let it go.” He raised a thick-fingered hand to his brow. “I’ll never forgive myself.”
Simmons gave him a few seconds. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yeah, just one thing. The original Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was run by a lunatic called Jeremiah Dodds. He wrote a text called the antiGospel of Lucifer, which has never been found. There were strong but unsubstantiated rumors that people were sacrificed and their blood consumed.” Joe Greenbaum looked up at the detective. “It was also said that, later in the process, they were blinded.”
Clem Simmons blinked to dispel an image of the professor’s mutilated face.
Twenty-Seven
I took a spell at the wheel as we followed the back roads through New Hampshire and New York. We didn’t come across any roadblocks and the farther we got from Maine, the more relaxed I felt. After we stopped for fuel and to eat, Mary slipped into the driver’s seat again, insisting she wasn’t tired. The welt on her forehead wasn’t as bad as mine. My need to sleep was suddenly overwhelming.
But what I got was hardly restful. I found myself in a wheelchair, my arms and legs bound. I was wearing weird clothes that seemed to be made of paper, and was in a long hall full of naked people, who were wailing in ecstasy. The walls were hung with animal corpses, bones showing through tattered skins. At the front I saw an upturned cross. A demonic pair was holding sway; a naked man with a hyena’s head and erect penis whipped a terrified woman past a cloaked figure, whose ruined features were those of a terrifying gargoyle. Other naked men and women, none much more than college age, tied the woman to the inverted cross, her hands above her head. Her body was discolored with bruises and blood was running from cuts all over. She let out a long scream before a gag was pushed into her mouth. The congregation was chanting now. “Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer Triumphant.” Then the gargoyle used a long knife to cut the sacrificial victim’s throat, letting her blood spray onto the dark cloak. Her eyes were stabbed out. And then I recognized the woman hanging there lifeless. Her hair was blonde and she had been my lover-I had been on the plane to Washington with her…
I woke up with a jerk, my body drenched with sweat.
“Jesus, Matt,” Mary said, her eyes wide. “What is it?”
I struggled to get control of myself. “Bad dream,” I gasped eventually, settling back in the seat and feigning sleep. I didn’t want to tell Mary what I’d seen. The Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was at the camp. Had I really seen that horror? It seemed real enough; I recalled a firing squad that had shot blanks at me. Why had they been messing with my mind? And still I couldn’t remember my lover’s name. I felt myself falling into the abyss again…
She was before me, the blonde woman, her expression one of wistful regret. It was as if she was forgiving me for failing to save her. But before I could reach out, her face disappeared and was replaced by one I was much less eager to see-that of Sara Robbins, the Soul Collector…
…I am in a well-lit place that I sense is home. My apartment is in London, on a new block in Chelsea Harbour, next to the river. The main room is big enough to play cricket in, something that my male friends and I have occasionally done when strong drink is consumed. Because of the threats that Sara Robbins made, I’m used to living in a state of siege. I’ve set up a daily reporting schedule with my friends and family-if I don’t get the right form of words from them every morning, I press the panic button. It doesn’t happen often, but Sara has struck in the past. That cost me one of my closest friends, but I can’t…I can’t remember his name. Months have passed, but I don’t think she’s forgotten me.
Then the Soul Collector strikes exactly at the least predictable moment. I’m in bed with my lover, the blonde woman whose name escapes me. I have finished giving her a massage and things are moving slowly to what will be a glorious climax.
“What was that?” she murmurs, opening her eyes.
On top of her, I stop moving. I also heard something, a faint but unmistakable thud. Even though the alarm system in the apartment is the most sophisticated on the market, I’m not taking any chances. I roll off the bed. There’s a fully loaded, silenced Glock in a hidden floor safe in my walk-in wardrobe, but my senior policewoman lover doesn’t know about that-there’s a limit to what she will sanction, and handguns are seriously illegal in the U.K. So I’m reduced to grabbing the antique swordstick that I keep beneath the bed. She thinks it’s only a walking stick.
“Stay here,” I say after I’ve pulled on a pair of boxer shorts. I kill the lights and slowly open the bedroom door.
For some time, I hear nothing. I look cautiously round the chair and see that the heavy chain is still on the front door. There are three locks on it and all seem to be engaged normally. I breathe out slowly. That’s good news. I brace myself and then crawl on all fours across the parquet floor, my feet slipping on the polished surface. When I get to the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area, I pause and take stock. There’s no sight of anyone. That leaves the spare bedroom and bathroom beyond the kitchen. It’s as I am heading there, still on my hands and knees, that I hear another thud, this one much more distinct. It comes from the spare bedroom. Jesus.
I scuttle across the floor and stand up by the full-length window. Then I press the switch and watch the blinds slowly roll up.
The bang on the glass is much louder at close range, and it startles me. Then I realize what it is and stare in amazement. A large white bird-a seagull by the looks of the cruel beak-has been suspended against the window, its wings outspread and its head downward. The wind catches the carcass again and bangs it against the glass. Then I look closer. A red ribbon has been tied round the dead bird’s neck. There’s a label attached and on it are written the words Death Flies by Night.
Then mayhem breaks out. The floor shakes as an explosion comes from the front door. I dash toward it, into the cloud of dust that has immediately risen. My ears seem to be muffled and I put a hand over my mouth against the dust. I see a pair of figures moving quickly towards the bedroom. I shout. One of them stops and turns. A motorbike helmet is covering the head. That instantly brings to mind the last time Sara Robbins concerned herself with me-she rode a high-powered bike between the murders she committed.
The figure, which I now see is dressed completely in black, levels a compact machine-pistol at me and empties the magazine in a burst of sound. My dive behind the kitchen bar saves me, though I feel a heavy blow on one of legs. Then I see a round object bounce off the surface of the bar and drop by my legs. Grenade. I grab it and toss it back. There is a loud explosion and more dust comes over me in a wave. My ears are ringing. All I know is that my lover is in the bedroom and at least one of the intruders will also be there by now. I grab my blade and go round the end of the bar. A badly mutilated body is motionless on the floor. I don’t waste time with the helmet and keep going.
But before I reach my bedroom door, a figure in black backs out, hands in the air. When the point of the swordstick pierces the leather biker’s jacket, the intruder stops abruptly. I look beyond and see my blonde lover. She’s naked and is holding a a ridiculously small pair of nail scissors.
I stare at her, my hearing gradually returning.
“What’s that, Matt?” she asks, catching sight of my blade.
“I could ask you the same question.” I slip the catch from the strap on the figure’s neck and wrestle the helmet off. The intruder is a shaven-headed black man whom I don’t recognize. I hear police sirens coming near. The occupants of my block aren’t used to explosions at night.
“Watch him,” I say to my lover. I go back to the prone figure and pull off the helmet. Another man, this one white and very dead.
“Who put you on us?” I shout to the other guy.
He doesn’t reply. I know he won’t ever reply. The Soul Collector will have made very clear what she’ll do to his family if he talks. She’ll also have deposited a large sum in a secret account for when he gets out of jail.
Afterward, when the police have finally gone, I sit with my arm around my lover’s shoulders. We’re drinking twelve-year-old malt whiskey, but it isn’t doing much to fill the emptiness we’re feeling. Sara Robbins will never let us live an ordinary life. Sooner or later I’ll have to get her off my back for good.
Although my ears are still ringing, I can hear the seagull knocking from time to time on the spare bedroom
