in the coven. If you’re a man it means having your choice of any woman there.”

“Sounds like being a man is more fun,” said Nightingale.

“Usually is,” said Mitchell. “Anyway, that was the first time.”

“Tell me about the second time.”

Mitchell slumped down onto a bench and stared out to sea.

“Oh God. It was awful,” he said. “It was a nun, or so they told us. Tied her to a cross upside down, then one of them hammered nails in her hands and feet, shoved a cross backwards up her. Then slit her throat and drank the blood. They called her Peter, but it was a woman. A woman did that for pity’s sake. And looked like she loved every minute. Hell.”

“And you recognized her too?”

“Anyone would,” said Mitchell. “Lucille Carr.”

“Who?” asked Nightingale.

“Lucille fucking Carr, where have you been, man? The fucking actress.”

“Take it easy, Lee,” said Nightingale. “You’ve been through a lot, but you’re nearly out of it now. Guess I’m a little out of touch with Hollywood these days.”