The Devil in Gray (26 page)

“Boiled? How could he be boiled?”

“Whoever did this to him found a way to raise the water temperature to one hundred degrees Celsius and keep it there.”

“How is that possible?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he had some kind of portable heating element with him, like an immersion heater.”

“This gets crazier.”

A uniform came in with a notebook. “Victim's name is John Ledger Mason, aged thirty. Single, domiciled here with his widowed mother, Ivy Mason.”

“His mother didn't see anything?”

“She takes sleeping pills. In fact she couldn't sleep too well during the night so she took two more than usual, which totally knocked her out.”

“When did she last see her son?”

“Late yesterday evening. He works as a chef at Appleby's Family Restaurant on East Main Street. He told her good night and went to take a bath. As I say, she woke up at about three in the morning and took more sleeping pills, and she eventually woke up well past eleven o'clock.

“She called the victim and when he didn't answer she looked into his bedroom. His bed was made and the drapes were open, so she assumed that he had gone out. She didn't go into the bathroom until nearly one o'clock, because she wanted to change the towels.”

“Where is she now?”

“One of the neighbors is taking care of her. Apartment eight.”

“Anybody else see anything?”

“Nope. No sign of forced entry, either. The victim's bedroom window was open a couple of inches, but there's no possible access from outside.”

Erin said, “You notice the bruising on his shoulders? It looks as if somebody was holding him down.”

Decker and Hicks went across to apartment 8, where John's mother was sitting at her neighbor's kitchen table, looking even more pallid than usual, especially since she was wearing a bright red dress. Her neighbor was a fat woman with greasy gray hair and slippers that made a flapping noise as she walked around the kitchen.

Decker showed his badge. “The officer downstairs tells me you didn't see anything or hear anything?”

“That's right,” she whispered.

“Well, maybe God was taking care of you, ma'am. Whoever killed your son was a very ruthless individual indeed. Who knows what he might have done to you?”

“John was always such a gentle boy. Why would anybody want to kill anyone so gentle?”

“We're going to do our best to find that out. You can't think of anybody who might have harbored a grudge against him? Anybody who might have wanted to do him harm?”

“He always kept to himself. He never argued with anyone, even if they upset him. He always used to say ‘grin and bear it.'”

“Mrs. Mason … I gather you're a widow. What did your late husband do?”

“He was a printer. He used to work for CadmusMack.”

“His family didn't have any military connections?”

She frowned at him, and then she shook her head. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“You don't happen to have a Mason family tree, do you?”

“What would that have to do with somebody killing John?”

“I'm not sure. But it would help me if I knew something about your late husband's antecedents. Especially his great-great-grandfather.”

“I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you. Bill didn't get on with his family at all well, especially his father.”

“Was he a Richmond man?”

“Born in Petersburg. But his family moved to Richmond when he was very young.”

“All right, then. Thanks anyhow.”

On the way downstairs, Decker said to Hicks, “We need to check the Mason family history, right back to the Civil War. I want to know if any of John Mason's forefathers was assigned to the Devil's Brigade.”

Hicks said, “Okay, Lieutenant, but—”

“But what? But you have a better idea? A guy just got poached to death back there and you have some procedural explanation?”

“I just think that we shouldn't lose sight of the possibility that there could be a logical, nonsupernatural solution to this.”

“Don't try to get all Sherlock Holmesy on me, Hicks. Sherlock Holmes wasn't always right. All those things that happened to Jerry Maitland and George Drewry and this poor bastard weren't just improbable, they were impossible, but the only way we're going to crack this case is if we start believing that sometimes impossible things can actually happen. Things that
seem
to be impossible, anyhow.”

“Like a Santería god, taking his revenge?”

“Why not? Millions of people all over the world believe in Santería. People in Africa and Haiti and Cuba and all across America. Maybe they believe in it because their gods really exist, and their gods answer their prayers, and reward them when they're good, and punish them when they're bad.”

“I don't know,” Hicks said. “It all sounds so
ethnic
.”

“You're not ashamed of who you are, are you? You're not ashamed of being colored?”

Hicks looked away. When he turned back, there was an expression on his face that Decker had never seen before.

They were nearly back at Madison and Grace when Decker's cell phone played the opening bars of “The House of the Rising Sun.”

“You changed it,” Hicks said.

“Didn't want you to think that I wasn't responsive to criticism. Yes? Martin here, who is this?”

“Hi, Decker. Dan Carvey, from the fire department.”

“How are you doing, Dan? Haven't seen you since you burned all those burgers at the charity cookout.”

“I have a preliminary finding on that fire of yours.”

“Any sign of arson?”

“No. There were a couple dozen bottles of 120-proof rum on the premises, some of them broken, but I couldn't detect any accelerant.”

“So what caused it? Natural gas?”

“Gas pipes were all intact. Stove was turned off. No—all the early indications are that it was lightning.”

“Lightning? There was no lightning around.”

“Well, it can come out of a clear sky sometimes. The way the humidity's been building up lately. But there's all the signs. Scorch marks on the wallpaper, electrical appliances all blown out.”

“You're sure about this?”

“I'll stake my reputation.”

Decker turned right, down the ramp into the police parking lot. Hicks said, “What?”

“The fire department thinks that Moses' apartment was hit by lightning. His daughter said that she warned him not to mess with Changó. Changó, in Santería mythology, is the god of fire and thunder and lightning. So what do we conclude from that?”

He pulled into his parking space and killed the motor. He turned and looked at Hicks and he expected an answer.

Hicks said, “I don't know. You make me feel cornered.”

“I make you feel cornered, do I? How do you think
I
feel, with this Changó breathing down my neck? You don't believe in it? You don't want to believe in any of this? You're a police officer, Hicks, you
have
to believe in it. Just because you want to deny your ethnicity, don't let that distort your judgment.”

“I'm not denying my ethnicity. I just don't like all of this African magic stuff. It's primitive, and it's demeaning.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I just don't like it, that's all.”

“Then why do I get the feeling there's something more personal here?”

Hicks didn't answer. “I'll get on to that Mason family tree.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cab held a media conference at 4:15 that afternoon. The press room was crowded and noisy and electronic flash flickered like summer lightning.

“All I can tell you so far is that John Mason was the victim of a suspicious drowning incident. We have some constructive leads and we'll report any developments … well, as soon as any developments develop.”

Leo Waters from WRVA News Radio raised his pencil and asked, “I talked to the super at John Mason's building He said that the victim was deliberately blinded and then scalded to death. Is there any substance in that?”

“The super was not an eyewitness to the incident.”

“With respect, Captain, that doesn't exactly answer the question.”

Cab paused for a moment and then he said, heavily, “There were some unusual circumstances attached to this incident, yes.”

“So you're admitting it's true? The guy was blinded and drowned in boiling water?”

“Yes.”

Decker heard the news bulletin as he drove back to his apartment. “A cook was himself cooked last night. Thirty-year-old John Mason was boiled to death in his bathtub at his apartment on the edge of the Fan District. An unknown assailant blinded him with a sharp instrument and then somehow raised the temperature of his bathwater until he was literally poached to death.”

Decker said, “Shit,” and switched the radio off. The last thing he needed right now was hysterical pressure from the media. He had a feeling that the killings were somehow connected to the Devil's Brigade, but no clear idea how, or why, and no hard evidence at all. Having the media chasing him around was only going to make these investigations ten times more difficult.

He went home and took his ritual shot of Herradura Silver. Then he took a hot shower and changed into a baggy pair of gray drawstring pants and a white T-shirt. He felt hungry but he didn't know what he felt like eating. He opened the icebox and stared into it for a long time before closing it again. He would have done anything for one of Cathy's spicy pork and guacamole burgers.

The phone rang. To Decker's surprise, it was Father Thomas, from the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart.

“Decker, I tried to call you at headquarters, but they told me you'd gone home.”

“Even us detectives get a few hours off. How can I help you?”

“I'm not sure, but I think that I may be able to be of some assistance to you. I heard about this latest homicide on the radio this afternoon, while I was out pruning my roses.”

“Sick business, Father. Very sick.”

“The thing that struck me was the way in which he was killed. Blinded, and then boiled in a bath of hot water.”

“Not a pretty way to die, was it? But I guess you can't accuse the perp of not being original.”

“Actually, I can. I think his method was highly derivative.”

“Derivative? What do you mean?”

“That was the exact same way in which Saint Cecilia was martyred by the Romans in 265. Her eyes were put out. Then she was seated in a bath of scalding water and boiled.”

“Go on.”

“It was then that I got to thinking about your other victims. Mrs. Maitland was beheaded, and her unborn child was killed. This happened to Saint Anne of Ephesus, who was supposed to have been pregnant with a virgin birth. Major Drewry had his stomach cut open, like Saint Cyril. Mr. Maitland was disemboweled, and this was very similar to the martyrdom of Saint Erasmus in the fifth century … a hole was pierced in his stomach and his intestines were wound out of him by means of a winch. There's a very famous altar piece of it by Nicolas Poussin in the Pinacoteca Vaticana.”

“So what are you saying? All of these people were killed in the same way that saints were martyred?”

“I may be jumping to conclusions, but you have four very unusual homicides on your hands, don't you? And it does seem that there might be some kind of pattern emerging. You see, I discovered something else: your victims were killed in the same sequence as their saints' days, starting with Saint Anne on December fourth, Saint Cyril on January twelfth, and so on. Saint Cecilia's day is March ninth.”

“What about Junior Abraham? He had his head blown off.”

“It's difficult to tell if Junior Abraham fits into this pattern, because so many saints had their heads removed, in one way or another. You should read your
Foxe's Book of Martyrs
. One poor soul was tied to the tail of a mad bull, so that he was dragged down the temple steps and had his brains knocked out.”

“Jesus. Gives me a migraine to think about it.”

“Oh, there were far worse tortures than that. Some Christian converts had their stomachs cut open and filled with corn, so that pigs could be brought to feed off it and devour their intestines at the same time.”

“Terrific. I'm glad I haven't eaten yet. But thanks, Father. This could be a very useful line of inquiry. We're pretty sure that these homicides are something to do with Santería, so maybe you're right, and there
is
a connection with saints.”

“Santería? I'd advise you to be extremely cautious, in that case. The
santeros
guard their secrecy with great zeal.”

“Thanks for the warning, Father, but I think I already have a good idea of what I'm up against.”

“God be with you, Decker.”

“You too, Father.”

That night, he was struggling his way through the undergrowth again. He knew it was only midafternoon, but the smoke from the burning scrub was so thick that the sun appeared only as a pallid disk, paler than the moon. The crackling of the fire was deafening, and he could hear terrible screaming somewhere off to his left. Men were being burned alive.

He lurched down into an overgrown hollow, where his face was lashed by crisscross briars. For a few moments he thought he was going to be hopelessly entangled, but then he managed to break free and climb up a short, steep slope. The next thing he knew he was standing on the plank road, and he could see troops gathering up about a hundred yards ahead of him, both cavalry and infantry, their bridles clinking, their swords and bayonets shining in the smoky gloom.

He slowed down now and walked more steadily, feeling the rough-sawed boards beneath his lacerated feet. Somebody was shouting, “Muster together, boys! We have them on the run now! Make for the railroad track, we can outflank them!”