Incubi

Chapter 17

Faye nearly gasped when she stepped into Jack’s office at 9 p.m.; he looked wrung out, and his looks did not improve when she explained what her day’s research had divulged. His own disclosures of the latest murder did not surprise her. She knew quite a bit now about the protocol of the aorist sects. Earlier, TSD had verified Karla Panzram’s graphological conclusions; the latents from the Barrington murder were different from the Black murder, which meant that two killers were executing the same modi. Faye easily translated the Latin left on the wall: Pater terrae, per me terram ambula meant “Father of the Earth, walk the earth through me.”

“It’s a specific reference to the demon they’re worshiping,” she told him now. “His name is—”

“Baalzephon,” he muttered when he spotted the name highlighted several times in the material she’d photocopied.

“An incubus,” she added.

“What the hell is an incubus?”

“A male sex-spirit or incarnate. It comes from the Latin incubare, which means to lie down upon, or to lie with. Incubi were said to have sexual relations with sleeping women, supposedly using sexual pleasure to incline a woman away from Christianity toward evil. Satanic incarnation was a chief belief among aorist covens for about five hundred years. Sufficient supplication and ritual homage was thought to bring the devils closer to the earth. Sacrifice was considered the best way to achieve a complete incarnation, the full bringing of a devil into the coven’s midst, which they called onmiddan. Think of it as an objectification of a spiritual realm, the putting of flesh upon spirit. That’s what incarnate means in Latin. To make flesh.”

“In other words these psychos thought that cutting people up on altars would bring real devils into their presence?”

“For a time, yes, but not necessarily on altars. The aorists’ rituals were occulic, which means interstitial. In fact, the impresa for Baalzephon — the triad of black stars — was thought to be an actual occulus.”

“You’re losing me, Faye,” Jack complained.

“An occulus — a doorway. The impresa was—”

“What’s an impresa!” Jack half shouted.

Faye half smiled. “The emblem, the triangle that the killers left on the walls. It was supposed to be a gap between the domain of the demons and the real world. The deacon’s story indicates this pretty clearly; not only did the two surrogates become incarnations of incubi, but the girl, after she was sacrificed, disappeared through the impresa on the church floor.”

“She went to hell, you mean.”

“Yes, or I should say she was given to hell through the rite. She was given, in body and spirit, to the demon. To Baalzephon.”

“And Baalzephon is the same demon that is being worshiped by the murderers of Shanna Barrington and Rebecca Black?”

“It seems so,” Faye said. “The methodology of the ritual is the same, and the impresa is the same. Then there’s the Latin on the wall. Pater Terrae — Father of the Earth. Baalzephon was known by many nicknames like this. Father of Passion, Father of Art, and Father of the Earth.”

Jack slouched. “I don’t know about you, Faye, but I could sure use a drink.”

* * *

Jack drove them in his unmarked straight to the Undercroft. Faye could tell he’d had a bad day. He smoked three cigarettes on the way and said almost nothing.

Inside was a typical weeknight crowd. Jack and Faye pulled up stools as Craig poured from three taps at once behind the bar. “I want something with some kick,” Faye said.

“I think that can be arranged,” Jack remarked. “Craig, the young lady here would like something with some kick. We’ll leave it to your professional discretion. As for me—”

“The usual,” Craig finished. He poured Jack a Fiddich and got Faye a bottle of Tucher Maibock. “By the way,” he said, “one of your least favorite people in the world was in earlier looking for you.”

Jack opened his mouth but stalled. “Who ever it was, don’t tell me. The way I feel right now I don’t even want to hear about it.” He held up his glass in the bar light. In a few moments it was empty.

“You drink too much,” Faye said, “but I have a feeling you’ve heard that before.”

“Once or twice. Alcohol brings out the best in me.”

“I can see that.” Coming here, Faye saw now, was a mistake. By consenting to come here she was allowing him to be fed upon by his problems. She knew that she liked this man, but right now she didn’t like the part of him she was seeing. Yesterday she’d vaguely entertained the idea of getting involved with him, and last night, they’d slept together. Now, though… She didn’t know. Jack’s voraciousness for drink unsettled her. Did she really need the headache? Jack drank because he couldn’t handle his problems, and if he couldn’t handle them, then that wasn’t her problem. I’ve got my own problems, she thought. I can’t worry about his. And this presented another problem. She didn’t know if that’s how she really felt, or if that’s how she thought she was supposed to feel.

“Ninety percent of all homicides are either domestics or drug-related,” Jack said when his next drink was poured. “Those are easy. Why do I get all the winners?”

Now he was feeling sorry for himself, which Faye couldn’t stand in a man. “Maybe it’s because you’re a good investigator.”

Jack looked at her. “I doubt it. This case is sinking. Maybe the people upstairs know that, and they’re letting me have it because they think I’ll screw it up. Then they can get rid of me.”

“Poor little you.”

“Why are you so sarcastic tonight?”

“Self-pity brings out the best in me.”

“Sarcasm is your best trait?”

“Keep talking like you’re talking, and you’ll find out.”

Now Jack smiled genuinely for the first time tonight. “You’re doing very good work.”

“Please don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. You’re doing good work, but I need you to do better work. Now I want you to identify the geographics of the ritual.”

“I don’t think I can; it’s too diffuse.”

“Give it a try, though.”

“Okay. What else?”

“You’re the researcher, not me. I’m too busy with the mechanics of the case. You decide what research avenues would be the most productive, then give me what you’ve got.”

No, he wasn’t patronizing her at all, he was putting his faith in her, and she guessed she liked that. She liked the beer too; it was smooth and malty, and they weren’t kidding when they said it had kick. She was beginning to feel a buzz already.

“Do you think any of it’s true?” Jack pondered.

“What, the stuff the aorists did? Sure.”

“No, I mean the supernatural stuff.”

Faye squinted at his meaning. “Are you asking me if I believe that human beings became incarnate of devils, and that sacrifice victims were ritually transported out of the real world?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m asking.”

“Of course I don’t believe it.”

“But they believed it. There must’ve been a reason.”

“Oh, there was a reason. They were peasants reacting to a tremendous oppression. Oppressed people become fanatical in their belief systems. All of history is a pretty good example.”

“So the guy was lying?